The Internet/Life, a Decade Later
Sometimes I like to Google memorable old classmates from way back in elementary school, just to see where they ended up. It's a pointless and voyeuristic exercise, but sometimes my curiosity dictates how I spend those 15 minutes between coffee and class.
Just now I decided to look up someone I remember from fifth grade. I remember her because she was a mix of so many things that I couldn't understand as a fifth grader. And I guess most other people didn't either, so she was ridiculed for the entirety of the year we went to school together. We started out as friends because we were both new to the school district, and she started the school year with a broken leg. Since I was already decidedly un-athletic, we would sit together during recess and just talk. Soon I found out along with everyone else that she was a compulsive liar. She made up so many stories about her life that we all adopted the default assumption that she was lying whenever she talked about herself. She said that she was adopted and lived with her aunt. The "aunt" who came to parent teacher conferences was very much puzzled by our questions and told us, in fact, that she was the girl's mother. When Warheads were the candy of choice among elementary school children, she brought a jar to school and told everyone that her uncle worked in a Warheads factory and could thus provide her with unlimited quantities. Once, she brought a picture ripped out from a magazine to school and told everyone that it was a picture of her and someone else in the class when they were younger, though anyone with any sense could see that there was no resemblance.
She was not a good student. But there was a brilliance to her that didn't strike me until much later. Her narratives were so outlandish that there had to be some sort of spark in her. Her favorite show was South Park. We once got into a heated argument in the cafeteria during lunch because she announced that she had college-level reading abilities. I scoffed because, well, I was supposed to be the smart one in the group.
"Oh yeah? Well what does EX-qui-site mean?" I challenged. She gave me a smug look.
"It's ex-QUI-site. And it means something fancy." Not knowing any better, my other friends at the table immediately pooh-poohed her response. But I sat there in silence, embarassed, because I knew she was right.
The next year, we went our separate ways, and I never saw her again.
Just now, when I looked up her name, it came up with a couple of pages listing her as a missing person. I recognize her from the picture. She's been missing since November, last seen with a dubious character nicknamed "G Money".
It's almost unreal, and yet in some ways it's more real than the life that I'm leading now. I spend my days weaving narratives and trying to create a persona that will convince employers, scholarship committees, professors, whomever, that I'm worthy of their attention. What should I wear? What should I say? How long should I wait before I email them again? I try to create a facade of success and perfection.
But she's somewhere out there, and nobody even knows if she's dead or alive.
I don't know how to finish this thought. It always trips me up to see shared histories diverging into such unfathomably different paths.
Just now I decided to look up someone I remember from fifth grade. I remember her because she was a mix of so many things that I couldn't understand as a fifth grader. And I guess most other people didn't either, so she was ridiculed for the entirety of the year we went to school together. We started out as friends because we were both new to the school district, and she started the school year with a broken leg. Since I was already decidedly un-athletic, we would sit together during recess and just talk. Soon I found out along with everyone else that she was a compulsive liar. She made up so many stories about her life that we all adopted the default assumption that she was lying whenever she talked about herself. She said that she was adopted and lived with her aunt. The "aunt" who came to parent teacher conferences was very much puzzled by our questions and told us, in fact, that she was the girl's mother. When Warheads were the candy of choice among elementary school children, she brought a jar to school and told everyone that her uncle worked in a Warheads factory and could thus provide her with unlimited quantities. Once, she brought a picture ripped out from a magazine to school and told everyone that it was a picture of her and someone else in the class when they were younger, though anyone with any sense could see that there was no resemblance.
She was not a good student. But there was a brilliance to her that didn't strike me until much later. Her narratives were so outlandish that there had to be some sort of spark in her. Her favorite show was South Park. We once got into a heated argument in the cafeteria during lunch because she announced that she had college-level reading abilities. I scoffed because, well, I was supposed to be the smart one in the group.
"Oh yeah? Well what does EX-qui-site mean?" I challenged. She gave me a smug look.
"It's ex-QUI-site. And it means something fancy." Not knowing any better, my other friends at the table immediately pooh-poohed her response. But I sat there in silence, embarassed, because I knew she was right.
The next year, we went our separate ways, and I never saw her again.
Just now, when I looked up her name, it came up with a couple of pages listing her as a missing person. I recognize her from the picture. She's been missing since November, last seen with a dubious character nicknamed "G Money".
It's almost unreal, and yet in some ways it's more real than the life that I'm leading now. I spend my days weaving narratives and trying to create a persona that will convince employers, scholarship committees, professors, whomever, that I'm worthy of their attention. What should I wear? What should I say? How long should I wait before I email them again? I try to create a facade of success and perfection.
But she's somewhere out there, and nobody even knows if she's dead or alive.
I don't know how to finish this thought. It always trips me up to see shared histories diverging into such unfathomably different paths.