the ground is dirt, the dirt is sweet
My brother is being driven into the woods to become a man. He has to wear a blindfold until he gets there. An older man from my family's church is driving a van filled with blindfolded teenage boys, towards the forest, at night. I hope he doesn't get pulled over.
I don't know what they do to the boys to make them men.
They say that we women are not in such dire need of a ceremony to mark our transition into adulthood. We have our bleeding, they say. That tells us when we're grown. So. When I became a woman, I was sixteen. My mom tossed me a package of tampons from down the hall. "Here you go," she said, and: "What a relief. I was beginning to think something was really wrong." I felt sticky and uncomfortable and I worried about Toxic Shock Syndrome. I think, you know, that I might have liked a bit more ceremony than that.
Anyway, I went to my friend's high school graduation project exhibition. Everyone looked very young, and I said so. "You look the same," she said, leaning across a neat blue trifold that explained the premise of her lengthy fantasy/murder mystery novel-in-progress. "You don't look older than you did in high school." This is not such a good thing. I'm not sure I want to look like pimply, awkward jailbait. Yes, there are cute and self-possessed high school students, but I was definitely never one of them. Trust me. My friend in New Jersey wrote me a long, long letter (which is the best kind of letter, especially when it's written over a stretch of weeks or months so that it's like a time-lapse letter, a short story that actually happened to someone you know) in which she told me that people stop worrying so much about their looks when they find another person who desires them, and whom they desire. I mean, not just desire. I mean, for lack of a better way to put it, when they fall in love. Then, the body being a body becomes sufficient. I think I understand that most of the time. Sometimes, because I'm deep-down frivolous and surrounded by advertisements, I still wish I had clear skin and bigger eyes and hair that didn't twist itself into odd snarls no matter what I try to make it do. Sometimes I just plain wish I didn't have to be girl-person-shaped. There's quite a bit of socio-cultural baggage attached to living that way. But here I am, and who would I be if I wasn't? Might as well enjoy it as much as I can. I do like having feet. I like having eyes and ears and a tongue. I like having fingers and teeth and tattoos. I know, Lauren, that I won't always have these things, and I'll try not to get too attached to them. But I intend to appreciate the hell out of my feet while they're here. They do a mighty fine job of keeping me standing on the world.
They tell me that if I want to be a telemarketer, I have to sound less like I'm trying to sell people something.
Strawberries are sweet, and cherry pits can be spit across great distances, and you can embarrass your friends and relatives by eating bananas in public, and basically most fruit has something going for it. I'm glad it's (almost) summer. More grows here.
I don't know what they do to the boys to make them men.
They say that we women are not in such dire need of a ceremony to mark our transition into adulthood. We have our bleeding, they say. That tells us when we're grown. So. When I became a woman, I was sixteen. My mom tossed me a package of tampons from down the hall. "Here you go," she said, and: "What a relief. I was beginning to think something was really wrong." I felt sticky and uncomfortable and I worried about Toxic Shock Syndrome. I think, you know, that I might have liked a bit more ceremony than that.
Anyway, I went to my friend's high school graduation project exhibition. Everyone looked very young, and I said so. "You look the same," she said, leaning across a neat blue trifold that explained the premise of her lengthy fantasy/murder mystery novel-in-progress. "You don't look older than you did in high school." This is not such a good thing. I'm not sure I want to look like pimply, awkward jailbait. Yes, there are cute and self-possessed high school students, but I was definitely never one of them. Trust me. My friend in New Jersey wrote me a long, long letter (which is the best kind of letter, especially when it's written over a stretch of weeks or months so that it's like a time-lapse letter, a short story that actually happened to someone you know) in which she told me that people stop worrying so much about their looks when they find another person who desires them, and whom they desire. I mean, not just desire. I mean, for lack of a better way to put it, when they fall in love. Then, the body being a body becomes sufficient. I think I understand that most of the time. Sometimes, because I'm deep-down frivolous and surrounded by advertisements, I still wish I had clear skin and bigger eyes and hair that didn't twist itself into odd snarls no matter what I try to make it do. Sometimes I just plain wish I didn't have to be girl-person-shaped. There's quite a bit of socio-cultural baggage attached to living that way. But here I am, and who would I be if I wasn't? Might as well enjoy it as much as I can. I do like having feet. I like having eyes and ears and a tongue. I like having fingers and teeth and tattoos. I know, Lauren, that I won't always have these things, and I'll try not to get too attached to them. But I intend to appreciate the hell out of my feet while they're here. They do a mighty fine job of keeping me standing on the world.
They tell me that if I want to be a telemarketer, I have to sound less like I'm trying to sell people something.
Strawberries are sweet, and cherry pits can be spit across great distances, and you can embarrass your friends and relatives by eating bananas in public, and basically most fruit has something going for it. I'm glad it's (almost) summer. More grows here.