(no subject)
God, I love my aunt Mary Beth. Such a cool lady. Rich, crazy-as-fuck lawyer. Same shit happened to her, like it did to me yesterday, constantly in her years of high school.
I emailed her what I typed in my Livejournal and Myspace bulletin. Figured she'd get a kick out of it, and well, if you guys care enough, here's what she said.
Amazing. I can't get over what a big pigging deal this was to these itty, bitty small minded fuckers. Not that I do not believe you. I TOTALLY believe every detail. It is just so much like when I was in high school 25 freaking years ago that it makes me amazed. Surely we have grown since then? Started worrying about something that matters like that the Homecoming Queen takes it up the butt to "save" her virginity for her Hooters career? COME ON! Damn, people!
Your essay made me laugh outloud. Great job capturing it. I was there. right back THERE in the pit of my stomach.
Yeah, my poor sweet mother spend most of my HS career trying to fend off the teachers and administrators by telling them that I was just "artistic" (I do not have an artistic bone in my body) in the hopes that they would get off my back. I was forever having silly, naive little dumpling teachers pull me inthe hall to "confide" in their loathsome, Harper Valley PTA selves (AS IF!). They would look all big eyed and blinky blink sweet at me and whisper, "Why are you so angry? .... Is there a problem at home??" As if I should cry on cue and confess that yes, YES! My parents beat me and make me sleep naked behind the fridge!! Thank gawd you care!! Can I have a hug???
But no. I would just shrug and look at my shoes and feel very uncomfortable for this housewifely teacher dip. Wonder how she made it to 25 and never once actually felt any real anger or pain. Wonder why she thinks that Valentine's Theme Sweater looks cute all stretched around her sausage middle. And wait for her to stop talking so I could shrug back to class. While I would talk nonstop in class to students, or write poems and essays about how fucking bored I was, the teachers were always mystified that I was so quiet in person. Angry in essays and papers. Writing about Jim Morrison's suicide/dark fucked up life or some such shit. But wordless when they wanted to get all soulful with me and be my special confidant friend. Puzzling.
Well you see I was angry because I was surrounded by stupid fucking people who did not understand me. That all this was not of my choice. That I had been dragged to the most backward, fucked up spot on Earth after spending my first 10 years in one of the best school systems in America, surrounded by kids from all over the world, sons and daughters of professors, with cool activities galore. I was a happy pup, yanked away too soon and sent to Deliveranceville, yet no one could get my anger. Plus there was the whole "angry isn't very ladylike" BS. In the land of pagent contestants and blonde gum chewing big hair cheerleaders, reading James Joyce and playing basketball with my hommies was FREAKISH or so I was reminded every every day. Something about being called a "dyke" daily just didn't warm me up to Bluestone Senior High School.
The best thing I ever did in HS was go to UVA for a summer of creative writing classes. Not that I honestly thought of myself as "an artist" or a "writer," but it got me the fuck away from BHS and around smart people for a whole summer, woot! We went to reggae shows or saw hardcore bands at night, talked about books we loved during the day. Chilled. It was great. Like grownups only cooler.
Long, stream of conciousness story short: Wow. yeah. Neal. They suck. Totally and completely. And they are wrong. But they will never get that. It is their role, apparently, to be an example of smallmindedness. There will be acceptance. Maybe it will take until college for you. But keep on keeping on, dude.
Which reminds me. I have another book to send you. It is poetry from a former gun runner who died young and pissed off because he was a lousy drunk. It is called The Drunken Boat. Will have to dig it out.
I love you.
-mb
I emailed her what I typed in my Livejournal and Myspace bulletin. Figured she'd get a kick out of it, and well, if you guys care enough, here's what she said.
Amazing. I can't get over what a big pigging deal this was to these itty, bitty small minded fuckers. Not that I do not believe you. I TOTALLY believe every detail. It is just so much like when I was in high school 25 freaking years ago that it makes me amazed. Surely we have grown since then? Started worrying about something that matters like that the Homecoming Queen takes it up the butt to "save" her virginity for her Hooters career? COME ON! Damn, people!
Your essay made me laugh outloud. Great job capturing it. I was there. right back THERE in the pit of my stomach.
Yeah, my poor sweet mother spend most of my HS career trying to fend off the teachers and administrators by telling them that I was just "artistic" (I do not have an artistic bone in my body) in the hopes that they would get off my back. I was forever having silly, naive little dumpling teachers pull me inthe hall to "confide" in their loathsome, Harper Valley PTA selves (AS IF!). They would look all big eyed and blinky blink sweet at me and whisper, "Why are you so angry? .... Is there a problem at home??" As if I should cry on cue and confess that yes, YES! My parents beat me and make me sleep naked behind the fridge!! Thank gawd you care!! Can I have a hug???
But no. I would just shrug and look at my shoes and feel very uncomfortable for this housewifely teacher dip. Wonder how she made it to 25 and never once actually felt any real anger or pain. Wonder why she thinks that Valentine's Theme Sweater looks cute all stretched around her sausage middle. And wait for her to stop talking so I could shrug back to class. While I would talk nonstop in class to students, or write poems and essays about how fucking bored I was, the teachers were always mystified that I was so quiet in person. Angry in essays and papers. Writing about Jim Morrison's suicide/dark fucked up life or some such shit. But wordless when they wanted to get all soulful with me and be my special confidant friend. Puzzling.
Well you see I was angry because I was surrounded by stupid fucking people who did not understand me. That all this was not of my choice. That I had been dragged to the most backward, fucked up spot on Earth after spending my first 10 years in one of the best school systems in America, surrounded by kids from all over the world, sons and daughters of professors, with cool activities galore. I was a happy pup, yanked away too soon and sent to Deliveranceville, yet no one could get my anger. Plus there was the whole "angry isn't very ladylike" BS. In the land of pagent contestants and blonde gum chewing big hair cheerleaders, reading James Joyce and playing basketball with my hommies was FREAKISH or so I was reminded every every day. Something about being called a "dyke" daily just didn't warm me up to Bluestone Senior High School.
The best thing I ever did in HS was go to UVA for a summer of creative writing classes. Not that I honestly thought of myself as "an artist" or a "writer," but it got me the fuck away from BHS and around smart people for a whole summer, woot! We went to reggae shows or saw hardcore bands at night, talked about books we loved during the day. Chilled. It was great. Like grownups only cooler.
Long, stream of conciousness story short: Wow. yeah. Neal. They suck. Totally and completely. And they are wrong. But they will never get that. It is their role, apparently, to be an example of smallmindedness. There will be acceptance. Maybe it will take until college for you. But keep on keeping on, dude.
Which reminds me. I have another book to send you. It is poetry from a former gun runner who died young and pissed off because he was a lousy drunk. It is called The Drunken Boat. Will have to dig it out.
I love you.
-mb