I slash along without a sword
A pen bathes the soul better.
And keeping my word, finally
I get it together within this letter.
Today was the best by far
Hell, it's brilliant with our only star.
And what? I even slip into our water,
Our host, our earth; our one of a kind birth
The talent we wonder about
Is stretched seamlessly, no doubt.
Al, me and JD are in kin
We brothers are 3 of many others.
And we reaffirm that many
Can do what a family does.
We do, we are beings, being...
Hey Dad
Hi MOM!
Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.
Showing posts with label Risks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Risks. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Untitled - Luke LaGraff
. . . climbing the tallest mountain in the world, George Hanover! . . . George Hanover pitched a perfect game, again . . . I don't know how he does it, but George Hanover has released eight number 1 albums in a row . . . This guy George Hanover decided to take matters into his own hands and fought back. The robber didn't have a chance . . . Science said it couldn't be done, but it hadn't met George Hanover . . .
"Wwaaahh! bllbbliittt. grrrraaaaahhhhh!!"
George had been dreaming.
"Wake up, George. Wake up," his mother said to him as she crossed his bedroom door on the way to the kitchen. It was Friday morning around 11 and it really was time for him to get out of bed. He had to walk the family dog and then pretend to look for jobs on the Internet or his mom wouldn't give him the fifty dollars he would desperately need. The reason he desperately needed it was because he had to get loaded. On what? It didn't matter. Hopefully some Xanax would be found, because that would ease the nice, gentle buzz from the 10 or 12 beers that would have already have been consumed by the time his dealer got off work. His dealer, in turn, would be able to drop off the gram of coke that George and his longtime “party” buddy would do at the shitty bar while trying to make new friends. The two never made new friends, only people who wanted to do a line of coke and jabber on for five or ten minutes until they would leave George and his one friend sitting in the darkest corner of smoke and loneliness a bar can offer.
But George wasn't fazed. Nope. He never was. He was an excellent rationalizer. And an equally great delusionist.
And later on that night, sittin' up in his corner chair, George explained his greatness, "Edmund Hillary was a great climber, but he couldn't have done three lines of coke, drank a fifth of Evan Williams and made it home in an '89 Ford Taurus with three working tires, like I did last Tuesday night. And Roy Halladay is an amazing pitcher, but could he have rollerbladed down Interstate 75 at 2am after eating 4 hits of LSD and not get run over by a semi? NO! Could Michael Jackson start a fistfight with four polite coffeehouse regulars and crawl out with only second degree burns and a broken hand? Maybe. But he wouldn't have had the balls to do it in the first place. But I did! I did it all!! I even found time to try a new drug. Roxy. It's a mixture of cocaine and OxyContin. You shoot it. Einstein couldn't have done that. He didn't even think of it first. I did!"
George slumped back over, his withered and dying body aligning itself easily with the bent and spent shape of this crusty barroom chair’s final resting place.
Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.
"Wwaaahh! bllbbliittt. grrrraaaaahhhhh!!"
George had been dreaming.
"Wake up, George. Wake up," his mother said to him as she crossed his bedroom door on the way to the kitchen. It was Friday morning around 11 and it really was time for him to get out of bed. He had to walk the family dog and then pretend to look for jobs on the Internet or his mom wouldn't give him the fifty dollars he would desperately need. The reason he desperately needed it was because he had to get loaded. On what? It didn't matter. Hopefully some Xanax would be found, because that would ease the nice, gentle buzz from the 10 or 12 beers that would have already have been consumed by the time his dealer got off work. His dealer, in turn, would be able to drop off the gram of coke that George and his longtime “party” buddy would do at the shitty bar while trying to make new friends. The two never made new friends, only people who wanted to do a line of coke and jabber on for five or ten minutes until they would leave George and his one friend sitting in the darkest corner of smoke and loneliness a bar can offer.
But George wasn't fazed. Nope. He never was. He was an excellent rationalizer. And an equally great delusionist.
And later on that night, sittin' up in his corner chair, George explained his greatness, "Edmund Hillary was a great climber, but he couldn't have done three lines of coke, drank a fifth of Evan Williams and made it home in an '89 Ford Taurus with three working tires, like I did last Tuesday night. And Roy Halladay is an amazing pitcher, but could he have rollerbladed down Interstate 75 at 2am after eating 4 hits of LSD and not get run over by a semi? NO! Could Michael Jackson start a fistfight with four polite coffeehouse regulars and crawl out with only second degree burns and a broken hand? Maybe. But he wouldn't have had the balls to do it in the first place. But I did! I did it all!! I even found time to try a new drug. Roxy. It's a mixture of cocaine and OxyContin. You shoot it. Einstein couldn't have done that. He didn't even think of it first. I did!"
George slumped back over, his withered and dying body aligning itself easily with the bent and spent shape of this crusty barroom chair’s final resting place.
Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.
J. Allen Holt - Episode 1: "Risk"
Vera stands at the edge of the subway platform. She holds her purse in both hands in front of her waist.
This was a colossal waste of time. That ass hat doesn't think I know newspapers are dead? I should have told him, television news isn't too far behind my friend. Who watches the news any more? People without internet, that's who.
Their market share is people who are too old or too stubborn to learn to use a computer and drunks in bars staring at the local newscast. Let's not forget that's a short-term market too. One can only imagine next generation's drunkards and senior citizens will have their laptops and iPads to keep them company on that long, lonely road to liver disease and Alzheimer’s.
Who wants to be a “weather girl” anyways? Since when has that ever led anyone to a respectable news career? I don't remember anyone telling Walter Cronkite he should think about investing in bigger breasts.
People are staring at me. Am I thinking out loud again, or have they just never seen someone wearing high heels in a Hollywood metro station that wasn't a prostitute or transvestite... or both? I think a little of both.
Talking to yourself is okay, Vera. It's conversations that are the sign of mental illness. I think so at least. Just thinking aloud isn't crazy, right? It's not like having conversations with yourself. Wait. Is this a conversation or just thinking? Stop it!
They're definitely staring now. This train needs to hurry the hell up. It smells awful down here, almost as bad as the streets above ground. Inside the train is the worst though. I don't know how I get so lucky to always have the homeless guy with fresh urine sloshing around in his pants sit next to me every time I take the stupid metro.
Hmm... hmmhmmm, mmm... What song is this? I can't think of how it goes even. I must have heard it in the lobby or from a car passing outside. Best to just ride it out I suppose.
Vera continues humming and bends over to adjust her right shoe.
Something in here. These shoes are crap. Oh. That looks like a blister. Whoa!!!!
Losing her balance, Vera tumbles off the platform to the underground tracks below.
Flarghenook!
That wasn't a word. My head feels... sticky. Whoa. Holy...
She locks eyes with a man lying across the tracks.
What..? Who..? How the-
A woman screaming from above her breaks the trance. Several others join in and start pointing. They're blurry. Vera turns to the direction they're pointing.
A bright light. Blinding. White blinding light. Maybe it's more yellowish?
Damn.
Black.
To be continued?...
Allen lives in Reseda, CA with several mammals. He writes. He works a job that isn't writing. He'd like very much to change that last bit.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Barbi Beckett - Los Gatos
Somewhere around the second grade, I developed a cat obsession. I collected Cat Fancy magazine, had “cat only” parameters around my room’s décor and I was given cat figurines for every occasion, but I had no luck with cat ownership. My dad was anti-pet, though he did give it a shot, twice.
First, there was Toy, an old, incontinent gift from my mother. Later came Fabian, the black kitten with a personality somewhere on the feral spectrum. Both of them wore out their welcome within two weeks and that was it. My dad was done with cats and I was resigned to loving them from afar. I continued to write about cats whenever given a writing assignment in school, and any book reports I wrote were based on made-up books about cats as well.
One afternoon when I was in fourth grade, I was watching TV after school, as I did every day until five o’clock when my dad got home. There was a knock at the door and I opened it find two neighborhood kids I hadn’t hung around with for some time, one of them holding a poofy kitten with blue eyes and long white fur. In my living room they told me that they’d found her in a tree and neither of their parents would let them keep her. My mind raced, my heart pounded and I decided she was mine.
The girls left and I sat there on the floor, propped against the couch, snuggling the kitten and watching her crawl around my legs. It was the happiest I could remember being – since the joy of occasionally seeing my mother was always complicated by nerves and angst. There were nerves now too; I was scared about my dad coming home, but I was also fully prepared to pack a bag.
An hour later, I heard his car pull up and felt the rapid pulse in my ears. The car door slammed, the screen door opened, the key went in the lock and there he was. He spotted us . . . stopped . . . closed the door . . . walked over. Neither of us said anything until I warbled out, “The cat stays or I go.”
Finally, he said, “I need to go start dinner.” And I knew I had a pet.
Shaista, pronounced Shasta but spelled Shaista to be original, turned out to be a he and he was perfect – funny, cuddly, mellow, playful and deaf, which is common in white cats with blue eyes. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it in my sixth grade report entitled, “Cats.”
Shaista had only been with me for a few weeks when I got up one morning to find him gone. My dad was always at work before I had to get up for school. He left me a note saying that Shaista didn’t come home the night before but probably would today. I got ready for school but instead of going to the bus stop, I started knocking on doors, knowing I’d get it at school and at home for missing the morning. I finally walked to school, devastated. When I got home, a friend up the street called to tell me that her next door neighbor had Shaista. I went to the lady’s house and she was ready for me, though she clearly hoped no one would claim him. She sent me away with cat food and toys she’d bought. I felt bad for her. And I got Shaista a tag with our address and phone number on it.
He was my cat and I was his girl. One night I woke to find him standing on my chest with a big dark spot on his face. When my eyes adjusted I realized he’d brought me a gift -- a huge, live cockroach. As he grew up, he could often be found on his back, stretched into a long white line. He let me kiss his belly, face and nose as much as I wanted and he’d make the bully dog next door cower in a corner. He put up with baths in the tub but he did not go for toilet training.
He even grew on my dad. Pops fed him every morning in the wee dark hours before he went to work, until a few years later when he decided that should be my responsibility even though he was already up. Whatever. I set my alarm, shuffled into the kitchen where Pops would be, already dressed for work, with only the stove light on. He would bring Shaista’s bowls in from the other room and put them on the counter for me. I’d open the cabinet, take down a can of wet food, scoop it into the bowl, put the bowl and water back in the other room, and return to bed for an hour.
I truly needed that friend in my life. I wasn’t a good student or musician or athlete or artist. Family was a heartache (though I did love Dudley Moore and hoped he would be family one day). School was a constant stress. In science, for example, all we had to do was keep a notebook with very specific notes in it. At the end of the six weeks, we’d turn in the notebook and get a good grade if we’d written down everything we were told to write down. I couldn’t even do that. It was almost time to turn them in and I begged a studious classmate to lend me her science notebook to copy. For some reason, she did, more than once, but this time . . . I lost it. I would’ve given anything to go back to the time where I was just going to get a shitty grade and suffer at home. Now, I had that AND Claudia’s fate on my head. I was sick about it. I decided to take a stab at prayer. I told God that I’d believe in him if he would let anything else bad happen to me but please let me find Claudia’s science notebook.
The next morning, I dragged myself to the kitchen and started the routine even though my dad hadn’t placed the bowls on the counter yet. He was standing there, still in his robe, leaning on both hands, either tired or mad. I opened the cabinet and took down the can but before I opened it dad said, “Shaista’s dead. He was hit by a car last night.” I froze there. His arms went around me and he started to cry. I stayed enveloped in my big dad for a long time, then gently pushed away, opened the cabinet, put the food on the shelf and went back to bed.
When he left for work, I got dressed and went around to the side of the house where the trash cans were. There was a large bundle in a black garbage sack on top of one of the metal cans. I unfolded the bag and looked inside at my kitty. He was stiff and clean. I folded the bag around him and lifted him off the lid. I couldn’t believe how much heavier he was dead. I took him inside the house and left him in the back room by his bowls.
I moved through the morning in shock and grief. At school I felt the space around me that you get when kids are a little afraid. I told the few people who asked what was wrong and was touched by condolences from a girl I hadn’t been friends with since we were at another school together years before.
Before lunch, I went to my locker. When I opened it, I saw, plain as anything, Claudia’s notebook – sitting front and center, where it had not been before. Then I remembered my prayer. God had killed my cat and given me Claudia’s science notebook. I believed in him.
On the bus ride home, I was joined by another girl I hadn’t spoken to for years. Teresa was the neighborhood friend who called to tell me where Shaista was when he got lost. I told her I was going to bury him when I got home and she asked if she could help. I was glad to have the company.
At my house, we found a good box, wide enough but not too tall. In it we placed a blanket, Shiasta, his toys, some catnip and a bright orange plastic Goofy figure that had been around as long as I could remember. Maybe that was my way of putting something of me in the box with him. Then we started digging.
The top six inches of dusty Texas dirt were easy to toss away but we soon realized that even a four foot hole was hopeless. My older brother, who lived with my grandma, happened to come over and take pity on us. He took the shovel and dug the hole. I knew he had to do that kind of work for a living and he hated it. I never would have asked. He gave me a one-armed squeeze while taking a drag from his cigarette, then he kissed my head and left. My knight in dirty denim.
After we put Shaista in the ground and covered him up, Teresa had to go too. I sat cross-legged and spoke to him, as I would for years to come. I didn’t say anything to God though. I was all done with that guy. Then I went inside and made a cardboard cross, outlined with gold glitter and placed it in the dirt on Shaista’s grave.
You’d be surprised how long a cardboard cross can last in the desert.
First, there was Toy, an old, incontinent gift from my mother. Later came Fabian, the black kitten with a personality somewhere on the feral spectrum. Both of them wore out their welcome within two weeks and that was it. My dad was done with cats and I was resigned to loving them from afar. I continued to write about cats whenever given a writing assignment in school, and any book reports I wrote were based on made-up books about cats as well.
One afternoon when I was in fourth grade, I was watching TV after school, as I did every day until five o’clock when my dad got home. There was a knock at the door and I opened it find two neighborhood kids I hadn’t hung around with for some time, one of them holding a poofy kitten with blue eyes and long white fur. In my living room they told me that they’d found her in a tree and neither of their parents would let them keep her. My mind raced, my heart pounded and I decided she was mine.
The girls left and I sat there on the floor, propped against the couch, snuggling the kitten and watching her crawl around my legs. It was the happiest I could remember being – since the joy of occasionally seeing my mother was always complicated by nerves and angst. There were nerves now too; I was scared about my dad coming home, but I was also fully prepared to pack a bag.
An hour later, I heard his car pull up and felt the rapid pulse in my ears. The car door slammed, the screen door opened, the key went in the lock and there he was. He spotted us . . . stopped . . . closed the door . . . walked over. Neither of us said anything until I warbled out, “The cat stays or I go.”
Finally, he said, “I need to go start dinner.” And I knew I had a pet.
Shaista, pronounced Shasta but spelled Shaista to be original, turned out to be a he and he was perfect – funny, cuddly, mellow, playful and deaf, which is common in white cats with blue eyes. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it in my sixth grade report entitled, “Cats.”
Shaista had only been with me for a few weeks when I got up one morning to find him gone. My dad was always at work before I had to get up for school. He left me a note saying that Shaista didn’t come home the night before but probably would today. I got ready for school but instead of going to the bus stop, I started knocking on doors, knowing I’d get it at school and at home for missing the morning. I finally walked to school, devastated. When I got home, a friend up the street called to tell me that her next door neighbor had Shaista. I went to the lady’s house and she was ready for me, though she clearly hoped no one would claim him. She sent me away with cat food and toys she’d bought. I felt bad for her. And I got Shaista a tag with our address and phone number on it.
He was my cat and I was his girl. One night I woke to find him standing on my chest with a big dark spot on his face. When my eyes adjusted I realized he’d brought me a gift -- a huge, live cockroach. As he grew up, he could often be found on his back, stretched into a long white line. He let me kiss his belly, face and nose as much as I wanted and he’d make the bully dog next door cower in a corner. He put up with baths in the tub but he did not go for toilet training.
He even grew on my dad. Pops fed him every morning in the wee dark hours before he went to work, until a few years later when he decided that should be my responsibility even though he was already up. Whatever. I set my alarm, shuffled into the kitchen where Pops would be, already dressed for work, with only the stove light on. He would bring Shaista’s bowls in from the other room and put them on the counter for me. I’d open the cabinet, take down a can of wet food, scoop it into the bowl, put the bowl and water back in the other room, and return to bed for an hour.
I truly needed that friend in my life. I wasn’t a good student or musician or athlete or artist. Family was a heartache (though I did love Dudley Moore and hoped he would be family one day). School was a constant stress. In science, for example, all we had to do was keep a notebook with very specific notes in it. At the end of the six weeks, we’d turn in the notebook and get a good grade if we’d written down everything we were told to write down. I couldn’t even do that. It was almost time to turn them in and I begged a studious classmate to lend me her science notebook to copy. For some reason, she did, more than once, but this time . . . I lost it. I would’ve given anything to go back to the time where I was just going to get a shitty grade and suffer at home. Now, I had that AND Claudia’s fate on my head. I was sick about it. I decided to take a stab at prayer. I told God that I’d believe in him if he would let anything else bad happen to me but please let me find Claudia’s science notebook.
The next morning, I dragged myself to the kitchen and started the routine even though my dad hadn’t placed the bowls on the counter yet. He was standing there, still in his robe, leaning on both hands, either tired or mad. I opened the cabinet and took down the can but before I opened it dad said, “Shaista’s dead. He was hit by a car last night.” I froze there. His arms went around me and he started to cry. I stayed enveloped in my big dad for a long time, then gently pushed away, opened the cabinet, put the food on the shelf and went back to bed.
When he left for work, I got dressed and went around to the side of the house where the trash cans were. There was a large bundle in a black garbage sack on top of one of the metal cans. I unfolded the bag and looked inside at my kitty. He was stiff and clean. I folded the bag around him and lifted him off the lid. I couldn’t believe how much heavier he was dead. I took him inside the house and left him in the back room by his bowls.
I moved through the morning in shock and grief. At school I felt the space around me that you get when kids are a little afraid. I told the few people who asked what was wrong and was touched by condolences from a girl I hadn’t been friends with since we were at another school together years before.
Before lunch, I went to my locker. When I opened it, I saw, plain as anything, Claudia’s notebook – sitting front and center, where it had not been before. Then I remembered my prayer. God had killed my cat and given me Claudia’s science notebook. I believed in him.
On the bus ride home, I was joined by another girl I hadn’t spoken to for years. Teresa was the neighborhood friend who called to tell me where Shaista was when he got lost. I told her I was going to bury him when I got home and she asked if she could help. I was glad to have the company.
At my house, we found a good box, wide enough but not too tall. In it we placed a blanket, Shiasta, his toys, some catnip and a bright orange plastic Goofy figure that had been around as long as I could remember. Maybe that was my way of putting something of me in the box with him. Then we started digging.
The top six inches of dusty Texas dirt were easy to toss away but we soon realized that even a four foot hole was hopeless. My older brother, who lived with my grandma, happened to come over and take pity on us. He took the shovel and dug the hole. I knew he had to do that kind of work for a living and he hated it. I never would have asked. He gave me a one-armed squeeze while taking a drag from his cigarette, then he kissed my head and left. My knight in dirty denim.
After we put Shaista in the ground and covered him up, Teresa had to go too. I sat cross-legged and spoke to him, as I would for years to come. I didn’t say anything to God though. I was all done with that guy. Then I went inside and made a cardboard cross, outlined with gold glitter and placed it in the dirt on Shaista’s grave.
You’d be surprised how long a cardboard cross can last in the desert.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Scott Joel Gizicki - Don't Do Anything
Foreword:
Below are song lyrics that I wrote about two years ago. Even though the song's title alone screams anti-risk taking I think it really coincides. The upbeat jazz-like song itself illustrates an internal struggle of fighting against a want. Perhaps you could even say it is mind vs heart vs. another unmentionable part of the body. In the end, the voice of the song does nothing. Even though the voice ultimately made the right decision in hindsight; while actually in that moment doing nothing was still indeed a risk. I don't think a risk always needs to be some grand gesture or staring down the eyes of danger. Sometimes the risk comes in when deciding between your own heart, mind or well, you know.
Don't Do Anything
I see you standing there
Playing the part like you don't care
Stealing glances, don't catch my glare
I keep on keepin' cool
I end up actin' fool
So I don't do
Anything
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Just dance, just groove, just feel the mood and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Cuz a kiss won't seal the deal
It's too late I copped that feel
Like a dolphin dancin'
In the net I'm movin'
Fast, I'm beadin'
Beating the sweat
I just won't stop now, please
Head on my damn knees
Limb from limb is the
Sea I swim, but I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Out the door with that fear
It's like headlights without the deer
So I don't do anything
Don't do
Stomp your hands and
Clap your feet and
Snap those elbows to the beat
Stomp your hands and
Clap your feet and
Snap those elbows to the beat
Watch those and
Avoid surprise and
Suppress, Depress, Impress, Intense
And
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Just dance, just groove, just feel the mood and
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Those baby blues cast a spell it's true
But you better watch out
Cuz there's nothing you can do
Below are song lyrics that I wrote about two years ago. Even though the song's title alone screams anti-risk taking I think it really coincides. The upbeat jazz-like song itself illustrates an internal struggle of fighting against a want. Perhaps you could even say it is mind vs heart vs. another unmentionable part of the body. In the end, the voice of the song does nothing. Even though the voice ultimately made the right decision in hindsight; while actually in that moment doing nothing was still indeed a risk. I don't think a risk always needs to be some grand gesture or staring down the eyes of danger. Sometimes the risk comes in when deciding between your own heart, mind or well, you know.
-------------
Don't Do Anything
I see you standing there
Playing the part like you don't care
Stealing glances, don't catch my glare
I keep on keepin' cool
I end up actin' fool
So I don't do
Anything
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Just dance, just groove, just feel the mood and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Cuz a kiss won't seal the deal
It's too late I copped that feel
Like a dolphin dancin'
In the net I'm movin'
Fast, I'm beadin'
Beating the sweat
I just won't stop now, please
Head on my damn knees
Limb from limb is the
Sea I swim, but I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Out the door with that fear
It's like headlights without the deer
So I don't do anything
Don't do
Stomp your hands and
Clap your feet and
Snap those elbows to the beat
Stomp your hands and
Clap your feet and
Snap those elbows to the beat
Watch those and
Avoid surprise and
Suppress, Depress, Impress, Intense
And
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Just dance, just groove, just feel the mood and
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
It's you I want, but I go for the other and I
Don't do anything
Don't do anything
Those baby blues cast a spell it's true
But you better watch out
Cuz there's nothing you can do
Scott Joel Gizicki is just another one of those new Los Angeles residents that acts and enjoys writing as well. After being born and raised in Detroit, he finally made it 3,000 miles to the city he's always wanted to live in this past August. He hopes he can stand out from the crowd; at least a little bit. :)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Marsi White - Pajama Day: As Told by a 10-Year-Old
It was a brisk winter morning, as I got out of my mom’s car and headed down what seems like an increasingly long path down the stairs and around the corner to where my friends meet before class. My mom always parks on the street behind the school so we can sneak in the back gate and not get a late slip. We are usually running a little late and get to school as the second bell rings. My sister tries to blame it on me, but I think that my mom loses track of time. I wonder if she knows that I notice this. She is good about not blaming me, even though sometimes our lateness is my fault. I always forget to feed the dog and sometimes I forget my flute. That kind of stuff.
Today is Pajama Day at school, day three of Spirit Week. I am in 5th grade and the President of our Student Council, so my parents told me I have to participate. I did not mind so much, though I did put on a pair of shorts under my pajamas, just in case. My sister, who is in 1st grade, has been excited about Pajama Day all week. She was telling me yesterday that her friends and her planned to have the “funnest” day possible yesterday, so that the day would seem to go by faster; so Pajama Day would get here faster. I do not get why she is so excited, exactly. But I will go with it. Whether I want to admit this or not, she is kind of cute when she gets excited about these things.
In my pajamas, the walk into school this morning felt like it took a week, with my feet feeling like they had lead weights strung from each ankle. From the sidewalk, I could see my friends on the school track below. As I watched them race each other and goof around, the hair stood up on my arms as I realized that no one was wearing anything that looked like pajamas. My mom tried to reassure me that I was “cool” for being in 5th grade and wearing my pajamas to school. She said that I was a leader. Her words did not help much. I know she tries, but really I am not sure that she understands.
My friends can be really mean. If I listen to my parents, that means that they are not really friends. All I know is how it feels when they make fun of me. To this day, I still hesitate to wear my Charger’s football jersey to school because I do not want to hear about how the Chargers “suck”. It is hard to be a Charger’s fan sometimes, but that is another story all together. Soccer jerseys are the same way. My parents would not let me buy the Mexico soccer jersey, because they said that wearing it was unpatriotic. I like the USA jersey, but will not wear it around my school friends because they will tease me.
For all these reasons, wearing pajamas to school was not my first choice. I know that being the President of our Student Council is a big deal and is supposed to mean that I am popular. However, when I am not in a cool t-shirt with my skinny jeans or cords, I feel like I am missing my armor.
As I walked down the stairs and thought about all these things, I felt butterflies in my stomach and the air felt even colder. What have I done? I looked back at my sister. Her ponytail was bouncing with enthusiasm. Her freckles were lit up by her smile and her brown eyes shone brightly as she also scanned the crowds below in search of her friends.
“Why is it so easy for girls?” I thought. Or maybe it was just 1st graders. Or maybe it was just my sister.
Now down the stairs, we rounded the corner and I let my eyes dart up swiftly to see who may have noticed my entrance to school. I saw a couple of girls from my class. They were in pajamas. Good sign, but these are still only the girls.
A few more steps and I drew in a long, deep breath. Here we go, I thought. As I raised my eyes to gaze upon our the chaotic and busy school courtyard, the bell rang. Turning slightly to the right, I am hearing my name being called by another group of my friends.....all in their pajamas.
Crisis averted.
Marsi lives in San Diego, CA with her husband, two children, and dog. A private foundation grants writer by trade, Marsi explores her creative side by contributing to Writing, Writer, Writest. She is a breast cancer survivor and keeps a blog of her journey, entitled Nip-It.
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