Two weeks ago, my New-Agey English teacher decided that she wanted us to become "better storytellers" and so she told us that we would have to write a story about something which has had a significant impact on our lives. I don�t know what she expected me to write about. I�m only sixteen, and I don�t really think anything up until this point has been truly significant.
Enough time hasn�t transpired to see if any event has made an impact, I suppose. I handed in some fabricated story about me and a grandmother (who I never actually knew) and the hurt I had when she decided to move down to Ft. Lauderdale. I imagined the scenario probably to be the extent of the trauma that most of the little over-privileged brats, with whom I attend school, really know, and the rest of the time they spend lamenting about how difficult their lives are. They occupy themselves with smoking pot, most likely to see how long it takes yuppie parents to get away from their various practices and notice that their children are doing something which they do not condone. Somehow, I haven�t yet got caught up in that type of circle, but I guess it�s imminent.
I was thinking about that story I wrote last night, while lying sleeplessly in bed, and I decided that lying about a grandmother who I never had was probably lowering myself to the level at which I perceived most of my peers. I nearly went so far as to tell the teacher that I wanted to rewrite it, as I knew I hadn�t given it enough effort, but I felt justice had been done well enough when she handed me back a big red C-. In her bubbly, effervescent scrawl, she had written: "You lacked passion in writing this. Your disinterest will be shared by the reader; in the future, try to be more descriptive." I chuckled at this, as most of my teachers had always called me "wordy," a title which I could never really grasp, as well as being antithetical to that which I garnered from this story. I made the excuse that I wanted to tell the whole story, as it happened. I failed to see the crime in it.
The C- was a blemish on my otherwise perfect stack of A�s in that English class, and I was moderately surprised that my abnormally low grade did not even merit a bit of curiosity from my teacher. I guess she must have read through the lines, and had seen my obvious disinterest. I suppose it may have been made obvious when I sneered as she described to us the assignment and its purpose.
I haven�t yet acquired too much knowledge which could not be found lying within the pages of any history book, and even my "philosophical" viewpoints (if I dare dignify them to that degree) are the same of virtually any angst-ridden, teenaged, brat. I think that one gets true knowledge when they "grow up"; I don�t claim to be original or insightful in making this remark, as I know it has been said a thousand times before. If one can truly pinpoint the point at which one grasps the fact that they haven�t the tiniest conception of the world which they so arrogantly inhabit, they have become infinitely wiser than they had been prior to that moment. Knowledge begets the admission of ignorance, as far as I have discovered.
About four years ago, I was in the eighth grade, cruising through life at a breakneck pace, as I had not yet hit an obstacle to send me flying off my path and skin my knees. I had been the happy, little, middle-class, girl, completely faithful to God, my family, my morals, and my school work. It wears a girl down, sometimes, and if we are not strong enough, something has to give. Tangible things are so easy to grasp, as one can touch them and see them dangling in front of one�s face. There was a tangible fear which had been instilled in me in that I could always see the repercussions if I was to become unfaithful to any of these icons.
I never had a problem with not doing my school work, as the threat of receiving an F on my report card, and being stuck with the duty of explaining it to my fairly demanding parents was enough to scare me into submission. My family was easy to love, as it was a complete unit, my mother and father were never far away from me (or each other) and my three little sisters were always too close. When you are so young, so unexposed to any real emotional trial of endurance or actual hardship, it is so simple to resolve never to transgress any laws set by one�s family or authority. To smoke, to me, was the ultimate evil for a twelve year old, and any promiscuity at my young age was virtually unheard of to me in my little yuppie town. The penalties for these transgressions were clear and intimidating; if I were to smoke, I�d surely die of cancer, and if I were to indulge in sexual activities, I�d die of A.I.D.S. Black and white was a comfortable way to live, and Technicolor was just too scary and real for me to handle.
When I was born, my parents bought me a kitten the same day. My name was a toss up between Denise and Rose for a while, and when they finally agreed that neither would be suitable, they named the cat Denise Rose, in honor of who I might have been. Recently, I�ve come to think of this as almost slightly morbid, but maybe I�m being melodramatic. Denise became my best friend, and most cherished possession, if I were to think of her in such cold, material, terms. She was beautiful, all flowing chocolate hair and blue eyes. I don�t think I have ever seen another cat which even remotely paralleled her, and I�ve vowed to search for one like her in both its complacent disposition and beauty for the rest of my life.
When I was young, Denise and I would roll around on my floor playing for hours on end. Her claws were sharp, as my parents, recovering hippies who failed to become yuppies, said that depriving Denise of her naturally sharp claws would be cruel and limiting her natural prowess as a hunter. As a result, I frequently was scratched and bore little lines all over my forearms as a testament to my unfaltering love for Denise. This didn�t matter in the least to me, until I was in sixth grade and fell in love with some arrogant boy (who everybody else happened to adore as well) who wouldn�t give me the time of day. I attempted to look beautiful for him, so I began to neglect playing with my Denise for weeks at a time to eliminate the unappealing scratches from my arms. I have a tiny scar near my right elbow from the sole time she actually cut me which has never really went away. I hope it never does.
In eighth grade, on the first Thursday of that unusually cool November, I came home to find my mother�s face stained by tears, and my father�s sister, the closest relative to my mother, in my kitchen. My mother had ceased to cry when I returned from school, but it was evident that she had spent the good part of the day weeping for some mysterious reason. She refused to directly tell me what was wrong, but merely assured me that all members of my family were in one piece, and that I need not be too concerned. I instinctively guessed that whatever the incident was, it pertained in some great way to my father, and in my heart, I felt that he had been unfaithful. It took me some months of facades and masquerades to discover that my hunch was right. This was enough to shake me to my core. In retrospect, I guess this wasn�t too difficult, or was it too surprising. However, the crumbling of this incredibly strong icon of family lead me to duly question the strength and endurance of the other conventions which I had come to trust as the Gospel truth. Tangible as they were, I had seen the most prominent and enduring symbol disintegrate before my eyes. Denise remained one of my sole consolations and conventions; I would lock myself in my room and lie on my bunk bed for hours with her warm body strewn across my abdomen, my hand lost in her luxurious hair, feeling her fine ribcage swell and collapse with her every breath. She preserved a sense of stability in my newly tumultuous existence.
I went to church with my mother about twelve weeks after the traumatic afternoon, as there was some sort of healing mission. This "mission", as it was called, would last for three evenings, and would be performed by a visiting Priest, something which would make the event truly worthwhile. "Converts always make the worst Catholics," my mother remarked about her religious zeal, as she was a convert herself, and she felt that the only way in which she would maintain her sanity through her trials would be with the hand and guidance of God. She thought that I, like her, would feel the light of God and it would fill the gaping hole of my heart, caused by my newly distant father. Although he had not yet fully moved out, he now frequently missed our formerly family-dinners, and sometimes never returned home at night. This obvious physical distance was me by a searing emotional distance which was painfully present; this was infinitely more saddening.
The first evening, I grudgingly accompanied my mother, to the church. However, as we parked our car in the disorganized parking lot, I became assured that the light of God would mend my broken heat and mind and illuminate me so that I would be able to seek true happiness and peace of spirit. We made our way into the church, and found a seat behind an elderly man and his seeming son and daughter-in-law. I listened intently to every word uttered by the Priest, and waited hopefully for the syllables which would heal all of the hurt which I had harbored, and restore all of the lost faith in my establishments, my realities. I failed in finding these necessities. About forty-five minutes after the commencement of the service, the man who sat in front of me virtually collapsed into tears. The son clasped his hand and stroked his shoulder comfortingly, but there was no solace. The man�s hands reached out towards the ornate altar, and seemed to grab for the same mysterious cure all which I so desperately sought; his luck at finding it seemed to be as poor as mine. In that one, simplistic moment, I lost my faith, my belief. For this man to be so wrought with pain, so terribly anguished and to be virtually ignored by this all loving �Lord� -- this was beyond my comprehension, and probably still is. He searched for a moment of solace, a moment of peace to be granted by his mythical, all-loving Father, and despite his pleas, this simple request could not be granted. I begged for him to be relieved, clinging to the hope which I still possess, as his posture agonizingly reflected his insatiable desire to be freed from his pain, his torment, but it was a lost cause. He left ten minutes later, never attaining his peace.
My mother and me left that evening, and she told me of the divine feeling of love and hope which she had been granted. She proclaimed the heeling power of the Lord, and his omnipotent love and soothing property. I failed to see the compassion of this being who would leave His faithful to anguish and cry out to him unfulfilled. I went home and wandered up to my room. My sister slept in her bed peacefully, and I watched her sheets rise and fall in rhythmic perfection for a few minutes. I searched around my house for Denise for a little bit, and upon finding nothing besides her empty food-dish, I wagered that she had went outside for the evening, and I would find her slumbering at the foot of my bed by morning, as was customary in our relationship. I went to bed, sobbing first for an hour.
The next morning, a Saturday, I awoke lazily at ten am, and stumbled down the steps, led by the wafting aroma of pancakes. As I stepped into the kitchen, I noticed the clearly petrified expression which was shared by my mother and my sisters. I demanded to know what was wrong, not desiring to repeat the guessing game which my mother had taunted me with when my father�s infidelity had become an issue. My mother answered me simply and directly by saying only "Denise is dead. We found her body in the road, someone must have hit her last night. Sorry, I know you loved her."
"Oh," was my response, as I was too inundated with pain and lack of understanding to make any more intelligible answer. I sat down at the table, to the shock of my sisters and mother, and had my two pancakes. I envisioned the body of Denise in the road, her beautiful, fluid fur bloodied by a cruel, decisive blow. I could not cry. I was positive that our existence was a result of a few ameoba who got initiative, and that divinity was a fairy tale to soothe the sick and afraid.
I thought about this last night, and I hope I don�t forget it soon. I should have written this story for my English teacher, as it�s a little more significant than my faux grandmother. I bet I would have received an A on this one, because I think I sounded slightly less "disinterested" than I imagine my saga of the retirement community to have. I don�t know if it is really all that significant, as I�ve said, I lack the time to tell. One�s got to get pretty well aquatinted with themselves and the world first, I�m just a neophyte, I�m not yet even significant. I suppose I have something to aspire to, rather than being the next in a chain of yuppies. But I�ll forget my intentions in the end, as even the best of us do.
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