Injustice is as transparent as the round brown spot on the teacher's nose every day. What's that from? Coffee. The thermos drips, and yet coffee is life and so I have to accept that a coffee-spotted nose is my lot in life.
(more) Who gets detention? Who gets heard? Very early on its clear that the teacher only responds to those seen and heard. The message is not to behave, but to be sly. The primary objective is don't cause a riot, don't make our lives hard, don't upset the other students. This is a community, we say because we want it to be true, but the truth is we are all here, and here is often a hard place to be. We are all placed in this room and are tasked with making the best of it. We are a community. Respect the community. And yet when I, the teacher call a student out, am I respecting the community, or merely enforcing its parameters. This is acceptable. This is not acceptable. I am a leader, but I am fallible, perceived as someone who isn't sure (because I'm not). I am here, here with my voice and my chalk-clad hand (waving over 'detention' and 'exemplar', threatening to write students' names like the judge, the jury), but I am also simultaneously not, climbing a mountain with a group of good friends, ascending a peak, or at the gym sprinting to the tune of Gary's voice reminding me that I was once a high school athlete and that regardless of age, I can still ache like I did back then.
"Yes?" I pretend well, but the truth is that when I yell, my soul leaves my body, retreats to the YMCA where I can remember what brought me here, to this class.(less)
Remembering my first ever slow dance: peer pressure, the cute new transfer student, and a molasses smooth Blink 182 song. Swaying minutely back and forth with my arms trembling from the effort to only barely skim his shoulders. I sure wasn't dancing. But I was touching a member of(more) the opposite sex. In public!
At my middle school, the constant refrain at every dance was, "Leave room for Jesus!"
At our school, you went to one terribly disco lit dance in 6th grade, two in 7th and three in 8th. And so we progressed together, standing awkward/shyly away from each other. Then trying out Christina Aguilera's newest moves. And, finally, starting to inch closer together while the chaperones gossiped in the corner. We moved from the (ever classic) arms-board-straight-in-front-of-you position to gently folding our arms across each other's shoulders and hips.
Sure, even at our most sophisticated, the guys mostly leaned on the wall while the girls danced in wobbly, circular groups. But when those 90s slow jams would hit -- oh. It was time to touch.
Then, touching wasn't terribly fraught with sexual meaning or attached to overwhelming insecurities. The girls weren't inured by objectification or wary of dark corners and being alone. The boys were only just starting to think about being men. Both sexes were only vaguely aware of gender norms and our parts inside those strict boundaries. Of the rules that governed the world. The crushing reality we would experience in high school, college.
By our final dance, we knew the beginnings of how we fit together. Laying heads on shoulders. Twining fingers in hair. Knees and thighs touching. Feeling that amazing, terrifying heat of another person. They would turn their head to speak and your pulse would skip. And then...
The mind is a complex and confusing minefield. There are things that burn your skin. There's lovers pressing their whole beings together. How do you make sense of it all?
I only question the daylight. I marry my mind to the night. I frolic and I am frantic(more) and there's nothing but the dripping ink like night-time blood.
My veins are soft and cooing and I'm cumming all over you and all I want to say is that you are mine and I am yours and there is nothing in this fucking world that would change that.
Let's gaze into the abyss and clasp each other's hands so tight they break. Let's be abysmal and wonderful and you can hold me down and tell me I'm a good girl and I'll watch us fuck in the mirror and it will drive me crazy with love.
Press your body into me. We'll watch the eclipse and turn each other to sand so we can spend eternity together. But one day with you love is more then a hundred years without you on this rotting earth.
I want to run my fingers through your beard and watch you sleep and pull your pants down to your knees and kneel in front of you and stare up at you with these innocent eyes.
Everything is a mirror and tomorrow isn't here so let's forget all the rules and all the problems and let's just tumble into each other like everything is ending. Like the world is dissolving. Like tomorrow is the last day and the first day and the only day.
You'll pull down my tights and you'll say "Lie down baby, I'm going to pound that sweet little pussy." And I'll just smile and lie back and drift into the cosmos sweetly. (less)
When you're a kid, everything is fun. School rules, because all your friends are there, and you learn for learning's sake. Preschool and kindergarten are mostly a blur of coloring, singing songs and drinking juice. First grade isn't all that different, except now you have to learn how(more) to read. And that's super fun. School still rules. Second grade is a bit more advanced, but it still rules. Homework comes in third grade, but it's still fun. You feel responsible, like you're a big kid. Fourth grade is more of the same. Fifth grade is definitely harder, as it's your foray into tweenhood. Looking back, that shit is fucking scary. Sixth grade is worse, that's your first year of middle school. And the seventh and eight graders are so mean. Seventh grade is confusing, because your hormones really flare up. There's also more homework, and teachers who don't say that you're a perfect little angel who is the smartest child to ever grace this earth. No instead they call in your parents and say, "Oh, your daughter... she seems a little behind. So you try extra hard, and you get all A's. This is the first time you feel like you're not good enough and you should give up. Eight grade is a blur of stupid tests that you now ace, and confusing feelings towards the girl that you grew up with. These feelings don't feel natural.... you feel like you shouldn't having them. So you push them aside, and focus on the nice boy with the beautiful freckles. You date, but you still feel uneasy. You still love the girl next door. In high school, school definitely doesn't rule. You try to disappear, and end up in the hospital because of your scars. Life doesn't rule. (less)