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6:46 p.m. - September 18, 2001 Sixteen years ago, I pronounced the word 'cake' like 'cock'. Back then, I couldn't have known the implications. Even so, I called myself 'Na Na.' My hair was white blond suddenly, my eyes green. They called me 'thunderthighs.' I ate sushi as my first solid food. Fifteen years ago, they were shocked that I didn't go through the 'terrible twos'. Instead, I learned to read. Instead, I chased the cat. They thought there was something wrong with my social development, so they sent me to a specialist. Fourteen years ago, the specialist told my parents I'd probably grow up to be a reclusive genius. They gave me books, they enrolled me in a playgroup, they pushed me upon other kids while at the same time teaching me my letters, numbers, and how to write. My favorite word was 'cwaperate', or 'cooperate'. I had my own easel and desk full of books. Thirteen years ago, the nursery school teachers were worried that I spent so much time writing stories and illustrating them. They led me over to the bean basket, where I traced designs in the beans, shaking water over them to form rivers. I was named 'Best Cutter', which never carried over to a later mental illness. I don't know even if that was recognized in 1988. Twelve years ago, I was shocked that no one else in kindergarten knew even their letters yet. They traced the alphabet while I sat in a corner and wrote more stories. They moved me to Ms. A's first grade reading class, where I abhorred writing with older children and instead drew pictures. Ms. A was the first person to tell me that people's arms did not grow out of their heads, and their legs did not grow out of their arms. After that, I drew normal profiles and stick figures. My mother never forgave Ms. A. Eleven years ago, I could spell better than my reading teacher. She didn't like me. My math teacher locked kids in the closet, but she never did it to me because I was a kiss-ass, to put it eloquently. I watched silently while she yelled, and played with my calculator. I had a friend from England, and when we played 'tea party', I embarrassed myself so badly trying to do an English accent that I can still remember the incident word for word today. Ten years ago, I was with my then-favorite teacher, who was so religious that she didn't let kids dress up for Halloween, or decorate her room with witches and pumpkins, or let us say 'Oh my God.' I loved her because she was different, because back then I wasn't so judgmental. I had a best friend that let me braid her hair and celebrate Hanukkah with her family. I had a crush on my second grade reading teacher. Every day, I would try and find an excuse to hug her. Nine years ago, there were sign-up lists in my third grade class for who got to play with me on the playground that day. My friends Y.L. and J.C. would fight over me constantly. That year I was into biker leggings and oversize T-shirts, except when I wore my owl dress, so don't ask. My hair was at its longest, lightest, and fluffiest that year, adorned with star barrettes and sparkle clip-on earrings. I was the queen of the third grade. It was my only year for popularity. Eight years ago, all my third-grade friends inexplicably moved away, and I found myself struggling for acceptance, yet still sailing by in school. I refused to do my homework, but I aced every test and every project. That was the year my parents separated for the first time and the school had me visiting the social worker, Ms. F. When she asked me questions about home, I would dodge them by reciting lists of state capitals for her, in alphabetical order. I can still do it. In choir, Mr. R. told me I could accompany on piano instead of singing. I accompanied for 'Fifty Nifty United States' and lots of others I've forgotten, but they always announced me at the end of the assembly, the fourth grader sitting at the piano where a teacher had always been before. They had me improvise on the piano for the in-between scenes of the fifth grade play. Seven years ago, my last few friends moved away. The same girls who would sign up to play with me two years before had formed cliques without my snotty ass. I was still the only girl who could do seven pull-ups. They cheered me on when competing against the boys, and when I won, jumped down, smiled at them, they backed away and faded out behind the swings. Before school, I came into the music room and practiced. I had my own key. By then, I played four different instruments. I was driven to the middle school in the mornings to play piano with the orchestra. Six years ago, I finally settled in within my grade level in school. My parents were shocked that the specialist's 'genius' prediction hadn't come true. I entered the sixth grade regular classes with all the other sixth graders, and my parents, back together by then, blamed me. They thought I'd completely wasted any potential I might have had. I agreed. I was sick of being ahead, I was sick of being recognized, being made fun of. I didn't like people, and I suddenly now didn't like school, since it was now marginally difficult for me, so I made up for it by learning three new instruments. Five years ago, I thought I had grown up. I had a group of friends that called me 'Class'. I had an enemy that threw basketballs at my head. I was the quiet one with everybody except Camille, and I still didn't do my homework. I learned two new instruments, and had my first crush. I was the only girl in the locker room who changed in a bathroom stall instead of out in the open. I went to the Valentines Day Dance and sat in the cafeteria, munching on pretzels. Four years ago, I spent much of my school time writing a 'novel', the diary of a six year old girl who was a genius and went to a music boarding school. Yes, it was my wishful thinking manifesting itself pretty obviously. I missed my own brilliance. I longed for the days when teachers would mouth 'wow' at their colleagues when I would say something, or write something, or play something. I missed my parents showing me off. I missed being better than everyone at something. I was the first chair trumpet player with terrible stage fright and braces; I quit piano the same year. In the meantime, I learned four more instruments and chopped off my hair. Three years ago, I began high school and fell headfirst into anxiety. I refused to go to class, or eventually leave my house. My parents signed me up for therapy, and instead of talking to my therapist about my problems, I (per my fourth grade technique) talked about my crush at the time, an unattainable junior. I talked about him for each hour-long session, and when I ran out of things to say about him, I made some more up. Over the course of that year, he broke drums, fell down in the hallway, sailed at the beach every day, cut his hair twice, and got kicked out of class about thirty times. Over the course of that year, I got nowhere, but I became an accomplished liar. An accomplished liar who still couldn't bring herself to leave her house or eat in public or perform on stage. Two years ago, they found a medication that worked. I left my house. I traveled with the band to Disney World. I learned five more instruments, and got my first kiss too late to count anymore, past the giggling sleepovers of middle school. I still lied, the necessity gone, but the urge still pervading. We ate in the music library, talking about sex. We talked about sex for a year in that music library, stopping for nothing. It didn't matter that none of us had had it yet. We talked about it all the same. One year ago, I made an explosion of friends. Suddenly, I wasn't the confused underclassman looking for acceptance, I was the upperclassman offering it. I cut my hair and dyed it blue, then red, then black, then red again, then purple. That purple is still fading. By then I had thoroughly disappointed my parents, school-wise, they were disgusted by my lack of genius, my lack of any motivation to excel. I didn't care, and I hadn't cared for a long time. I was third chair bassoon, and I didn't care, even though my dad tried to fight it. I had a B average, and I didn't care, even though my dad yelled endlessly that I wouldn't get into any college. I wrote essays, and didn't win any prizes, and I didn't care, even when my dad demanded a recount. I didn't care. Today, you know me. I'm the purple-haired, 6 foot 2, green eyed girl who can't stand up straight after years of slouching to try and look shorter. I'm the girl with the big pants. I'm the girl who drives the Geo Tracker that can't go on the expressway without the engine exploding, or something. I'm the girl with the torn up nails. The girl who tends to be a music hermit sometimes, holed up in her office with the synth, the keyboard, and raging ideas. The girl who wants to be able to sing much better than she does. The girl whose grades are still so-so, all traces of whatever genius that specialist found, gone. Her favorite subjects are creative writing and electronic music. She wants to go to Boulder or Oberlin, Madison or Reed, Denver or Berklee or Western Washington. I'm the girl who changes her mind every week, who can't stand being without money, who, although she writes every day, can't think up a good college admissions essay. I'm the girl who can't let go of old love, but is still always open to new love. I'm the girl who both tackles and hugs people in the hallway, who is so sardonic she's often seen as insufferably rude, who can only make certain people laugh. Who alternately flirts and glares, who has no alcohol tolerance at all, who is too brutally honest for people to really WANT her opinion. The only people that still do obviously haven't done it before. The one who alters her personality to fit the situation, who is seen as hard, soft, emotional, emotionless, flippant, intense, beseeching, fuck-off, friendly, quirky, quiet, hyperactive, and hard to predict. I don't think anybody really wanted a concrete description of who I was, did they? This quasi-history was completely impulsive. False? not right now. Tomorrow I could feel completely different. Why don't people ever just want to talk?
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