My name is Simon Fletcher and I hate vegetables

My name is Simon Fletcher and I hate vegetables. I’m nine years old, but I be ten in two months and seven days. My mom threatens me that if I don’t start eating those stupid green things when I turn ten, she’s going to make the family become vegetarian so that I’ll go to bed hungry every night. That’s what she wants to do is starve me.
So, for the next two months and seven days, I’m going to plan out how I’ll get my meals, especially dinner when she can easily force those vegies down my throat. I had a nightmare about that once, not long ago.
We are sitting at the dinner table, not just Mom, Dad, Clare, and me, but my whole family. Grampa and Gramma are sitting at the head and butt of the table. Grampa’s eyes are closed and he has a humongous smile, like he always does, when he smells honeybaked ham and stuffing.
He told me he’s always been a “meat-and-potatoes man” because he’s from Wisconsin. Gramma is the only one in our family who likes Mexican food. It’s because she’s “eklektric” or something like that. That’s what Grampa says. Gramma, who always sits across the table from him, has argued with him about it in front of all of us a few times. She says, “All you have to do is eat it. There’s nothing strange about it.” The argument usually stops after that, because Grampa knows there’s really nothing more simple than eating. But that doesn’t mean he’ll eat Mexican food.
By the way, that’s not why Gramma sits at the butt of the table- just because she likes Mexican food. I asked her, “Gramma, why do you sit at the butt of the table. Isn’t it embarrassing?” I thought she ought to be sitting at the almost-head of the table. She is the second oldest person in our family, besides Grampa. She chuckled and shrugged her shoulders. Then she said, “I guess somebody’s got to sit here.” I wanted Clare to sit at the butt of the table because it matches the shape of her head.
I don’t mean that really.
Ok, so back to my dream. Mom is sitting next to Dad and my Uncle Bill. Her name is Susan. My dad’s name is Sam or Samuel, but only Gramma calls him Samuel. My cousins, Lucy and Teddy, sit next to each other and are very quiet. Lucy is seven, and Teddy is five and a half. My sister is sitting next to them, and normally I sit next to her. She’s 13 and smells.
But in my dream, I’m strapped in a chair, a dentist’s chair, with the light over my head. It’s away from the table, where the hallway starts. Mom gets up from the table with a big plate that has a pile of vegetables on it. There’s spinach at the bottom, then celery and lettuce in the middle, then carrots and green beans on top of that, then there’s gross cauliflower, and the pyramid of vegetables goes up to the top of the ceiling. Some of it falls off the giant plate, and my relatives grab the pieces quickly and scarf them down. They all have evil grins on their faces, and some have their tongues out like dogs, hoping to get their own piece of broccoli or spinach. Mom has the worse face of all, and she comes over to my chair and turns on the bright dentist light. I can barely see anything since I can’t look anywhere but up at the blinding light. All of a sudden, her hand is holding a carrot, a big one that just came from the garden, still dirty. She jams the carrot down my throat. I’m gagging just thinking about it right now.
Then, she turns the whole pyramid upside down and all of it just goes into my mouth. After it’s all gone down, and my skin is blue, my eyes are dark red, and you can see all my veins because they’re bright green, she laughs and asks me, “Now wasn’t that good, Simon?”
I woke up from that dream and went to go throw up. I didn’t, but I could almost taste every single one of those disgusting vegies in my mouth. Then I had a bowl of chocolate ice cream and started thinking about Mom’s threat.
What made it even more real and scary is that my birthday is two days after Thanksgiving and my family always comes from out of town. I cried after I finished my ice cream because I didn’t want to ever have to eat vegetables. I was crying because I knew I’d have to eat them someday.
I think the first time would be at a dinner party when I’m grown up. I’ll be there with my friends from work or something, or maybe I’ll go with my wife. We’ll sit at the dinner table and they’ll have a salad. My good friend will say, “After you get some of that salad, will you pass it down to me?” I will want to say, “NO!” But he or she won’t know which part I’m saying no to. I can imagine myself, with a look of shock and terror, nodding to my friend as I put some salad in my salad bowl. I stare at it and pass the rest to my friend, but my eyes are fixated on the vegetables. Then I eat a mouthful and gag to death.
I felt better after thinking about that because I’m a long, long, long way from having a wife, or any friend that likes salad. There’s a boy at my school who eats by himself because he always has a salad. I think maybe he’d have some friends if he brought a pizza to share with everyone.
I always have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. My mom doesn’t have time in the mornings to make me anything else. I always try to trade it for Bobby’s hot dog, or Laurence’s fish sticks.
They are my two main friends from school. We’ve been in the same classes since kindergarten. We realized it in the middle of second grade, when I wasn’t so afraid of talking to other kids that I didn’t know. It wasn’t even on purpose that we got into the same classes until this year for fifth grade. We all have Mrs. Mayberry. She’s fat, but she always brings in fruits and vegetables for her lunch.
I know I don’t like vegetables even though I haven’t tried many. Mrs. Mayberry has asked me that every time I tell her politely, “No, thank you. I don’t like those kinds of food,” when she offers me some of her lunch. “How do you know you don’t like them if you haven’t tried them?” she asks. I don’t like it when she asks me this because I have been polite to her and I think she should be polite to me. I’m always so nervous around her, and those vegetables, that I can’t really think of the answer, or at least I don’t know how to say it.
But I know that I don’t like them because of the way they taste, the way they feel in my mouth, and the way I always gag when I’m chewing them. I remember one time at school, in second grade, when I ate an onion ring. I like the outside crust, which is why I always break it apart and pull out the onion. Sometimes I fill the crust up with maple syrup; it’s really good. But that one time in second grade, while I was eating with Laurence and Bobby, I ate the onion too. I took a little bite and the entire onion came out of the crust. I tried biting off a little piece of it, but it was all slimy and couldn’t even be cut up by a knife. So, after it dangled from my mouth for a little bit, Bobby and Laurence started giggling. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of my new friends, so I sucked the whole onion into my mouth. It was so slimy and big, I thought it was like an eel squirming around in my mouth. I gagged so bad after I had that thought. I spit it all out and made a terrible sound that was loud enough that kids from other tables looked over to see me and the gross mess that I made. Bobby and Laurence were laughing so hard that Laurence fell to floor while Bobby put his head down and banged his fist on the table.
I saw them, and then I saw the other kids from my class looking over from tables that were spread out across the whole cafeteria. They were all giggling. A little string of drool was still coming out of my mouth, and my face felt hotter than any fever I’ve had before or since. I picked my Power Rangers backpack and ran out of the cafeteria to the bathroom.
It was the only Power Rangers backpack in my whole school, and I thought it was really cool. But for the next few days, everybody pointed at me and laughed because they recognized my backpack. I threw it away over the weekend.

It’s two weeks away from my birthday, and my mom has made more threats. She ordered a big carrot cake from the grocery store. She stood right in front of me while she talked to them on the phone. I covered my ears and breathed as loudly as I could to block out any sound she made. But it didn’t make me feel better not hearing what she said to the grocery store. Actually, it made me feel worse because she could have been lying the whole time and actually ordered a big chocolate cake while I was ignoring her. Or she might have been talking to one of her friends, maybe Deborah, because they like to play tricks on me together.
They are always giggling at me when Deborah comes over to our house. I know when they go out for coffee together, they’re laughing about me and Deborah’s daughter, Audrey. But they’re laughing at me more because I hate vegetables. Audrey is just funny looking and I feel bad that Mom and Deborah are laughing at her because of it. I don’t do that because it’s mean. I don’t even laugh at my sister because she smells so bad. I used to, and she slapped me so hard, I had a purple bruise there for three days! But that’s not why I don’t laugh at her ultra-smelliness anymore; I just know it’s mean.
But me and Laurence and Bobby made up some plans for me to not have to even see vegetables on my birthday. I tried the first two that we came up with. The first one was that I would pretend I was eating vegetables already, and do it in front of Mom.
One afternoon, when Mom picked me up from school, I pulled out some carrots from my lunch bag. She looked over at them, and her eyes got really big. She said, “Wow, Simon! Were you saving those for the ride home today, or did you just forget to throw them away at school?”
I said, “Mama, I always eat these at school. But I didn’t have time today to eat them at lunch. Would you like one?” I thought that was really good and I made it all up on the spot!
She said, “Sure, I’ll have one. But for every one I eat, you have to eat two.”
I was about to say, “No way,” but I caught myself and said, “Deal.”
I gave her one and tried my best not to gag at the thought of what it felt like in my mouth. She said, “Thank you. Now you have one,” as she crunched it away in her mouth.
I looked down at the big bag of carrots and regretted grabbing so many when I made my lunch. I thought it would be extra-convincing, but I didn’t think about the terrible deal I had just made.
I looked out the window, doing my best to not look at Mom or the carrots. Mom asked me, “Aren’t you going to eat one? Or two like you promised?”
I said, “Actually, I’m not hungry right now, but I’m going to eat all of them at home while I study.” I don’t like to lie. So I felt good about saying this because I didn’t have to study for anything, so I wouldn’t have to eat any carrots.
But Mom wanted me to eat just one. She promised not to bother me about vegetables at all anymore if I just ate one carrot while we drove home. This was my big chance and the plan had worked perfectly. So I said, “I think I can only fit one bite in my stomach.”
Mom said, “Fine.”
I looked down again at the bag of carrots and tried to find the smallest one. The plan got a little tough here. I was supposed to bite on the carrot and break it into two. Then I was going to just let the part that I bit off fall out of my mouth and right back into the bag.
So I did it. At least, I bit down. But the part I bit off went all the way into my mouth, and I felt it rolling around from side to side, just wanting me to crunch it all up. Before I could stop myself, I spit it out and it bounced against the front window and lay there on the dashboard. Mom saw the whole thing, and shook her head as we pulled into our driveway.
Two days later, I went with her to the grocery store. She hadn’t ordered the carrot cake yet, so I didn’t have to worry about that. Actually, I was looking at the chocolate cakes for a long time while she shopped. But then I snapped out of it, and thought about Plan 2. I was going to get all the vegetables and fruits and healthy stuff on her grocery list. I ran over to her and asked her what healthy foods she wanted me to grab.
She smiled, which made me feel good. But then she said, “We really don’t need any fruits or vegetables. We have plenty at home but no one will eat them.” My heart sank. I spent the rest of the time at the grocery store looking at the chocolate cake that I wanted most for my birthday party.
When she was finished shopping, Mom came over and looked at the cake with me. I told her, “Mama, that’s the one I want most in the world.” She giggled and said, “Actually, Simon, I’m planning to get a carrot cake for your party.”
I was terrified and she laughed when she saw how helpless I looked. I knew she was planning to starve me.

I woke up today wishing for the first time in my life that I could like vegetables. I just wanted these dreams and all of the worrying I’ve done to stop. I’m tired of planning how to escape, but I’m even more tired of my plans failing. Every one of them has.
Laurence and Bobby and me had run out of ideas two days ago, on Thanksgiving. My whole family was going to be over at my house in the late afternoon, Grampa, Grama, Uncle Bill, Aunt Stephanie, Lucy, and Teddy. I begged Mama to let me go to Bobby’s house for a few hours after school before I came home to help set the table. I needed as much time as I could get to make more plans with my friends.
Instead, while we were at Bobby’s house, we watched TV and ate popcorn and Cheetos. I like to eat cereal for a snack; Coco Puffs are my favorite. But I didn’t really feel like eating anything, even though I knew I wouldn’t have anything to eat at home after my birthday, which is today. I thought I should be eating as much as I could for the next two days so that I could live for a while being ten years old.
I knew for the next year, maybe even for the rest of my life, I was going to be a scavenger. I would have to go over to my friends’ houses every morning, afternoon, and night so that I could get my three meals. I’d have to ask kids at school if they would let me eat their pizza crust or leftover chocolate pudding. I might even have to dig through the school and grocery store dumpsters.
Then, all of a sudden, I had a big “epifany.” I yelled at Bobby and Laurence, “All I have to do is not eat meat!” They looked at me, startled and confused. I said, “Yeah. That’s what being a vegetarian is all about. Don’t you see? It’s so easy!”
Laurence asked me, “So, you’re saying that you don’t have to eat vegetables to be a vegetarian?”
I wasn’t sure what the answer was, but in my excitement, I just said, “Of course not. And it’s perfect because I don’t eat as much meat as the rest of my family does. Vegetables are really only a tiny part of being vegetarian!”
Laurence lowered one eyebrow and said, “I don’t believe you. It’s even in the name; Vegetarian...Vegetables?”
But I wasn’t listening anymore. I told them I had to go.
At dinner that night, we were having a big turkey. My plan was to announce that I was already a vegetarian, and that I wasn’t going to eat the turkey. I thought I would just eat the stuffing and mashed potatoes instead.
I imagined Mom getting big-eyed, like she did in the car when I pulled out the carrots. I thought she would shower me with praise, saying, “Simon, you’re not only a vegetarian, but you’re also a very intelligent boy. Remember the carrot cake I ordered from the grocery store? Well, first thing tomorrow, I’m going to call them and tell them to burn that stupid carrot cake. We’ll be having double-double chocolate instead!”
But, when I said that I was vegetarian, Clare and Mom started laughing, and Grampa looked at me, startled and confused, and asked me, “Can you do that? I mean, are vegetarians allowed to not eat vegetables?”
I was sad that Mom didn’t take me seriously (I didn’t care about Clare), but, with the last bit of energy I had, I nodded my head to Grampa and said, “Uh huh.”
Mom shook her head, and grabbed Grampa’s hand. She smiled and said, “Simon’s just trying to make a last ditch effort to get me to not make him eat the lovely batch of fresh fruits and vegetables I bought for his party!”
Grama had a big smile when I told everybody that I was a vegetarian, but when Mom said there would be fresh fruit and vegetables, she betrayed me by saying, “Ooo, that sounds good, Susan!” I looked over at Lucy and Teddy. Lucy was laughing because Clare was laughing, but both of them kind of looked sad hearing about Mom’s menu.
I started to cry after Mama said that. I said I needed to go to the bathroom and got up quickly so that no one would see me cry. I went to my room, locked the door, and went to bed. I had that same nightmare again.

Today, I’m ten years old. I woke up hoping that I could swallow all the green and orange stuff that would be served at dinner. I hoped that I wouldn’t gag or choke to death on the carrot cake. But most of all, I wanted to like them- the vegetables. I wanted them to taste and feel good because if they did, I might end up having more. I thought that I would even eat them after today if they were that good.
But then I remembered that onion ring, slurping it up into my mouth and spitting it back out. And that terrible gagging sound, and the Power Rangers backpack. It made me want to like vegetables even more, but I didn’t want to try to like them or else it all might happen again. I was worrying the whole day about how I could hold in any gross sounds or stop myself from turning blue or fainting in front of my whole family.
I still had that stuff racing around in my mind when the rest of the family came over around five. The adults had cheese and crackers and soda and beer. I wasn’t allowed to drink soda yet; Mom always says, “You kids don’t need ‘cafeen.’ Some of your friends- I’ve seen them drinking five cans of soda in one hour.” She was probably talking about Audrey, Deborah’s ugly daughter, because she doesn’t really know any of my other friends. And Audrey isn’t my friend anyway, but she does drink a lot of Pepsi.
The adults like to just sit there in the kitchen and talk. Me, Lucy, and Teddy bounced on the trampoline for a little while, and then we played soccer, and then we came inside because the sun had gone down. Clare used to play with us; she even trick-or-treated with us last month. I dressed up as the Incredible Hulk. But today, my birthday, she chose to sit there and not have any clue about what the adults were saying. It made me mad because we couldn’t make teams for soccer, plus she didn’t say one thing the entire time to the adults.
Playing outside made me forget about the horrible dinner that was coming. But I became more and more scared and distracted as the sun went down. And pretty soon, I was there, sitting at the dinner table, next to Clare. She whispered to me, “You smmmell,” and she scrunched up her nose. Then I wiped all the sweat off my forehead and rubbed the back of her shirt. “Disgusting!” she cried out, hoping to get the adults to look at her. Lucy and Teddy were on my side and they giggled.
Clare took her revenge on me. She did the worst thing anybody could have done to me. When the salad came around, she got it first. She announced to everybody, “Ok, everyone. Simon is going to have his first bowl of salad tonight. Here you go, Simon.” I sat there, frozen and just looked at her, hoping for the first time that she could read my mind. I tried to tell her, “STOP! I will pay all of my allowance for the next year,” but she had the biggest smile I’d ever seen and scooped the salad in the big bowl next to my plate. She even overfilled it, and started putting more on my plate.
I wasn’t frozen anymore and I took the tongs and the salad, and gritting my teeth, I said, “Thank you, Clare.” Then we both looked at Mom. She winked at Clare and then looked over at me, raising her eyebrows as she looked down at my salad bowl and then quickly back up to my eyes. She was challenging me, and I wanted to fight my way out of the house, like some good guy who has to escape from the bad guy’s dungeon. I wanted to climb onto the table and run, like Benny from “The Sandlot,” when he’s running from “the beast” and runs through the wedding.
But I was frozen again. I looked away from Mom, and just stared at my salad bowl for a while. The other food came around, and I took only a little bit of each thing because I wasn’t hungry anymore. Plus I thought, “I have to save room for the cake… Oh, nevermind. I don’t want any of this gross food ever again.”
I thought to myself, “This is the worst birthday ever.”
I ate everything, and didn’t say a word. Normally, I’m a pretty talkative boy. I would have been asking Grama and Grampa about their trip to South America, or ask Uncle Bill about fishing. But instead, I sat there and looked at the salad bowl.
Then it was time for dessert. I had the carrot cake on one side of the plate and the giant salad bowl on the other. I put the bowl on the plate so that there wouldn’t be room for any other gross food. There was barely any room for the small piece of carrot cake.
This was it. There was nothing left on my plate except vegetables. I looked at my plate and thought, “This is the worst day of my life.” Mom called out my name, and I snapped out of it and looked over at her. She said, “Simon, we’re going to open presents after you eat your salad and cake. All of us are finished, Simon.”
I didn’t say anything to her. I just looked slowly around the table at everybody’s plate. They were all lickity-split clean, except for the frosting from Grama’s carrot cake. I said, “Grama, the frosting is the only good part of that cake.”
“Well, would you like to have it, Simon? We shouldn’t waste any food, you know, even if it’s bad for you,” Grama said. Mom gave Grama a look like she was ruining Mom and Clare’s evil plan. But Grama just smiled at me, which made me smile, my first 10-year-old smile.
I scooped up the frosting with my fork, a big glob of it. I prayed that it would taste and feel like regular cake frosting; it was my only hope. It was the first good thing I tasted as a 10-year-old. Actually, it was really good. I let the big glob of frosting just sit in my mouth for a little bit, and then I smiled again.
Grama knew what I was thinking. She said, “Simon, why don’t you eat your piece of cake.” By this time, everybody was back to talking about adult things and Clare and Lucy were cleaning the dishes. Teddy sat there, watching me and Grama while he sucked on his first finger.
“But Grama, the cake has carrots in it. I don’t want to eat them.”
“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to worry about that. Just think about the frosting. Isn’t it good?”
“Yeah. It’s been the best part of being ten.”
“I’m delighted to hear that. Now go on and give it a try.”
I wasn’t scared anymore. I cut a piece and opened my mouth. Then I looked over at Teddy, and he had his mouth open wide and big eyes. Then I ate it.
Grama was right. I just tasted the frosting. Maybe it was because I was concentrating so hard on blocking out every other taste and feeling in my mouth. I ate the rest of the cake and gave Grama a big smile.
I was so happy about finding a new kind of food that was so good. I was getting out of my chair to go and hug Mom for getting the cake, but Grama said, “Simon, you have to finish your salad.”
I tried my best puppy-dog face, and said, “Grama, I’m really full. I’ll eat that salad later.”
She shook her head and I got sad. She said, “Simon, you know, I bet you would really like ranch dressing.”
Now I knew what she was thinking. “Oh no, Grama. I’m too full. And I’m not going to eat that salad. How about you have it?”
“No, thank you, Simon.”
“Grama, you just said that we shouldn’t waste food.”
“That’s a good point, Simon. I’ll tell you what. If you eat just one bite of that salad, I’ll gladly eat the rest for you.”
“Deal,” I said.
She poured some ranch dressing into my salad bowl and got a tiny dab on her finger. “Go ahead and try,” she said.
I scooped the ranch dressing from her finger, and without thinking about it, I stuck my finger in my mouth and licked it clean. I looked over at Teddy again, and he looked at me in surprise and pulled his first finger out of his mouth really fast.
I didn’t like it much. But Grama wasn’t going to eat my salad if I didn’t take a bite.
She said, “Now, it’s really just like carrot cake. All you have to do is think about the ranch dressing.”
I nodded my head. I was ready, and it didn’t seem that hard anymore.
Just as I was about to put the salad in my mouth, I held the fork there and thought about the onion ring. I closed my eyes and saw the kids from my class sitting at different tables in the cafeteria. I saw the faces of my family in my dream, smirking and laughing as Mom shoved the vegetable pyramid down my throat.
Then, all of a sudden, I said to myself, “Ranch dressing,” and shoved the salad into my mouth. It was kind of like jumping into a pool and opening your eyes underwater. I chewed and chewed. You’re really cold for that split second after you jump in, and then… it’s fine. I swallowed and opened my eyes.
I didn’t see those evil faces of the cafeteria or my dream anymore. I looked around at my whole family, and all of them were looking right back at me with big smiles. Grama quietly clapped her hands, and I just shrugged my shoulders. It didn’t feel like a big thing at all. The salad bowl was suddenly so much smaller and I took another bite.
This time, I asked myself if it was real. On my third bite, I thought of all the gross things I could think of, but I didn’t gag at all. Then, I thought about all the worrying I had done, and giggled.

It was a good birthday. Now it’s 9:45 and Mom just yelled at me to go to sleep. Then she turned off my bedroom lights and closed the door. I slowly made it to the other side of my room, almost tripping on some of the toys I got as presents tonight. I turned the lights back on because I just wanted to write this… Good night.

Simon Fletcher

Writing about place

The first thing I noticed was the great abundance of very good-looking females. The Rock (a local concert venue) was jammed pact with not only girls from out of this world, but guys who were much more handsome than myself or my friends I came along with- Kyle, Sean, Emily, and Ryan. It was like being on the U of A campus, an isolated area of this city containing the entire population of women that make my jaw drop.
We came to see a band called State Radio, one that I'd never heard of before that night. I learned that another band, Revolution, was the headliner... Strange name. Or, at least coupled with all these pretty people, the name didn't seem to fit.
I thought, well, that's cool. I like the idea of hot revolutionaries (almost sounds like an oxymoron), or atleast politically conscious college students.
As I stood on the outer edge of the mob, my body compressed as much as possible, I looked behind me to see a girl taking a shot and using Red Bull as a chaser. Hmm... As liberated as revolutionaries are with respect to drugs, why would they partake on such an occasion, when they should be listening intently for the knowledge that this band, Revolution, will bring?
Well, State Radio finished their set, and would you believe, the crowd started chanting "U of A! U of A!" So I yelled out, "PIMA!" and wanted to say, "It's a school night for you bitches."
Then Revolution came on stage. The bassist wore a jersey that said Rastafari. It was at this point when I noticed there were barely any black or brown people. I thought, "Now wait a minute. You can't have a revolution without color, much less with white kids getting drunk and yelling, "Bro chill."
But, alas, I put those nagging thoughts away to try to enjoy the pleasant reggae sounds. That only lasted a minute before my friends wanted to leave. They discussed how lame this audience was, how it was full of frat boys who refer to themselves as bros. My friends had a problem with their presence. I certainly enjoyed being in the presence of all those gorgeous females, but all in all, that was no place for a real revolution.

Another True War Story

I remeber when I yelled at my little brother, Curt, for the first time. Well, it was the first time he didn't yell back. He was in the sixth grade and I was in eighth. Sure, I had been yelling at him for as long as I could remember. About the dumbest things. Mostly, I yelled at him in front of Mom, trying to regain my status as favorite (and only) child. It took me awhile to figure that shit out. Mom was good at ignoring me when I did this, which made me even more frustrated. I thought she was probably so good at it because she practiced every minute we were together.
Yes, those were the days of long ago. I had, of course, matured when I was in eighth grade, still yelling at my little twerp brother and his jackass friend, Rat. But I wasn't shouting so that my parents would love me again. I had left those days of vying for attention.
That first time, my little brother didn't say a word after I had told him how much I hated him for going to the same middle school as me and how he didn't have any friends to show him around. I told him how mad I was that I got stuck dealing with him when all my friends wanted me to come hang out with them.
It sounds bad, I know, but he was used to hearing that shit and was better at returning the favor, sometimes with a fist. It had always been like that, and always within the vicinty of Mom hearing us.
No doubt, I got spanked, yelled at, sent to time out while Curt got to run outside. I'd watch him play on the little fort Dad made for him. It wasn't our fort; we didn't share anything. I thought about how I would rip him apart one day, and I dreamed that afterward, he'd be sent to his room forever, his fort would be destroyed, and in its place, Dad would build me a roller skate rink.
I saw my chance come on the first day of eigth grade, which was his first day of middle school. I expected the worst, a terrible scream of hatred to minimize my blow. That's all Curt was to me- an excruciatingly high-pitched scream- until that moment. He just looked at me... he didn't say anything...
And I turned away from him and ran to the bathroom. I sat in one of the stalls; the bathroom was clean and anxious for the mess that middle school girls make. I sat there for an hour and sobbed and felt sick and hated myself for saying what I said. I hated how I couldn't get up and hang out with my friends, all of them laughing about the things middle school girls laugh about, or even go to class. But, in the end, I still hated Curt, and hated him even more for that stare and that silence. He just looked at me, so extremely lost and hurt, and with all the bad words in the English language, he chose the worst one. He didn't say anything. I thought, "What a fucking good comeback, you asshole," as I cried quietly so that nobody would hear me. I hoped he found his classroom, and then I hoped I'd never see him again...
I remembered all of that when I read Rat's letter.

Letter to my friends

Dear friends,
You asked about my relationship with reading and writing. You know, it's a curious thing; I like the idea of reading and the idea of books and the knowledge being passed on through them than I like the actual act of reading. I was reminded of myself when the gentleman with glasses read his personal description the other day. He gave me the vivid image of stepping over and around piles of books on his floor. Yes, that would be me also, except I make little narrow trails to get to my bed and closet.
The difference between us, though, is that he probably has read a great deal of the books in his room. I have read less than five! Don't get me wrong; I certainly intend on reading all of them. In fact, I've started many. But within a week, they are near the bottom of a large pile of various things, with clothes at the summit of it all.
I began my fascination with books after junior year of high school; I'm probably a late-bloomer compared to the rest of you. On the way home from our annual road-trip to Wisconsin, my mother dragged me in to the antique shops that were the most "quaint" looking. I didn't care for them, until I spotted a giant bookshelf with so much knowledge and wisdom that I looked at every single title.
Yes, that's how it began. Long story short, I have quite the collection on many intellectual curiousities that stuck with me for a day or two. That's my problem, you see. I go to the library or the bookstore and get myself a hefty load, but by the time I get home, I'm on to something else; my interests seem to last only long enough to buy the book.
So, tonight, I turn my body in awkward positions once again in order to get to my bed. Someday, all of it will be gone, traded at Bookman's. For now, I'm just hoping that they are not collecting dust on my bookshelf in vain.

Well, my writing... are you still with me? Sorry, I just needed to let it all out. I can now look upon the chaos of my room with some hope. And, actually, this is exactly why I have come to like writing so much. Not the room, of course, but getting my thoughts truly expressed. I'm sure it's the same with all of you.
But for me, I have a terrible time articulating myself, or atleast the serious side, by speaking. I have noticed that I'm really not afraid of communicating exactly what I'm thinking when it is written. Anxiety might come from simply being in the presence of another person, and it's that anxiety that limits me in conversations.
For myself, writing is the best way to work through both logistics and deep feelings. These thoughts, of what to do with my day or why I'm feeling so down, would otherwise just remain on my mind, spinning around in different ways. They say that naming something can bring comfort to a person, whether it's an addiction or a feeling of emptiness. Writing is my means of meditation.
My journal got wet once, and some of the entries were completely washed away. I looked at it and decided that it didn't bother me that some poems and deeper thoughts were erased. My journal is so cluttered anyway (I decided I would just write everything in one place to save paper). But more than that, I'm not really concerned with being a writer, holding my prized possessions within those pages. They're just thoughts that are going to blur out eventually. I just find that I can move forward in my life with more clarity after I have written them down.

How about you?

Sincerely,
Tim

Words to be wreckoned with

euphoria
infintile
scattered
gallows
revolt
relinqish
incognito
reign
fathom
blazed
flow
groove
dilated
pure
finese
exhuberant
nonchalant
gather
je ne sais quoi
impulse

Movimiento, a story about me

Tim couldn’t help but smile. It was almost like one of those moments of explosive euphoria he felt whenever he realized how much opportunity lay ahead, how little the details and frustrations in moments of social anxiety mattered. But he was so exhausted.
Minutes before, Tim was about to pass out. He had heard this overwhelming ringing in his ears and everything that had been veiled in darkness was turning lighter. Only the rocks piled in the middle of this “womb” that was the sweat lodge lit the figures of those gathered to cleanse their bodies and minds. He knew what it meant when his vision turned a different shade and he panicked silently. He breathed in as much of the heavy air, thick with steam, as he could. But it made him cough and snot streamed out of his nose. He knew this had to be one of the hardest physical endeavors he had ever been through.
He smiled at that thought too. You see, Tim knows the privilege he’s had in his almost 20 years of life. He knows the sacrifice his dad made, being a lawyer, so that he could provide his family with economic security. He sees his parents still loving each other after 27 years. He feels embarrassed about living in the foothills, being a wealthy white boy, but knows that his identity has given him a great sense of duty to improve his community. He’s grateful for the safe exposure and experiences he’s had to life in the different corridors of this town and society, including this one.
As he smiled and listened to the words of wisdom, Tim remembered, as if it was long ago, that he desperately wanted to crawl out of the temazcal, escape this ceremony, and feel the cool winter night again. The leaders, Chucho and Maria would speak for a while as water was being passed around the circle. Tim laid there limp and tried to focus on breathing and wiping the snot away. He couldn’t listen to them speak of “our people” and the culture that was lost when the conquistadores came to this land 500 years ago. He didn’t hear about “our strength” and how little there was in our society. He felt so weak. Prayers were being lifted to Ometeotl, the energy that created us and binds us together, but he only heard the subsiding ring in his ears and the slow steadying of his breath.
His lips touched the earth, making the rough dirt ground turn to soft sand. His hands, stretched in front of him, pressed down, turning it to mud. He was covered in sweat, but he felt so happy to be there, in the sweat lodge, celebrating the traditions and beliefs of the indigenous peoples.
Tim had joined el movimiento when he was a freshman at the community college. That was just a year and a half ago. To be more precise, he became a part of el Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (M.E.Ch.A, for short). Being white, and from the foothills, he felt surprised and grateful when he was invited by the others, most of them Mexican-American, to become more active in the club. One of the members, Claudio, brought the rich knowledge of indigenous history, of the Mexica people, to the group. He was involved with the Calpulli Teoxicalli, a group that practiced and celebrated the culture of the Mexica, commonly known as the Aztecs, through dance and rituals. On this winter night, the Calpulli and MEChA were brought together for a sweat, where Tim lay completely exhausted, but smiling.
Maria gave thanks to him for his presence in this ceremonia. She said, “Tim, you’ve joined us on the barrio runs and the danzas- and I thank you for your bravery. You’re different from all of us in a pretty clear way, and it takes a lot of guts to do what you have done.”
Another thought glided through his mind at that moment. He remembered the feelings of anxiety that accompanied him every time he was with his friends from high school and church. He remembered how much he wished he could contribute to the conversations about nothing really- phones, boyfriends and girlfriends, drama, school, old TV shows, video games, how drunk you were that one time at that one party. He remembered wanting to escape that as much as he wanted to stay. And he knew that those feelings would return, maybe even the moment he crawled out of the temazcal.
But all of that seemed so distant as the water was once again poured on the 32 rocks and they prayed together with carnalismo. It was now the final round of the sweat, and he couldn’t help but smile.

There He Sits, a poem about me

There he sits, silent and smiling,
wishing so
badly that he could con-
tribute to the conversation
in this circle
of friends.
Laughter and loud
voices fill
the silence and the air and
he finds it
difficult to breathe
in all this pressure and anxiety.
Wishing he knew
all about cell phones, video games, old
tv shows, that "one time you
were so drunk"
too.
There he sits, desperate
to escape, but with all these
pretty girls around, why
would he? So,
there he sits, silent and smiling
and waiting.


And there he sits, sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body, loving
the earth as it provides cool air
to breathe while burning
steam stings his back and makes
the others in the temazcal
cough. They sing
in Nahuatl and breathe in
the burn of water
poured on rocks from
the fire outside.
He breathes in
the cool air as his lips
touch the dirt, turning
it to mud. He knows
the sacrifice of his carnales,
who use all their precious
stength to sing, and the struggle
becomes more real than the books
that convey it.
The struggle
of community, of ancestral pride,
of identity.
How wonderful,
there he sits, among indigenous
peoples from los barrios de la Tusa, far
from high school and
drama and
discussions
of insignificance.
There he sits, a white boy
from the Foothills
more connected with these
Chicanos than he could ever
wish to be with the
intoxicated circle.
Sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body.
There he sits, silent and smiling.