This is what Charlotte writes.

Essay Deux

The air leaves an acrid, burning smell in my nostrils. It’s repulsive and terrifying, but something makes me suck it in, each breath confirming that this is real. The ash that coats everything—everything that’s left, that is—covers my shoes, the black leather now hidden beneath a layer of gray. The whole world is gray. Gray and black, as if someone took the world’s color saturation bar and dragged it all the way to the left. I’m almost glad. Color would make this too real, too painful. The gray distances, alienates, protects my Technicolor past from my monochrome present.

As I stand in the ashes of my life, it’s easy to feel alone. Everything I had was in that house, from the work that I had spent weeks on to the groceries I had just bought. I unconsciously start to catalogue everything, but don’t get far because I have to stop. Dwelling on the minor details won’t make it any easier.

It’s easy to feel alone, but I’m not. Down the street, my neighbors (are we still neighbors if the houses are gone?) sift through their own ashes. Searching for something. Anything. I’ve already given up hope.

Before the fire (yesterday — that seems strange, but it’s true) our street was lined by tall trees. Picket fences and hedgerows divided our lots. Our lives. I might have seen a neighbor out one morning, when we were both in our bathrobes, collecting the newspaper, but a half-asleep coffee cup salute was the closest we’d ever come to building community. Our street was beautiful, but we residents isolated ourselves. I don’t know why— for me it was a product of my natural tendency to be antisocial and my neighbors’ reluctance to reach out. Maybe the rest of them had jobs, families, that kept them too busy to cultivate a front porch visit type of culture.
But now, with the fences and hedgerows gone, and the houses they surrounded reduced to rubble and ash, we are homogenized, equal. I take another deep breath of burnt neighborhood and listen to the woman on the lot on my left begin to cry.

The sounds of her sobs bring back all the sounds. Visually, everything is so dead that it’s easy to forget that it’s not silent. I can hear cars speeding by on the not-so-distant freeway. Some of them turn and drive slowly down the street, and I know without looking that the faces inside are pressed against the glass, staring out, ogling at our tragedy. Birds chirp— a sound of life that is alien and incongruous here, amongst the ashes and the tears.

Helplessness is not a feeling that I’m used to. All through my life I’ve sought control, and having that taken away from me is nothing less than terrifying. It’s hard to admit that sometimes there are things that one can’t control. Sitting in a hotel room, watching on TV as flames consume my home and those around it and knowing there’s nothing that I can do— it’s maddening, and unbelievable to the point that it’s not until I’m standing in the ruins that I really comprehend that everything is gone. Gone, and there is not one thing that I can do to rectify the situation, not for myself, or for any of my crying neighbors (plural, because others have begun to sob as well, unifying our street in a sad chorus).

So, instead of remaining here and staring dismally at what does not remain, I turn away. I walk to my car, and with every step I regain a bit of control. As I drive away I do not look to my left or right, refusing to become a tourist at my own destruction. I keep my eyes on the road as it turns to freeway, and drive for miles trying to forget amongst the traffic jams and bad drivers.

Later, I’ll sit in a coffee shop, my ashy boots hidden beneath the table, my hands wrapped around a hot mug to stop their shaking. The other patrons will not look twice at me, because to them I will be nothing more than another one of them, fuelling up before moving on to the next event. The employees will give me strange looks as I remain there for hours, without a book or laptop or one of the other ways in which customers amuse themselves, but as long as I keep buying coffee they shan’t bother me.

When it gets dark outside and the floor is mopped and the shop closes I’ll leave, of course. Now, driving in the carpool lane despite the empty seat beside me, I don’t know where I’ll go. Maybe by then I will have found an answer in the dregs of one of my innumerable cups of coffee. Or maybe I won’t have. I step a little harder on the gas pedal, watching the needle creep ever so slightly up on the speedometer. I flick on the radio, tired of the quiet, and let some mindless pop song fill my brain. There will be time for thinking later. Now? I just want to drive. Me in my cocoon, my fellow drivers in theirs, we are anonymous to each other. Mile by mile I am reconstructing my world, from my feet on the pedals to my hands on the wheel. The song on the radio switches off, and the newscaster says something about massively destructive fires. That’s interesting, I think. I am the very picture of detachment. I change the station and continue to drive.

Essay

The first layer of the Rubik’s cube is the hardest to solve. All the colors are mixed up; nothing’s where it’s supposed to be. You’re lost, with an idea of how it’s supposed to look, but no idea how to get it there. Maybe you’ve watched others solve it, you’ve seen what they do, so you start twisting and turning the cube, trying to line up the colors, but it seems that for every step forward you take three steps back. It’s frustrating and difficult but you have to keep going.

I arrived in Italy for my exchange year with the false confidence afforded me by a year of independent-study Italian. Soon, though, I realized that this would not be sufficient. Sure, I could expound at length about the boy under the airplane, the woman pointing and the clown getting dressed, but that had nothing to do with the everyday, and was of no help when talking of light switches and how to flush a toilet. My first host family welcomed me with open arms, helping me along with the linguistic problems, trying to help me adjust to the culture. I say trying because, despite everyone’s best intentions, it still felt like trying to solve that first layer, where, in trying to move forward, you’re moving back.

The second layer is a little easier. You’re starting to learn the moves, the language. When someone gives you instruction you follow it, but not always perfectly, and you still mess up. A lot. But you’re getting there. Things are shaping up, and you can start to see progress.

By the time I met my second family I had slightly more of an idea what to expect. I had more of a handle on the language, and had mastered the basics of being an American in Italy. Things were still difficult, however, but the difficulties more resembled any you might find in a household whose members were less than compatible. Having lived at home my whole life, however, I had no idea how to handle this, and, though I tried my best, it wasn’t working out.

By the time you’ve reached the third layer of the cube, you’re in the home stretch. You’ve left behind the endless frustration of the first layer and the sometimes equally frustrating second layer, and all that remains are the last few squares. You know the lingo, you know the moves, and it’s only a matter of using the proper one at the proper time.

When I arrived at the home of my third host family, it is safe to say that I was a good deal more prepared for the challenges that might arise than I was when I met my first family, six months before. I could speak Italian with a better than workable degree of fluency, and also had the experience of living as an exchange student. I had the moves down. At the same time, however, the experience was starting to wear on me. Having lived through the tears and frustration that accompanied the solution of the first two layers, I was beginning to wonder if it would be worth it to try for the third. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it, be able to take what I’d learned and apply it to this new situation.

Luckily, my new family was there to help me, there to coach me every step of the way. They were understanding, and allowed me the time I needed to bounce back to my normal self. I finally was able to be a part of the family, something that I hadn’t really felt in my previous two host families. My mother called me her “figlia americana,” American daughter, and we laughed at the confused looks on people’s faces. My sister and I got along like a house on fire, better even than my real brother and I do.
Unfortunately, the completion of the final layer is just that, completion. Almost as soon as everything fit perfectly and comfortably, the year was over and I had to pack my bags and go home – though “home” at that point felt more like Italy than California. I hope that I’ll get a chance to see my families – all of them – again, but even if I don’t, they’ll always be a huge influence on me. It is because of the experience that they gave me that I can now be given anywhere, anywhere at all, with everything all jumbled, and twist and turn it to make it home.

Please Tell Me

that I did not submit this as part of my Emerson application…

“Girl Saturday.” Why? Because Girl Friday’s the everyday girl, the girl next door. She could be anyone. But Girl Saturday…she shows up late, messy. Being a weekend, there’s no schedule, no work or school to take up most of the day. Sometimes when she comes, it’s a surprise—though, once reflected upon, her arrival was inevitable. Usually she’s a relief and welcome, but sometimes… That’s what my life is like. As a younger sister, I spent a good deal of my childhood tagging along after my brother, always a beat behind in my copycatting of him. In elementary and high school, I was (and am) the “weird one,” a result of the fact that I’ve never gotten the hang of the conformity thing that seems to serve Girls Monday through Friday oh-so-well. During my junior year in Italy I found out that some people find Saturday (“ragazza di sabato”) hard to adjust to. Consistent and bland I’m not— counting on getting the same serving every week is, frankly, unrealistic. But I’m willing to work, to compromise. After all, after Saturday comes Sunday, and I shan’t leave her to clean up my messes.

I always have poetry running through my head. Stream of consciousness, one part narrating my life and one part fantasy about what I wish that I could be. What I wish I could be doing. Real good shit, but when my fingers hit the keyboard nothing comes out right and I’m left with just another bunch of words that don’t match up right and won’t get me anywhere. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it leaves me sitting on the couch with stale cigarette smoke on my tongue that’s almost but not quite obliterated by the irish breakfast tea that I’m drinking because the coffee isn’t fucking espresso blend even though the can says it is and I need the caffeine to make it through the night, to write the essays I need to write to get my ass out of high school. Sometimes it means that I’m wearing my Bill Bitch lipstick and reading Nick and Norah and wanting to be there, wanting to be anywhere but here, and crying because “Everything’s Ruined” by Fountains of Wayne is playing on my laptop speakers because iTunes can be a real bitch sometimes.

I wish that I could take you inside my head and show you that I am worth loving and that I am a decent person even though it doesn’t look like it. But inside my head are all the things that would make you hate me, too. All the things that I can’t say and can’t think but I do anyway and I can’t help but wish that they would make you love me more.

Dev is fucking right. It’s all about the Beatles, all about “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and I want you to hold my hand and tell me that it’s going to be OK, that I’m going to be OK, even though I don’t deserve it but you do and they do and please I want to make your dreams come true and their dreams come true and if anyone ever reads this is it is going to be a fucking miracle because telling the truth is too hard and I am too scared.

I take another sip of tea and dive back between the pages and hope that I can drink enough tea to climb out of this hole that I’ve dug even though I can’t even see the top anymore. But way down here? I can see stars.

Selina’s Melodie Fountain finishes as I read the last word of N&N because sometimes? Sometimes iTunes is perfect.

I tried to write you a poem.
I constructed line after line,
about your callused fingers,
your bitten nails, and the way
that your eyes crinkle up when you smile.

I tried to write you a poem,
but every line came out like a love poem,
even though that was not my intention.
So I’m sorry that I did not write
a poem about how you cry when you’re happy.

I tried to write you a poem
that was not a love poem,
so here is this poem,
and what’s the difference?

I believe...

…in “to thine own self be true.” I believe in not giving a shit about all the crap out there but I believe in finding something you care about and really giving a shit then. I believe in loving what you love and who cares if you’re outside of the target demographic and people can’t hang. I believe in not sacrificing the environment for my own personal comfort. I believe in hair straighteners and hair dye and not taking “no” for an answer. I believe in learning other languages and knowing what a “Kaiserschmarrn” is and I believe in chocolate frosted rainbow sprinkled Dunkin’ Donuts. I believe that there is always wonder left in the world and you can find it, even if everyone else walks by with their heads down. I believe in film photography and I believe in the fact that math is beautiful. I believe in love even though or maybe because it sounds corny and some people think it doesn’t exist but I know that it does because I love. I believe in all of this more than I believe in saluting a flag and spouting words that haven’t meant anything since I learned them in preschool so thank God I’m in highschool and we don’t do that any longer.

Hello

A lot of this writing is from my Creative Writing class, Senior Year. It’s titled with either the date written or the “Last Modified” date. Most things were written from prompts, but none are included here as they are mostly in my binder back home. Notes are appended when necessary (in my opinion).

This is all largely unedited, feel free to question/comment.

05.08.08

Kick through the shit on the floor of your room until you find them, both flip flops, dirty and worn by now but still functional. Wade back out to the doorway, drop them on the floor, nudge them straight with your bare toes. Slip on first one, then the other. Walk out of your room, down the stairs, and step out the door into the sunshine. Leave your shoes in the doorway and keep going. This is the most important thing that you will ever do.

03.28.08

Hello, I chew my fingernails.
You laugh like I’m joking, but I’m not.
I want to tell you all my fails.

I carry stones in buckets and pails,
Building walls – I’ve built a lot.
Hello, I chew my fingernails.

I never receive any mails,
Not from Jim, or Jo, or Dot.
I want to tell you all my fails.

I spend my days riding the rails,
At night make stew in a rusty pot.
Hello, I chew my fingernails.

I’ve sailed ships through stormy gales,
Most have crashed and sit to rot.
I want to tell you all my fails.

I’d like to spin you all my tales,
Or else they’ll be, like me, forgot.
Hello, I chew my fingernails.
I want to tell you all my fails.

03.27.08

I hold raindrops in my palms. Diamonds drip from between my fingers, smashing on the asphalt beneath my feet. Clouds cover the sky but instead of darkness light surrounds me. By now my clothes stick to my skin and my hair drips and my fingers grasp the rain.