There's no room to stretch or adjust. I'm not even certain there's furniture to sit on. The teevee has dials that clunk clunk clunk and a smooth one too that adjusts the picture. This isn't cable, and if the wind blows too hard, we won't get to watch anything until Daddy can get back on the roof. Dallas is on, hot air popcorn and coca colas on the TV room floor.
We watched Dallas every Friday night. I think it was Friday; maybe it was Saturday....whichever day, or night, our family watched together. Every week. I must have been young, and I can't believe my parents even allowed us to witness the exploits of J.R. Ewing, but they did, and we did, and we loved it.
Every week there were warnings and there were threats.
"Okay. If you can't be quiet, you're going out."
"Now be quiet, commercials are over. Watch that drink!"
"I can't hear."
"Make her be quiet!"
"STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND JUST WATCH!"
I wanted to know what 'coming out' meant. This was DALLAS and these were the 1980s. There were no closets from which to emerge, because this was fiction, neat and tidy, adulterous, vindictive, and straight. Coming out had something to do with a girl in a pretty party dress standing at the top of a fancy-smancy staircase and I wanted to know all about it.
They giggle to themselves.
"What?"
"Just watch."
"But what does it mean?"
"It means she's going to have a party."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why does 'coming out' mean that she's going to have a party?"
"Stop asking questions and just watch."
They did the same thing with 'teenybopper.' Giggles (like they're teenyboppers themselves, now that I know what that word means) and comments whispered too low for me to hear. I hate that. Not being in the know. Private conversations and giggles. Inside jokes. Disgraceful. Only, I didn't know that word either. Not back then. Now, I know them all.
Coming out on a fictitious oil ranch (huh?) in the 1980s meant a bedazzled party with white matchin' dress and heeeeeeeeeeeeeeyals for a gal's thirteenth, fourteenth, sixteenth birthday. A debut. Damn it J.R. Why couldn't you just tell me that? I never asked why all the married people went to bed in the day time with one person and at night with someone else. When you're a kid and you see something often enough, you begin to accept it for what it is. I'd never seen or heard of a coming out. Kids have to ask questions to learn. What if I wanted a coming out. Didn't I need to know? Didn't I need to decide for myself? Maybe that's what they were afraid of.
I never had one. A coming out. No quinceanera. No sweet sixteen. I did have a birthday party when I turned sixteen. Everyone went to my house after the football game....which my parents forgot to pick me up from....SURPRISE.
It wouldn't have done me any good to have a debut anyway. When I was sixteen (or eighteen) I had no better idea about who I was or who I wanted to be than I knew who shot J.R. I don't know that I really know what I want to be now...a teacher, a librarian, a writer...but I do know who I want to be.
Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen to my debut. (Dallas references end here.)
I don't know what's gotten into me. Really, I don't think it is anything at all. If anything, my thoughts are more lucid than ever (well, depending on how much I slept the night before). I've changed For sure! Everyone changes, most of us for the better, most of the time. If I had to give this a name, this recent development I think I'd explain it like this: I've found my moxie.
I'm sensitive. The only way you don't know that about me is if you somehow found this blog by mistake. If you've spoken to me for more than five minutes you've probably witnessed my eyes welling up....at least once. A friend tells me she's running in an upcoming marathon. Tears. I survive few days at work (also referred to as day at school) without tears. I cry at least once a day. That's who I am, and I've decided not to bother trying to change that. Life becomes much easier when we just accept that we are who we are...the tears are me. But, there is something I can change, and oh, how I'm working on it. I've come home from Wal-Mart in tears. From the gas station in tears. A recreation league soccer/t-ball/basketball game in tears. Why? Who knows! A look. A jerky remark from someone I don't even know--meant (or not meant) for me. A 'dirty' look--whatever that means. Someone thinks I'm stupid (I'm not). Someone thinks they're better (than I am--not than me....at least I use better grammar!). Something didn't go the way it was supposed to. Someone messed up their room after I spent ALL DAY CLEANING the ENTIRE HOUSE! Silly. Trivial. No more wasted tears. Sure, I'm going to cry again. Probably, every day, but I've resigned to move beyond the trivial. I can't make anyone like me. I can't control what other people think (or CAN I?). And my life is mine, and it is spending more quickly than I ever imagined.
Do you ever lose time? I do. I've lost more of it than I can comprehend. I catch myself driving home and realize it's Thursday. Then, I think about Thanksgiving and feel like that should have been only a week ago, but it wasn't, because Christmas has passed too, and it's next year already. How? My son's gonna be 8. EIGHT! That can't be right. My daughter FOUR. HOW? WHEN DID I BLINK? See? TEARS.
I want a tattoo. Not a first one. No, I already have two. Who cares, really? I hate talking about them. No, I'm not ashamed, but I am worried about what you're going to think or say or how you'll act or judge, and I get angry. I get angry because I don't know why you'd care about the marks on MY body. Maybe you don't, but some people do, and I can't understand why. I dye my hair (because I like to, thank you very much) and the first person I see says, "Did you dye your hair?" No. No? As if saying yes will confirm something? Ugh. Sensitive subject? You bet. Why? Because. Because, if I lost all of my hair, no one would dare ask about that. Then it would be wrong to ask...why? But what if I shaved my head? Controversial. Daring. Insane. But if I'm sick, and all my hair falls out, you'll just stare at me, but pretend not to, and say things when you think I'm not listening like, "what a pity" or "she must be so upset." I'm not sick, at least I don't think I am, but sometimes I'd like to shave my head just to prove that my hair(color) has really very little to do with who I am. But, I'm not going to shave my head either, because what I really want is a tattoo.
I want another tattoo. I'm tired of trying to figure out why...tired of justifying. My mom isn't fond of the first two, but she can't magic erase them, and they're good and hidden most of the time. Both mean something to me. Both are part of who I am, and I don't regret getting or having them. But now, I want another tattoo on my wrist. Right smack on my left wrist. Out in the open. Why? Self expression. Declaration. LIBERATION. Art. Poetry. Love (an 'A' for Aidan and Aubreigh). Because it's my body. So why not just do it? Fear. Anxiety. Judgment. More than anything....that I'll lose my job or something. I don't know. I don't even know the policy, but I sense the tension every time I sketch it on....I don't want to cover it with a band aid....I have plenty of scars I've never been asked to cover (or explain)....some from more frivolous adventures than getting inked. Would a little 'a' matter? Should a big 'A' matter? I don't think so. It certainly wouldn't impact my performance. It might win me cool points, but really? I'm so over that.
So what we have here....or I guess what I have, is a paradox, isn't it? I'm busting to break my shell, but I'm terrified to do it. Up comes the moxie. Where does it come from? Two kids (mostly), surviving thirty some years on this planet, a successful marriage, grad school, public education....life experience. I'm finally old enough, or empowered enough, or inspired enough to respond with, "so what?" instead of tears. If you don't like my hair, so what? I do. If you don't think I'm as good as you are or as smart? So what? I won't bother trying to change your mind.
So what if I get a visible tattoo and someone decides that that deems me no longer competent to teach and inspire children, to share the love of learning, to help them reach their full potential and love themselves, so what? Moxie. Moxie whispers in my ear and says, "Maybe it's time to look elsewhere, because you do have so much to offer and it has nothing to do with what you look like on the outside." Maybe. Isn't that what I've been teaching them all along? I own who I am. I accept who I am. I love myself. I respect myself. I live what I teach.
Post Script: I won't feel that this is complete unless I make a final statement. I've always been aware that I learn from my students. Slang, dance moves, what's cool, what's not, self-acceptance. Our young people (and some not so young people) struggle with identity, with finding and defining, and with being accepted for who they truly are (and NOT who they PRETEND to be). They question themselves, hide from judgment, weigh their worth; we all do. A tattoo is trivial, regardless of our personal ethics, by comparison. Wearing a part of me on my wrist, something that expresses who I am and what I am about symbolizes acceptance. Little 'a' or big 'A', ACCEPTANCE.
We watched Dallas every Friday night. I think it was Friday; maybe it was Saturday....whichever day, or night, our family watched together. Every week. I must have been young, and I can't believe my parents even allowed us to witness the exploits of J.R. Ewing, but they did, and we did, and we loved it.
Every week there were warnings and there were threats.
"Okay. If you can't be quiet, you're going out."
"Now be quiet, commercials are over. Watch that drink!"
"I can't hear."
"Make her be quiet!"
"STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND JUST WATCH!"
I wanted to know what 'coming out' meant. This was DALLAS and these were the 1980s. There were no closets from which to emerge, because this was fiction, neat and tidy, adulterous, vindictive, and straight. Coming out had something to do with a girl in a pretty party dress standing at the top of a fancy-smancy staircase and I wanted to know all about it.
They giggle to themselves.
"What?"
"Just watch."
"But what does it mean?"
"It means she's going to have a party."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why does 'coming out' mean that she's going to have a party?"
"Stop asking questions and just watch."
They did the same thing with 'teenybopper.' Giggles (like they're teenyboppers themselves, now that I know what that word means) and comments whispered too low for me to hear. I hate that. Not being in the know. Private conversations and giggles. Inside jokes. Disgraceful. Only, I didn't know that word either. Not back then. Now, I know them all.
Coming out on a fictitious oil ranch (huh?) in the 1980s meant a bedazzled party with white matchin' dress and heeeeeeeeeeeeeeyals for a gal's thirteenth, fourteenth, sixteenth birthday. A debut. Damn it J.R. Why couldn't you just tell me that? I never asked why all the married people went to bed in the day time with one person and at night with someone else. When you're a kid and you see something often enough, you begin to accept it for what it is. I'd never seen or heard of a coming out. Kids have to ask questions to learn. What if I wanted a coming out. Didn't I need to know? Didn't I need to decide for myself? Maybe that's what they were afraid of.
I never had one. A coming out. No quinceanera. No sweet sixteen. I did have a birthday party when I turned sixteen. Everyone went to my house after the football game....which my parents forgot to pick me up from....SURPRISE.
It wouldn't have done me any good to have a debut anyway. When I was sixteen (or eighteen) I had no better idea about who I was or who I wanted to be than I knew who shot J.R. I don't know that I really know what I want to be now...a teacher, a librarian, a writer...but I do know who I want to be.
Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen to my debut. (Dallas references end here.)
I don't know what's gotten into me. Really, I don't think it is anything at all. If anything, my thoughts are more lucid than ever (well, depending on how much I slept the night before). I've changed For sure! Everyone changes, most of us for the better, most of the time. If I had to give this a name, this recent development I think I'd explain it like this: I've found my moxie.
I'm sensitive. The only way you don't know that about me is if you somehow found this blog by mistake. If you've spoken to me for more than five minutes you've probably witnessed my eyes welling up....at least once. A friend tells me she's running in an upcoming marathon. Tears. I survive few days at work (also referred to as day at school) without tears. I cry at least once a day. That's who I am, and I've decided not to bother trying to change that. Life becomes much easier when we just accept that we are who we are...the tears are me. But, there is something I can change, and oh, how I'm working on it. I've come home from Wal-Mart in tears. From the gas station in tears. A recreation league soccer/t-ball/basketball game in tears. Why? Who knows! A look. A jerky remark from someone I don't even know--meant (or not meant) for me. A 'dirty' look--whatever that means. Someone thinks I'm stupid (I'm not). Someone thinks they're better (than I am--not than me....at least I use better grammar!). Something didn't go the way it was supposed to. Someone messed up their room after I spent ALL DAY CLEANING the ENTIRE HOUSE! Silly. Trivial. No more wasted tears. Sure, I'm going to cry again. Probably, every day, but I've resigned to move beyond the trivial. I can't make anyone like me. I can't control what other people think (or CAN I?). And my life is mine, and it is spending more quickly than I ever imagined.
Do you ever lose time? I do. I've lost more of it than I can comprehend. I catch myself driving home and realize it's Thursday. Then, I think about Thanksgiving and feel like that should have been only a week ago, but it wasn't, because Christmas has passed too, and it's next year already. How? My son's gonna be 8. EIGHT! That can't be right. My daughter FOUR. HOW? WHEN DID I BLINK? See? TEARS.
I want a tattoo. Not a first one. No, I already have two. Who cares, really? I hate talking about them. No, I'm not ashamed, but I am worried about what you're going to think or say or how you'll act or judge, and I get angry. I get angry because I don't know why you'd care about the marks on MY body. Maybe you don't, but some people do, and I can't understand why. I dye my hair (because I like to, thank you very much) and the first person I see says, "Did you dye your hair?" No. No? As if saying yes will confirm something? Ugh. Sensitive subject? You bet. Why? Because. Because, if I lost all of my hair, no one would dare ask about that. Then it would be wrong to ask...why? But what if I shaved my head? Controversial. Daring. Insane. But if I'm sick, and all my hair falls out, you'll just stare at me, but pretend not to, and say things when you think I'm not listening like, "what a pity" or "she must be so upset." I'm not sick, at least I don't think I am, but sometimes I'd like to shave my head just to prove that my hair(color) has really very little to do with who I am. But, I'm not going to shave my head either, because what I really want is a tattoo.
I want another tattoo. I'm tired of trying to figure out why...tired of justifying. My mom isn't fond of the first two, but she can't magic erase them, and they're good and hidden most of the time. Both mean something to me. Both are part of who I am, and I don't regret getting or having them. But now, I want another tattoo on my wrist. Right smack on my left wrist. Out in the open. Why? Self expression. Declaration. LIBERATION. Art. Poetry. Love (an 'A' for Aidan and Aubreigh). Because it's my body. So why not just do it? Fear. Anxiety. Judgment. More than anything....that I'll lose my job or something. I don't know. I don't even know the policy, but I sense the tension every time I sketch it on....I don't want to cover it with a band aid....I have plenty of scars I've never been asked to cover (or explain)....some from more frivolous adventures than getting inked. Would a little 'a' matter? Should a big 'A' matter? I don't think so. It certainly wouldn't impact my performance. It might win me cool points, but really? I'm so over that.
So what we have here....or I guess what I have, is a paradox, isn't it? I'm busting to break my shell, but I'm terrified to do it. Up comes the moxie. Where does it come from? Two kids (mostly), surviving thirty some years on this planet, a successful marriage, grad school, public education....life experience. I'm finally old enough, or empowered enough, or inspired enough to respond with, "so what?" instead of tears. If you don't like my hair, so what? I do. If you don't think I'm as good as you are or as smart? So what? I won't bother trying to change your mind.
So what if I get a visible tattoo and someone decides that that deems me no longer competent to teach and inspire children, to share the love of learning, to help them reach their full potential and love themselves, so what? Moxie. Moxie whispers in my ear and says, "Maybe it's time to look elsewhere, because you do have so much to offer and it has nothing to do with what you look like on the outside." Maybe. Isn't that what I've been teaching them all along? I own who I am. I accept who I am. I love myself. I respect myself. I live what I teach.
Post Script: I won't feel that this is complete unless I make a final statement. I've always been aware that I learn from my students. Slang, dance moves, what's cool, what's not, self-acceptance. Our young people (and some not so young people) struggle with identity, with finding and defining, and with being accepted for who they truly are (and NOT who they PRETEND to be). They question themselves, hide from judgment, weigh their worth; we all do. A tattoo is trivial, regardless of our personal ethics, by comparison. Wearing a part of me on my wrist, something that expresses who I am and what I am about symbolizes acceptance. Little 'a' or big 'A', ACCEPTANCE.
Copyright © 2012. Carrie Ellen
Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing
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Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.
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