Disturbing Content

(No, the post is ABOUT it, not CONTAINING it.)

With regard to photographs, I am a sensitive person. A photo of a bound foot, sans wrappings, makes me cringe away from the computer screen and feel my breakfast rebelling. Ditto for harlequin babies, messy wounds, et cetera. But what really causes trauma for me is facial disfigurement.

This is not an uncommon way to feel. Most humans are frightened or bothered by a face that is Not Quite Right, because we spend so much of our lives reading the faces of others. If something is off, it immediately sets alarm bells ringing in our heads.

So, back in August, in the mail arrived the latest Time magazine. Those of you who subscribe to Time probably know where I'm going. For those of you who don't, the cover of this issue featured a young, Afghani woman whose face was seriously disfigured. Google Image search it if you want details. This cover, as you can imagine, really bothered my parents and I; we promptly disposed of the magazine. However, I couldn't get that girl out of my mind. I wondered who she was and what had happened to her.

In the next issue, there were reader letters reacting to the cover. A few expressed my view: that Time was out of line to use that photo, especially since many subscribers had young children in the house. Others, though, commended the editors for their choice of cover-girl, saying that the photograph brought to light the grievous injustices wrought by the Taliban.

From the more descriptive letters, I gleaned a bit of her story. Her name is Aisha, and her injuries are a result of somehow running afoul of the government. As I pondered this, it hit me that her photograph was not the real "disturbing content."

What's disturbing is that it happened. There are places in the world where the government can randomly mutilate or execute citizens for running contrary to their beliefs. Places where a young woman has virtually no rights, and her life is dictated by the whims of the men in power. Places where execution for "dishonoring one's family," homosexuality, or ascribing to a minority religion is de rigeur.

That is what we should be fighting for. Not oil or land, but the basic right of all people to live unmolested and without fear of government violence. We should fight so that cases like Aisha's become a thing of the past. But given the fact that the Taliban managed to come back after the army brought them down once, physical fighting doesn't seem to be the answer.

Whatever the solution, the real disturbing content in Time magazine was not the woman herself, but that her suffering happened.

My Reindeer Flies Sideways

Our topic on which to blog today is graduation, which will take place in a few weeks.

Well. Hmm.

I do not plan to take any sort of trip after graduation, until my college orientation session in June. Nor will I attend a wild, raucous party that night and become heavily inebriated. To be honest, all I want to do after graduation is go home, sleep, and not wake up until 7:00 the next morning.

But I'll be spending the night at a school-sponsored overnight party with my classmates, which promises to be interesting at the very least. And prior to the ceremony, my family is hosting a graduation luncheon/party for extended family and a few friends; that will likely be fun.

However, during the ceremony, only one thing will be on my mind. A theme which has dominated my thoughts at the close of each school year since seventh grade and which I feel reflects my hope for the future: the "Sideways Reindeer" song.

This song, which I discovered in an Internet animation at age 13, runs as follows:

My reindeer flies sideways;
Your reindeer flies upside-down.
My reindeer flies sideways;
Your reindeer is dead.
Bum bum bum...
[repeat ad infinitum]

As you've probably guessed, these lyrics are sung to the tune of "Pomp and Circumstance" (aka the Graduation Processional Song). Ever since first hearing the "Sideways Reindeer" song, it's all I can think of when the piano strikes up "P&C" at graduation.

So fare thee well, my high school alma mater. Your reindeer is dead.

Soror

Our esteemed teacher has declared today, "Free-Write Friday-" we may blog as we please on any subject. Therefore, dear readers, permit me to tell you about my sister. My sister is the best sibling in this or any other world. That's not a boast, but rather a statement of fact. You wish you had a sister this fantastic, and will soon go home to your lesser siblings (who I'm sure are nice in their own ways) and weep for your lot. For blogging purposes I'll call her Isabel, though that is not her real name; I don't want any of you being driven to insanity by her greatness and trying to stalk her. Isabel is 12 years older than me and a few inches taller, blue of eyes and chestnut-brown of hair. She is a musician and songwriter extraordinaire. She writes hilarious stories, draws photorealistic portraits, and gives excellent advice. Upon first meeting her, you are like the Titanic before the iceberg. Now, don't think I'm being insulting; it's nothing you can help. "She's sweet," you'll think, "but so shy and retiring! What an innocent, delicate young lady." I forgive you, but you're being an idiot. True, Isabel is reserved with strangers. True, she seldom swears or raises her voice or causes trouble. But when you look at her and see a shy, retiring flower, you couldn't be more wrong. My sister is not a Victorian maiden so much as a 1950s starlet. To those who know her, she is witty, wry, and outspoken. All that glitters she adores; her closet is stuffed with red, black, and gold clothes in slightly daring cuts. You know the titular practice of Audrey Hepburn's character in "Breakfast At Tiffany's?" My sister has done it, munching a bagel from Panera Bread while browsing cases of diamonds she could never afford. Our mother often says our personalities got switched before birth. I, with my tiny stature, preference for delicate jewelry, and pale coloring, am bold, sarcastic, and outgoing. Isabel's flashy rhinestones, curvy figure, and torch-singer voice bely her shyness. But in spite of our differences, we get on wonderfully; I can never remember a time (even when, as a child, I hit her for no reason) that I haven't loved my big sister. So, here's to Isabel: the older sister you never knew you always wanted.

Description Exercise

"Don't get your hopes up, kid." Emil looked up sharply, an almost guilty expression on his face. He glanced around, unable to pinpoint the raspy voice's source until the stranger spoke again. "You also might not want to assume you're alone so quickly." It became apparent that Emil's observation skills were lacking; the man sat slumped in the open confessional to his left. He couldn't have been older than thirty-five, but looked as if he'd seen enough trouble for a hundred years. His features, beneath a layer of stubble and ingrained dirt, seemed vaguely Middle Eastern. Strands of shaggy, dark hair curled around the collar of a striped shirt that might have come from the same dumpster as the dingy maroon pants. "Seen enough?" he said with a dry chuckle. Emil, a flush rising on his cheeks, realized he'd been staring. "No," the teenager replied, "I mean, yes. I mean...what are you doing here?" The question sounded childish, and as soon as he'd spoken Emil regretted it. The man shrugged and took a swig from the bottle in his left hand. "I was sleeping 'till you came in, started talking to yourself." "Sorry. I didn't know I was being so loud. Sometimes praying gets me carried away," Emil replied. To avoid staring further, he busied himself with his satchel, digging for the lost water bottle. Another hoarse laugh from the battered wooden structure made him glance up. The stranger took a silver lighter from his pocket and flicked it at his cigarette. After taking a deep drag, he spoke again. "Listen, kid, don't waste your time here. It's just another dump, and not the best in the city neither. And that guy there?" He gestured to the giant crucifix at the front of the sanctuary. "We're not his type. Look somewhere else for answers, 'cause He ain't listening."

Spring Break 2011

For spring break this year, I went out to Vegas and partied nonstop. All I remember is waking up on somebody's lawn with pink plastic flamingos staring down at me. Also I think I married David Bowie. ... And now, let's find out what I REALLY did on my spring break! I went with my family to Florida. It's not really anything special; scads of people go to Florida for spring break. The main difference between those people and I is my intense, passionate hatred of Florida. If God had meant me to hang around tropical areas, I wouldn't have been born 50% Irish. So I have said repeatedly, and it's the truth. The heat is overwhelming. The flora consists almost entirely of palm trees. Half the fauna actively attempts to kill you. And those are just the natural factors. I'm not even mentioning the decor that hasn't been altered since 1974, the average age of the locals (70; note that I have nothing against the elderly), and the relentless happiness of everyone around. They seem to enjoy living in a place that feels like hell with higher humidity. So southward we drove, with me reading Seanan McGuire novels (Late Eclipses owns, by the way) and cringing away from the sun's rapidly increasing brightness. We arrived at our condo in Vero Beach on Saturday evening, and so began Spring Break '11. For my part, I spent most of the week reading. The local Books-A-Million conveniently stocked books two and three of Derek Landy's "Skulduggery Pleasant" series, which everyone over the age of nine needs to read RIGHT NOW. I carefully rationed these two volumes, and thus they kept me occupied for... ...approximately five hours. My speedy reading skills are both a blessing and a curse. But I love to re-read, which is what I did for the remainder of the trip. I also drew and wrote, which is why there is now a drawing of Valkyrie Cain (read the SP books) got up as a 1950s secretary in my notebook. I would burn it, but there's a comic on the back of which I'm rather proud. On Tuesday, my father and I went to Disney World for a day. Or, as we shouted repeatedly to each other on the way, DINAAAAAAY! I dragged him on the Haunted Mansion twice and then jabbered on endlessly about it for the rest of the day, as is my wont. We also rode the Small World ride, which I am convinced was created on acid. Seriously, it's not so much adorable as trippy; the crash must have been murder on its creators. We also wandered over to the Pirates of the Caribbean gift shop in search of tricorns, but alas, they were all adorned with fake dreadlocks. Disney People: When I wear a pirate hat, I do not want to feel like Jack Sparrow. I want to feel like Keira Knightley. Please change your merchandise accordingly. DINAAAAY! was awesome, though, if rather hot, and that day was probably the best of the week. The rest was drawing, meditation, and re-reading The Faceless Ones. We returned home two days ago, after braving two massive traffic jams that added about three hours to the trip. I spent the weekend doing nothing of consequence, and now find myself back in school. In five days, I will be a legal adult- be very afraid. You know what, Blogger? Fine. Don't save my spacing. Retribution shall rain upon you and your offspring, yea for all eternity.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Where do you get your ideas?

A: Everywhere. Anything from a leaf to the collapse of the Ottoman Empire can inspire me. In fact, I'm gathering inspiration right now!

Q: What are you doing outside my window?

A: I told you, gathering inspiration.

Q: Does this mean I'm going to appear in your writing?

A: Maybe, but not if you keep wearing those neon argyle socks.

Q: I like these socks!

A: That's not a question. My squad of Q&A Attack Ninjas is en route to your house as I type this.

Q: Are you insane?

A: Despite popular rumors in the affirmative, at least two mental health professionals have assured me that I'm perfectly sane. The voices in my head agree.

Q: Why am I bleeding from an arterial wound?!

A: My ninjas don't mess around.

Conflict Exercise

"I can't believe you!" Marja tossed her backpack on the floor and glared at me. I sighed, leaning against my locker; I really didn't want to have this argument again.

"M," I began wearily, "Why do you care what shows I like? It's not hurting you if I want to watch-"

"Don't say it!" she shrieked, clamping her red gloves over her ears.

I flung my locker door open. "What, does hearing the title burn your soul?"

The glare doubled in intensity. "Very nearly."

Though I just shrugged and set to stuffing my satchel with textbooks, Marta proved unwilling to let it go.

"The original is so much better, Christi," she said in an almost whining tone; "That remake has been dumbed down exponentially to pander to the lowest common denominator, and FURTHERMORE, every remotely scary element has been removed! I don't know how you can watch it without gagging!" With the air of one who is undeniably in the right, she unzipped her pack and began rooting around within.

After a moment, I replied, "So I'm the lowest common denominator?"

Marja swore, prompting me to glance down in alarm; it soon became apparent, however, that a broken pen had aroused her ire rather than my words. She scrubbed futilely with her sleeve at the dark stain on the pink polyester and said, "Now, hon, you know that's not what I meant. You just don't know any better."

I slammed my locker and turned to face her. "Well, what do you suggest I do, Doctor George?" It came out sharper than I'd intended, but I'd had just about enough of this from her.

Judging by the smile that immediately lit her face, the edge in my voice had been lost on my friend. "Come to my house on Friday," she breathed, clasping my hands in hers. "Once you've seen the original, there's no way you'll go back to that popular tripe!"

Oh, Merlin's trousers. Here she went again.

The Means to Meaning

I ought to have been happy. The sun had just begun to sink in the cloudless June sky, casting golden light and long shadows across the Vanderbilt campus. The Program for Talented Youth, a college-like summer camp run by the university, was in its second week; my chosen class, Shakespeare In Film, had thus far proven as fun as it had looked in the brochure. To cap it all, I had just come from an Irish dance lesson. I expected a perfect end to a perfect day.

Coming into the other building used for "Arete" afternoon classes to find my best friend in tears as she removed her jazz shoes understandably altered my mood.

To be honest, the exact insult used slips my mind. Neither of us were popular, even in what had historically amounted to Nerd Camp, but that day one of her Capoeira classmates had crossed the line. It's very likely the word "witch" came into it somehow; both of us loved fantasy and dressed in slightly medieval ways, dangerous practices in the Bible Belt. But the exact wording doesn't matter. This friend had impressed me from the start with her confidence and lack of regard for others' opinions; to see her red-eyed and sobbing over someone's words was a shock. Contrary to what I'd spent years telling myself, words COULD hurt.

She recovered with a 14-year-old's normal resilience and we resumed our happy conversations and adventures. However, a few days later we had to confront the program's most notorious bully. As I recall, the point of contention was the right to watch a movie on the TV lounge's big-screen; while he wanted to watch "Tenacious D," a counselor had promised that we could watch "Bridge To Terabithia." We won, and he stormed off down the hall with a promise to "take photos of us and post them on his blog with the label, 'The Worst Bitches In The World'."

It stung; I won't pretend it didn't. But my primary concern was for my friend. Would this be the killing blow to her confidence, finishing the work of the Capoeira-class tormentor? She merely ignored him, though, and led the way back into the lounge. We didn't get to watch our movie without further interruption, but that's another story.

Within a space of three days, it would seem that I'd learned conflicting lessons about words: that they had infinite capacity for harm and that they could not touch a truly self-confident person. However, upon closer examination, these lessons resolved themselves into one coherent fact. Words could hurt just as much as blows, but as with physical harm, that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.

The Problem With Small Children

The first time, Royce Murdoch had tried to ignore the phenomenon. He pretended not to see the small, chittering bumps that appeared beneath the carpet. No matter how they roved around the living room, he simply acted as though nothing was amiss. Even at night, when his and his wife's sleep was interrupted by loud screeches and the sound of tiny claws, he forced himself to blame his imagination.

Things had, after a while, quieted down; Royce (and, indeed, the entire Murdoch family) had breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy and Jane had returned to their carefree games, Edith had smiled again, and life had returned to normal.

Two weeks passed, and it happened again.

Those darn kids, Royce reflected as he raised the chair like a lion tamer, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, had better to stop letting mice in.

Xenophobia

There are many things I know.

Spring, for example, always brings rain. For sixteen years I've watched drops soak the grass from this window; even this chair has stood by the window as long as I can remember.

I know the grass and the chair and the window. My fingers have felt this same whitewashed sill day after day, month after month- until I thought I'd scream if I saw the view from it once more. Now it reassures me for a moment, before I remember that I won't here much longer.

"I'm sorry to tell you folks this, but money doesn't last forever."

Spring-smell rises from the wet ground, and I smile. How could I have not realized the sweetness of that scent? I know so much, but didn't realize the most important things until now. Until it was too late.

On a normal spring day, there'd be boys dashing around outside, getting as wet and muddy as possible. Cousin David would probably be at their head, his boots missing and shirt unbuttoned; poor Aunt Kitty has more trouble with him than Mama got from Luke and Carpenter put together.

Disjointed tapping sounds on the floorboards behind me: my mother demonstrating her uncanny knack for turning up just as you think of her. I turn, saying more out of politeness than inclination, "Hello, Mama."

Without speaking, she makes her way to the window. Her white, drawn face amplifies my own feelings. Anything that can rattle Mama is a force to be reckoned with. Standing, I take her hand and help her to the chair; again, a courtesy, as she's quite capable of doing it without aid. We sit in silence for a while, before she quietly speaks.

"You'll get your wish now, Torie."

I am dirt, no, worse, lower than dirt. I am one of the little white worms that ruin the orchard fruit. I am scum, because this is all my fault. Somehow, some cosmic force heard my silly words and took them to heart.

"Don't you understand? I want to leave and never see this place again!"

"What will happen to us?" The words sound distant, and I realize with a start that they are mine.

She strokes my hand with her thumb, her face turned toward the window, and replies, "I don't know."

The tremor that has been rocking my stomach for three days past begins again. And that's the worst of it, what Mama just said: no-one knows. We all know the stories, the ones we've heard from childhood. The Towns are covered always with smoke, to never see the sun. Nothing grows in them- or, if it does, it is quickly uprooted. Women are nothing there, treated like chattel and used by men. People kill each other for bits of metal and paper.

These are things everyone thinks they know. But really, we know nothing.

"Surely," I say hesitantly, "you must know something about the Towns." It only makes sense. After all, since Grandfather died, Mama is the only one who's left Covington Wood; it's a story I've begged her to tell over and over.

But she shakes her head. "No," she says, adjusting her shawl, "I don't. There was a loud and strange noise, and a man with an odd way of speaking. He mentioned a vehicle, so there must be carriages. That is all I know, Torie, as I've been telling you for years." Her voice has taken on a familiar tone of exasperation, and I know not to press further.

We sit together in silence, watching and hearing the rain as it falls on our world. The world which will not be ours tomorrow.

There are many things I know, but I know nothing.

Open School Letter

Dear Admissionspersons Who Work In Glen Echo,

I would like to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for putting up with me for almost four years. No matter how creepy my affinity for your workplace is or how tenuous my right to be there, you have always been pleasant and welcoming. Your tolerance and willingness to answer questions have helped make GE the haven of my high school career.

May you never lack for inquisitive, history-mad students.

Sincerely,
Cate Carver.

PS- Don't worry; I haven't found conclusive evidence of ghosts yet. Operative word here being "conclusive."

Thirteen Confessions of A Sleep-Deprived Student

Confession the First: My lucky number is thirteen. Or any combination of ones, threes, or multiples of three, really. The reasons for this are manifold- well, actually, they are just one, but that one is complicated. Suffice it to say the reason involves my late older brother. But I always take three chips, three cookies, or even three shakes of salt on my couscous; sometimes it verges on the obsessive-compulsive. Thus, thirteen shall be the number of the confessions. Twelve shall I not confess, unless I then proceed to thirteen. Fifteen is right out. (Alright, enough Monty Python references. Pardon me.)

Confession the Second: I have "ninja" Tourette Syndrome. It was fairly serious when I was first diagnosed in second grade, but has improved drastically since. Most people don't know until I tell them- or even notice thereafter.

Confession the Third: I try to eat things as slowly as possible. I've been known to eat oranges one juice-pocket at a time; "two-bite" brownies can last six bites if I'm careful. What can I say? Food is meant to be savored.

Confession the Fourth: I hate driving. Rolling along at dangerous speeds in a tangle of metal, putting poison into the air, and praying the maniacs around you don't cause your death- some people find this fun?

Confession the Fifth: I am a serial jaywalker. Somehow, I live with myself.

Confession the Sixth: The more tired I am, the more irrational and confrontational I become. If you come at me when I haven't slept in a long while, be prepared to argue over whether the sky is blue. In addition, my speech becomes more modern and I walk more on my whole foot (as opposed to walking on the balls of my feet, as usual).

Confession the Seventh: I love Lady Gaga; she's one of the few popular, modern musicians whose work doesn't make me want to become a hermit.

Confession the Eighth: I sing constantly. Not just in the shower, but while getting dressed, doing my homework, reading, drawing, writing, walking down the street, etc. I've never had formal voice training and my singing isn't spectacular, but I enjoy it.

Confession the Ninth: Marzipan is my drug of choice. Mark me, I'll someday be on the news as the first mother arrested for child neglect who spent all her money on marzipan assortments.

Confession the Tenth: As a child, I was obsessed with Brittney Spears. I wanted to enter a contest to win tickets (with backstage passes) to her show; thus, there is a video somewhere of six-year-old me singing "Baby, One More Time." If anyone finds it, please let me know so I can have it destroyed.

Confession the Eleventh: I dream of someday attending a masquerade ball. Not just a party with a masquerade theme, but a proper ball with fancy decorations, live music, old-fashioned dances, and pimped-out dresses. If you've ever seen the 1986 movie "Labyrinth" with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly...yeah. Something like that.

Confession the Twelfth: Modern technology drives me insane. I loathe Facebook, most i-gadgets, and Twitter. Especially Twitter. Once I get out of jail for marzipan-fueled child neglect, I'll get thrown in again for attempting to hack into the Twitter servers and shut it down. And yet, in the face of this technophobia, I'm a bit of an Internet addict. You figure it out.

Confession the Thirteenth: I will probably never have the attention span to write a novel. Oh, I talk about my works-in-progress, and I'd like to get a book published, but I can't keep my mind on one plot and one set of characters for more than two months. Maybe someday...

The Breaking-Something Memory

In my defense, I had never given the luggage rack a second glance. I didn't even know what it was, much less its age or value. It had always been just smudge in my peripheral vision, a mildly interesting construction of black wood and satin ribbon that didn't hold my attention for long. It had always been in the guest room; I assumed, as children do, that it always would be.

Blame the rain, if you must cast blame. It hammered at the windows and had for at least an hour. Without it, the neighbor girl and I would have been outside, coming up with new and inventive ways to skin our knees on the pavement. Her name was Lauren; she was nine, like me, and came from a family much more permissive than mine. This lack of parental concern fascinated me. Because of it, my mother disapproved of her and I sought her company whenever possible. None of my other next-door or two-doors-down friends were home for various reasons, so Mom had sighed and let me invite her over.

Our game of hide-and-seek having degenerated into follow-the-leader, I trotted obediently around the house behind her. We'd already passed through the bathroom, every room downstairs, and my small, pink-walled bedroom; only the guest room lay unexplored.

In a moment that should now prove my innocence in the matter, I hesitated at the door. This room, I vaguely knew, was full of fragile ornaments and furniture that Had To Stay Neat Or Else. It had never been designated as a place to play. But Lauren marched in without a backward glance, and so I followed her bobbing ponytail anxiously.

She stood on one foot, flapped her arms like a chicken, made a face; I mimicked her as per the game's rules. Bored of such mundane commands, she glanced around for something to add interest to our escapade. She found the luggage rack.

It's worth knowing, at this point, that I was a rather portly child. Lauren, by contrast, typified the skinny, tanned little girl who seems to inhabit all neighborhoods of the past. At the time, my awareness of this difference was minimal; it never seemed to matter or come up in conversation. So when she perched like a tiny bird on the gold straps of the rack, I hurried to copy the action.

CRACK!

I felt one of the ribbon-straps give way beneath me, heard the wood splinter.

Later I would learn that the rack was antique. When my father got home, I would receive the worst scolding of that month. In the moment, though, I could only think, "I hate you, Lauren."

Because, obviously, none of it had been my fault.