Anachronism

One night I was sitting down watching the news, not really I was beating Ganondorf while half heartedly listening to the standard litany of stories. Governor took back his promise to teachers, war in Iraq, fire in the hills and still Dad didn’t win the lotto. But something caught my eye; in the corner of the living room was a cage. Once a bird cage but the bird was no where to be found. I wanted to brush it off, say it wasn’t my problem that the bird had what was coming to him. After all I was a cat person, and the couch was very comfy my ass cheek was implanted on the cushion and everything.

“Pepito!”  She cups him and brings the dead bird close to her heart, like she’s the one that fed and took care of the thing. “Poor Pepito” My eyes are funny, whenever they hear falseness – they roll.

“What happened?”  Mom asked, like I stopped him from breathing.

“How should I know, he died is my best guess.”  Mom’s lips became puckered and her eyes got bigger – was she going to cry? No it was pity. I couldn’t tell if the pity was for the bird or for herself since she indirectly caused his death. I didn’t like mom being upset so I took the bird and gave it a proper burial -- outside, six feet under. It was later on proved useless because my cat took hold of it, and decorated the whole porch of green feathers.

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For school, mom sent me to this sorority type organization; one of those really bourgeois things fit for college minded people. I didn’t want to go I’d do everything in my power not to go. Fake an illness; make excuses up when the only excuse was an inexcusable excuse. I’d hide away under heaps of covers and pray she wouldn’t find me, in the end – she’d always win the battle. Once, to escape fate, I pushed myself down the stairs. It was nothing serious; I survived although I was hell bent on breaking at least my right arm. It didn’t work and I still had to go – bruises, pain, hurt and all. During the thirty minute drive from Oakland to San Francisco, making up games was my best plan of action. Mom was too busy venting about the latest escapade I brought myself in, so she sat this one out. Next to our little box car was another car, one of those muscle cars with a green paint job.

 The driver was talking on his phone and listening to that bay area slap. The point of the game was to figure out what was happening in the car. This is where imagination came into play; he would say “yeah I’m on the bridge right now.” And the phone would say “what for?” he would change to another station, or turn down the music, because five cars down, up, left, and right can hear him. He will say in a repressed tone “Because mom wants me to be all she wants me to be.” The phone wouldn’t get it, so the man would continue his side of the conversation: “she wants me to be this: a doctor, a lawyer, something where I can make money, you know? I just want to do stuff with out her say. I know she means well, but this is my time and I want her to be there without breathing down my neck, I want to do things myself even if I mess up at least I tried it.”

The phone would pat him on the back and say “Be cool don’t worry, be happy.” They’ll exit at Montgomery while we’ll be stuck in traffic, being a part of a colorful migration of cars. Along wit making up meaningless lives for fellow drivers in other cars; I’d bring half of my room with me. Coloring books, comic books, picture books, Opera, and the old Ipod with a little kick still left in it. It was pointless; I’d had to leave it in the car eventually and watch mom drive away with it. Paranoia crossed me once or twice, what would happen if mom got into a car accident; was robbed and killed at gun point. They would rob my stuff; my stuff would burn in a car crash. I’m not selfish I love my mom, I thought about her too.

The program I was in, consisted of other girls and boys, all in high school. They were unlike me, proper with goals and very mindful on what they wanted out of life. A girl, I never bothered to get names, wanted to go into broadcasting. Others wanted to be in the standard litany of professional profession: doctors, lawyers, dentist, your president, and the chief executive officers of tomorrow. I didn’t belong here, this wasn’t me by a long shot, if mom was trying to communicate with me about something – she was doing a very lousy job. I wanted to be what the mentors (what we called the all the people old enough to be your grandparents) dubbed ghetto fabulous. I wanted green hair green as trees with pink polka dots. I wanted earrings, shiny big beautiful hoops to glisten in the sun and last but not least tattoos. Before my years I’ve always had fascinations with tattoos, the more intricate the more enthralled I’d be. 

Yeah I wanted the colored hair, the tattoos all over my body and the piercings all over my face. I was prohibited from looking ghetto fabulous, if I ever displayed such a fabulous ghettoness, it surely meant a harmless but effective rant from mom. We didn’t evening reside in a Ghetto, we hail from Fleming Ave, straight off of High Street. The worst that actually DID happen was someone blowing up a car in front of my house. I was far from hood rat; etiquette and common courtesy go hand in hand when it came to me. Learning etiquette was pointless; one plate, one spoon and one fork could always do the trick, and emphasis on appearance was one pet peeve I couldn’t stand. Lady blue was a one time show up that came and offered to be my big sister through a business card. As if the stork dropped her off in front of me saying “Tada, here is your big sister.” I didn’t take the card; I was through with having a big sister. I walked out and never returned, $800 of hard earned cold cash going down the drain. My mother was seeing red for days, my actions being perceived as rude, unlady-like, and sloppy. Like it was ethical to come in and offer to be a big sister through a business card.

The same month of that year, and proximately three weeks later I became an art star. I couldn’t stop drawing, painting, doodling, thinking up designs for life. I’d ditch school, take a spray can and tag up buildings; fashion codes of conduct so busy rats could see the laws of my world from Fruitvale to Lake Merritt. I was nerdy for the stencils and my 9 to 5 consisted of drawing naked women and men on math homework. Pink painted Heffalumps adorned my bedroom ceiling, trying desperately to get the delicious golden honey that was the property of Winnie the Pooh. My mom scorned me for drawing a voluptuous woman with golden skin and green hair (where it counted) on the walls, riding a pony and giving a tantalizing look for anyone who wanted to ride her great white stead.

“You got a thing for drawing whores?” Sean asked me. He was the one who had to take the obscene woman down with sky blue paint; and end Pooh’s adventure with red. He was trying to get into my head, get a reaction out of me so we could end up reenacting WCW on the living room floor like previous times. We used to be the best of friends, he was the master and I was the apprentice; wanting to take in everything he was willing to give.

“No.” I forced out.

I had a thing for drawing empowered, strong women, who were not whores but sexy individuals; with thick thighs, and round boobs being supported only by their arms or gravity.  “You better start drawing guys then, before mom starts suspecting you to be a closet case dyke.” He finished covering up the golden goddess, and proceeded to go cover up the ceiling.  Many were already type casting me has a tomboy; it wouldn’t surprise me if they thought I had particular interest with girls too. I only drew provocative girls, and dated guys interested in the same thing as me chicks, video games, cigarettes, and making tags on abandon buildings with rainbow variations of spray paint. Something about doing all those activities brought off an air of masculinity I didn’t know I was even broadcasting off. I felt like the women in my drawings were the soft plushy side of what I was all about, what I wanted to be; and this kid wearing black hoodies being a vigilante on a skateboard was from mars.

I didn’t care; neither did any of my boyfriends. “Chicks with cans, always gave me a soft spot.” Alan said once.

I was always someone’s thing, a fetish, their personal soft spot. I was pitied because my antics were categorized as a call for attention. I didn’t pay much mind to what they had to say; they were basically a bunch of gueritos stuck in special Ed, because the pot they would smoke behind the portables got to their head. Alan was the only one who would appreciate what I had to show. Alan was the chunky monkey dork that everyone would pick on because he was eccentric. He looked godly, I drew him once, taking in all he had to offer; his long kinky hair held in four braids, his brown skin, lean body with a tubby tummy only adding to the cuteness. Unfortunately I could never get that glow, making the drawing come out like total complete shit. Despite the age difference we were the best of friends, he was my first everything. His love for me was something I thought no one could ever give me. Christina was long gone, Sean discovered girls long ago, and Spenser and Ian were deemed too pure in my eyes to get caught up in anything. Back then it was me and Alan, Caitlin and Alan, Alan and I, and occasionally Alan, Caitlin, and a comfy bed. I thought what we had was going to last forever, I was full of it to ever think it would. He left before he ever had a chance to arrive, before things ever had a chance to settle into a relationship. It was so abrupt that I was confused, I couldn’t express the hatred I felt for him, for what he had on me. I acted so annoying that I couldn’t stand to look at myself. Everything was just too much, that I stopped going to school altogether.

I got rid of the stupid Art star fantasy, and donated all the artsy tools to cousins and anonymous strangers on eBay – I didn’t care anymore.

Months and months went by and I found myself endangered of repeating the school year – I didn’t care.

Mom got on my case, and had the nerve to call my dad on me, as if this 6 foot tall man would scare me into getting an education, again I didn’t care.

I couldn’t care, I lost all ability to care, and was dubbed a cold daughter, a cold friend, and a lazy good for nothing who didn’t deserve teachers undisputable attention.

As the months grew by I became more distant and opinionated from so many close knitted relationships. Months of frustration came out like an Oakland wildfire. I stopped letting mom get to me so often, I thought of her as another character in y life, on that would just disappear once I moved on. I decided when I turn eighteen, I would move out. Leave the strangers titled family and start my own life, the way Caitlin would want it to be. I was being selfish and not thinking straight, like the time when I was ten. I ran away from home, ran away from all the perms, all the hot combs, all the drama.

I got as far as the 7/11 ten blocks away from my house when I wailed. The tears carried so much pain of what were happening at home; my sister and brother not being my real sister and brother, and my sister having to go away to a home, for her trashy behavior. I wanted to be adopted too, to desperately fit in with theses two strangers, who I thought were blood. That same day I ran away, I got caught for shoplifting a bag of chips from Walgreen’s. They were the Taco Bell Doritos everyone that you’d see people eating like rats.  Running away was lost somewhere in the air, while mom and dad were busy yelling and screaming at me. I couldn’t listen; I was crying for mercy, Mercy, Mercy me. It didn’t work, my mom stood by while my dad gave me lashes for my crime. I couldn’t help but imagine myself in my sister’s place, taking this anger from my father with scorn looking on from my mother. Fast-forward to the time when I felt like staying in bed while silently pleading for mercy. I wanted everything to change, rearrange my life, and pick my family like I’d pick my friends. I dreamed and hoped, but became a blob of pity stuck on the living room couch. Pepito’s squawking being the only source of companionship, and the only catalyst in getting me up. I went outside and down the street to the corner store, bought two Laffy-Taffy and some cigarettes for my mom. Money was money to the convenient store clerk who cares who smoke anyway. The sun was out and I felt like singing and dancing a show tune, people were not common around here, because everyone was afraid of everyone else. While taking a short cut and walking up the hill towards my house I caught site of Emmanuella. She was my painting with yellow hair and a kimono like top; she wore a bikini bottom and high heels. She was 9 months old and was pre-Alan. I was surprised to see her, before I thought some neighbor of mines had order that she be cleaned up, but I guess they never got around to doing it. She was my manifestation of beauty, I was touched by an angel and I ached for a pencil, a paint brush. Something, anything to let me capture something like that again, I felt like drawing her with a baby, or a man that loves to cajole her with sweet dark chocolate. I couldn’t hold my excitement, and all the worries seeped away into a negative air cloud. I was impulsive for art and I wanted to reclaim a title as art star like I did 9 months ago. I wanted to capture all the clouds, hearts, and colors around me, onto this stone pavement I wanted to paint a world that Emanuella and I could be in.  I did it, I became it, and I conquered it.