In band, one of the recent assignments was to write letters to kids in the local middle school’s band, encouraging them to take part in band when they come to high school. I found a couple of these letters on the floor of the band room recently. The first was written by a boy who has a slight mental handicap, and his penmanship is clumsy, like that of a much younger kid.
Dear [name censored],
Hi I’m [name censored], I’m a member of the .... High School Wind Ensemble (Advanced Band) and I play Bass Clairnet. I understand you play alto saxaphone. The alto sak is a fun instrument to play. At the High School you will enjoy the music offer we have for alto. At the High School we also have fun with Home foot Ball games, 3 Boy’s and Girls Basket Ball Games, Marching Band competitions, 4 concerts a year, and we go to some cities for band compotition. I forgot to mention that I am a junior (a senior your freshman year.) I hope to see you next year,
Your friend,
[name censored]
The second is also written to the same alto sax-playing eighth-grader. This one is in much neater, more feminine writing, and the writer of the letter draws hearts under her exclamation points, and she includes lots of smiley faces. Even though the letter is handwritten, she still draws her smileys sideways.
Hey [name censored],
What’s up man! I haven’t seen you in a while but I will soon since your joining band next year! Your going to love it! Believe me it’s like three million times better than middle school band :) And all the alto sax players are incredibly nice and funny so you’ll fit right in! I can’t wait to see you and hey even though at times it might seem a little hard stick in there, cause you’ll regret dropping out. And one more thing the Band is a family and once you join you’ll always be part of it. Band is a blast and we do some pretty amazing shows so whatever you do stay in band and rock your alto sax :) Can’t wait to see you next year with all the other soon to be new freshmen :)
Love always,
[name censored]
She signed with a big heart drawn around “love.”
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Friendship Bracelets: An Update
I heard her boyfriend broke up with her because she did something horrid to him, like cheated on him or something like that. Apparently this happened months ago, but the bubbly personality that Friendship Bracelets once possessed has yet to come back. I see little bits and pieces of it sometimes, but it’s not as constant as it used to be. Some days she sits on the floor, with her head rested in a friend’s lap and her eyes dark and brooding, like her boyfriend’s were that time I saw them together.
She came into class late today, walking with small, cautious steps, her shoulders still, her entire body held very tight. She sat down like she hardly dared touch anything, and her eyes hardly dared look at anything. She was much tidier than usual. She was like a porcelain doll, moving so fragilely and held together so neatly. Every article of clothing seemed perfectly placed, every dab of eyeshadow or mascara, even every golden strand of hair on her head.
Her hair is usually long and free and flowing. Her hair has motion in it. Her hair is hair that doesn’t care what it looks like, where it goes, what other people thinks of it.
But today her hair cared. Today her hair was perfectly still. Her hair was as tidy and perfect as the rest of her, and she had clearly been crying.
Getting through a bad day in high school without showing it is an art, and it’s a difficult one to master. The strategy many people adopt is to go completely still. Just freeze. Make your mind go blank. Some people lay their heads down on their desks, some people look straight forward, some people get out their phones and stare at their empty inbox for five minutes straight. If you let anything distract you, let anything touch you, it could all come crashing down in a second. You just have to go still as a statue, and concentrate on holding it all inside.
That’s the way Doodle Hands does it, the way the Paper Passer does it, and Friendship Bracelets does the same. She can clean herself up as much as she can, she can make herself look perfect, she can stare straight forward in class and pretend to listen. But it’s only so long before her thoughts return to whatever it was that made it start. And then her eyes turn red and shiny, and the frustration with herself just whooshes out of her lungs in a long sigh. She closes her eyes tight, dabbing at the tears with the sleeves of her jacket, and using the edges of her fingernails to fix her eye makeup.
She came into class late today, walking with small, cautious steps, her shoulders still, her entire body held very tight. She sat down like she hardly dared touch anything, and her eyes hardly dared look at anything. She was much tidier than usual. She was like a porcelain doll, moving so fragilely and held together so neatly. Every article of clothing seemed perfectly placed, every dab of eyeshadow or mascara, even every golden strand of hair on her head.
Her hair is usually long and free and flowing. Her hair has motion in it. Her hair is hair that doesn’t care what it looks like, where it goes, what other people thinks of it.
But today her hair cared. Today her hair was perfectly still. Her hair was as tidy and perfect as the rest of her, and she had clearly been crying.
Getting through a bad day in high school without showing it is an art, and it’s a difficult one to master. The strategy many people adopt is to go completely still. Just freeze. Make your mind go blank. Some people lay their heads down on their desks, some people look straight forward, some people get out their phones and stare at their empty inbox for five minutes straight. If you let anything distract you, let anything touch you, it could all come crashing down in a second. You just have to go still as a statue, and concentrate on holding it all inside.
That’s the way Doodle Hands does it, the way the Paper Passer does it, and Friendship Bracelets does the same. She can clean herself up as much as she can, she can make herself look perfect, she can stare straight forward in class and pretend to listen. But it’s only so long before her thoughts return to whatever it was that made it start. And then her eyes turn red and shiny, and the frustration with herself just whooshes out of her lungs in a long sigh. She closes her eyes tight, dabbing at the tears with the sleeves of her jacket, and using the edges of her fingernails to fix her eye makeup.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Makeup Girl
I really don’t know where to start with this girl. Despite how quiet she is most of the time, I have so many notes on her, and I could take many, many more. However, perhaps fittingly, most of the notes I have on her are focused on her appearance. Her clothes, and makeup. She puts a lot into it.
She always wears a lot of black. There’s one pair of black arm warmers that she wears almost every day, that have little bats on them. But she always contrasts that black with some other solid color—bright pink, or vivid dark green, or neon purple. She has lots of accessories; she often wears bright colorful flowers in her hair. Her makeup is always done to match her colors, and is different every single day.
She has many different varieties of eyeshadow, eyeliner, even face paint. Some days her eyes are just thick with black eyeliner. Other days her eyes are edged with spiderweb-like patterns; other days, there’s a colorful starburst around her entire right eye. Or a rainbow painted across her entire face.
She remembers every holiday, even little ones like Mardi Gras. On those special days, her makeup is always holiday themed. For Halloween, she made herself look like a zombie; at Christmas, her eyeshadow was red and white and green; on Valentine’s Day, she wore lots of pink and red, and around her eyes were lots of small red hearts. On Mardi Gras, she wore lots of greens and purples and colorful beads, and painted her face with purple and green feathery strokes to look like a mask.
“Do you plan out your makeup before you do it?” I asked her once. “Like, do you do sketches of it, or do you just make it up as you go?”
She just shrugged. She does a lot of shrugging. Always has.
In middle school, she shrugged a lot, and spoke even less than she does now. That was back when her makeup was just black eyeliner, and she wore the same black sweatshirt every day, zipped all the way up, even on the most sweltering hot days of the year.
“Aren’t you baking in that sweatshirt?” other kids would ask, and she would just shrug, her mouth looking scared to form words. She never took that sweatshirt off.
She’s totally blossomed in the past year or so. When she started painting her face with makeup each day, she started to come loose a little, let herself out.
I mean, there are parts of her that are still hidden up inside. She still wears those arm warmers, and she still doesn’t talk much. But when she does talk, her voice is loud and her words very clear. She keeps her head up and walks with big steps: her arms swing with confidence, and her heels don’t touch the ground.
She always wears a lot of black. There’s one pair of black arm warmers that she wears almost every day, that have little bats on them. But she always contrasts that black with some other solid color—bright pink, or vivid dark green, or neon purple. She has lots of accessories; she often wears bright colorful flowers in her hair. Her makeup is always done to match her colors, and is different every single day.
She has many different varieties of eyeshadow, eyeliner, even face paint. Some days her eyes are just thick with black eyeliner. Other days her eyes are edged with spiderweb-like patterns; other days, there’s a colorful starburst around her entire right eye. Or a rainbow painted across her entire face.
She remembers every holiday, even little ones like Mardi Gras. On those special days, her makeup is always holiday themed. For Halloween, she made herself look like a zombie; at Christmas, her eyeshadow was red and white and green; on Valentine’s Day, she wore lots of pink and red, and around her eyes were lots of small red hearts. On Mardi Gras, she wore lots of greens and purples and colorful beads, and painted her face with purple and green feathery strokes to look like a mask.
“Do you plan out your makeup before you do it?” I asked her once. “Like, do you do sketches of it, or do you just make it up as you go?”
She just shrugged. She does a lot of shrugging. Always has.
In middle school, she shrugged a lot, and spoke even less than she does now. That was back when her makeup was just black eyeliner, and she wore the same black sweatshirt every day, zipped all the way up, even on the most sweltering hot days of the year.
“Aren’t you baking in that sweatshirt?” other kids would ask, and she would just shrug, her mouth looking scared to form words. She never took that sweatshirt off.
She’s totally blossomed in the past year or so. When she started painting her face with makeup each day, she started to come loose a little, let herself out.
I mean, there are parts of her that are still hidden up inside. She still wears those arm warmers, and she still doesn’t talk much. But when she does talk, her voice is loud and her words very clear. She keeps her head up and walks with big steps: her arms swing with confidence, and her heels don’t touch the ground.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Note
A note from your faithful observer: Passing notes used to be a significant portion of high school culture. However, with technology, notes have become much more uncommon around schools these days; we all just text each other instead of passing notes. So when I do find a note that was passed back and forth in class, or even see a note being passed back and forth in class, I get pretty excited.
Following are the contents of a note that your faithful observer may or may not have fished out of a trash can.
What’s going on with you and [Michael]? I saw you talking after 2nd, are you still together?
We had to break up.
why?
because his mom wants him to focus on homework and if his grades go down anymore then he has 2 go with her when she moves back to [the city.]
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….
FUCK THAT.
yeah so he had to but i understand why he did it.
why cant you just not tell her?
she found out last time we tried to do that. he wants to just wait until after graduation before we do anything anyway
you should just date me to make him jealous :P
hon we’ve been down that road before.
lol yeah
Following are the contents of a note that your faithful observer may or may not have fished out of a trash can.
What’s going on with you and [Michael]? I saw you talking after 2nd, are you still together?
We had to break up.
why?
because his mom wants him to focus on homework and if his grades go down anymore then he has 2 go with her when she moves back to [the city.]
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….
FUCK THAT.
yeah so he had to but i understand why he did it.
why cant you just not tell her?
she found out last time we tried to do that. he wants to just wait until after graduation before we do anything anyway
you should just date me to make him jealous :P
hon we’ve been down that road before.
lol yeah
Friday, March 4, 2011
Dreadlocks
For as long as I can remember, he has had dreadlocks. When he was younger, naturally they were a lot shorter and more awkward-looking, but by now, they hang down past his shoulders. In middle school, everyone would whisper about his hair, the way middle schoolers do.
“It’s so weird.”
“It looks like a bird’s nest.”
“Everyone knows you can’t pull off dreadlocks if you’re white.”
I don't know if he ever heard their hissing little judgments. If he did, he never said anything about it. Actually, he never said anything at all.
I’ve known him for seven or eight years, and in that time, I’ve never heard him say more than five words. Total. I strain my memory to think of a time, maybe in grade school or middle school, when he was energetic and loud and obnoxious like all the other boys. But even when we were little kids. He was silent. The guy just doesn’t talk.
Sometimes you look back, and it seems to you that, as long as you’ve been around them, none of the people around you have changed. Not one bit. And then you think to yourself, No, no, imagine them complexly. They’ve been through a lot since elementary school, just like you have. They’ve grown up. They’ve changed. Look for the differences. Look. LOOK.
But with Dreadlocks, in his silence and his hair and his solemn glare, those differences are very, very hard to see. He’s gotten taller. But… that’s about it.
Throughout the years, he has stayed committed to who he is. He has committed to those dreadlocks, and he has committed to his silence.
The silence was something that intrigued me for a long time, until one day in freshman year when he was called on to answer a question, and we all—many of us for the first time—heard his voice. And I found out in that moment, why he doesn’t talk.
It’s a simple explanation, really: he has a speech impediment. When he gave his answer, his words were laden with misplaced W’s. He didn’t act embarrassed about it or anything, but as soon as he was done talking, he assumed his silence once again. I haven’t heard him speak since.
Since his name has a fair amount of R’s and L’s, he has difficulty even pronouncing his own name.
Looking at him now, you’d never guess he speaks like that. The way he looks. His walk, his hair, his beard, the circles under his eyes.
In some ways, he reminds me of Buttons, who has now graduated. Buttons has big boobs, so she made a name for herself other than The Girl With Big Boobs. Maybe Dreadlocks took the same strategy. Maybe in kindergarten he was known as The Kid Who Talks Funny, so he went a different direction with his identity early on. He became The Guy With Dreadlocks. Who Doesn’t Talk.
“It’s so weird.”
“It looks like a bird’s nest.”
“Everyone knows you can’t pull off dreadlocks if you’re white.”
I don't know if he ever heard their hissing little judgments. If he did, he never said anything about it. Actually, he never said anything at all.
I’ve known him for seven or eight years, and in that time, I’ve never heard him say more than five words. Total. I strain my memory to think of a time, maybe in grade school or middle school, when he was energetic and loud and obnoxious like all the other boys. But even when we were little kids. He was silent. The guy just doesn’t talk.
Sometimes you look back, and it seems to you that, as long as you’ve been around them, none of the people around you have changed. Not one bit. And then you think to yourself, No, no, imagine them complexly. They’ve been through a lot since elementary school, just like you have. They’ve grown up. They’ve changed. Look for the differences. Look. LOOK.
But with Dreadlocks, in his silence and his hair and his solemn glare, those differences are very, very hard to see. He’s gotten taller. But… that’s about it.
Throughout the years, he has stayed committed to who he is. He has committed to those dreadlocks, and he has committed to his silence.
The silence was something that intrigued me for a long time, until one day in freshman year when he was called on to answer a question, and we all—many of us for the first time—heard his voice. And I found out in that moment, why he doesn’t talk.
It’s a simple explanation, really: he has a speech impediment. When he gave his answer, his words were laden with misplaced W’s. He didn’t act embarrassed about it or anything, but as soon as he was done talking, he assumed his silence once again. I haven’t heard him speak since.
Since his name has a fair amount of R’s and L’s, he has difficulty even pronouncing his own name.
Looking at him now, you’d never guess he speaks like that. The way he looks. His walk, his hair, his beard, the circles under his eyes.
In some ways, he reminds me of Buttons, who has now graduated. Buttons has big boobs, so she made a name for herself other than The Girl With Big Boobs. Maybe Dreadlocks took the same strategy. Maybe in kindergarten he was known as The Kid Who Talks Funny, so he went a different direction with his identity early on. He became The Guy With Dreadlocks. Who Doesn’t Talk.
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