Hirquitalliency

(Strength of Voice)

            by Genevieve Mather

 

    When I was younger, I pretended everything would turn out fine, but I didn’t believe it. Unreliable feelings used to build up and entangle themselves in my chest. If you asked me how I felt in those days, I would tell you I was awesome and deliver a swift kick to the crotch if your pursued the matter further. In reality, I was lost. I was struggling. I was drowning. Everyone seemed to be suffocating me and leaving me gasping for oxygen. No matter how desperately I tried, I could never actually “fit in”. Was I trying too hard? Was I not trying hard enough? I didn’t even know why I wanted to fit in.

*

       “Why are you like, so weird?”

My eyes wandered downwards to the etchings upon my desk

      “ Hey! Don’t talk to her, she’ll probably just kill you or molest you or something.”

Just tune them out.    

      “I thought Goths killed themselves? What a freak.”

Breath in, one two three

       “Stupid Goth bitch. Kill yourself already.”
Breath out, one two three.

      In Carmel Middle School, I recall an abundance of unpalatable students who, surprisingly enough, nourished my insecurities of identity. Artwork involving my name with slanderous words glorified their bathroom walls, gossip about how I apparently wanted to commit suicide thrived, spitballs greeted me once every other morning and dreadful signs found their way onto my back. I did not enjoy school.

     I lived with my grandparents because my mother was in some mental facility and my dad was searching for success. My grandmother often asked, “Why can’t you be more like those girls? They wear tight jeans and have cute boyfriends.” She then proceeded to take me to my psychiatrist appointments and threaten them into giving me Prozac. I was not exactly the pink lipstick-wearing daughter she always wanted: yet she insisted that I called her my mother anyway. My grandfather was busy managing his martial arts studio and writing screenplays. He was nice enough but he mostly kept to himself. I felt that no one could be simply satisfied with who was, and thus, blossomed into one of those asinine, “angry against the world” teenagers.

     But, in spite of all this, I managed to find a person who meant a lot to me.

*

     I relaxed upon a small brick wall and watched the kids around me socialize. I thought they were loud and annoying, but I did not want to spend lunchtime in my classroom that day for some reason. Complacently, I listened. One girl who had a glimpse of flab protruding from her shirt announced that there would be someone new joining them today. She gestured towards a boy who was sitting down, as if he was trying to hide from the situation. I decided I wanted to talk to him. After some of the other kids frolicked off, I sat next to him and asked for his name. We both did not like our first names. This was when I noticed a rather prominent goatee. I could not help myself. It beckoned to me. I picked up a stick and I poked it.

    With arms flailing, he pleaded, “Ow! Don’t touch my mole. Its sensitive.”

“You mean it isn’t a beard?” I said, almost crestfallen.

“No.” He stated plainly as if this fact was the most obvious thing in the world. I blinked.

“Can I call you Molekid?”

“If you want. I’ll call you Coonzies, cuz you wear a lot of eyeliner like a raccoon and stuff.”

“Kay.”

And with that, a friendship was formed.

*

      I kicked my feet idly while I sat on the brick wall as he tried on my jacket. He would never wear a jacket to school no matter how cold it was, so I let him wear mine from time to time. When he turned around, I thought I was looking at myself from behind, but I then realized that was just absurd because I was right here and not over there. Then, we heard a sudden metallic rumbling. We looked at the source and noticed that the large thing next to us was a giant fan.

   “Wait, are you thinking…. what I’m thinking?” He asked.

He picked up the carton of milk that an anonymous individual left on the floor, and poured it into the fan. Almost as soon as it hit the propellers, the dairy product came sputtering back out. He gave a high-pitched squeal as he sidestepped this.

  “That’s amazing. Both that and the fact that you scream like a girl. But yeah. Lets find more stuff to put in here.”

     For me, he was a compatible person to hang out with. He was my accomplice and my ally. Together, we would become more social. We soon were hanging with a group of people who also enjoyed the wonders of the fan.

*

    I remember if there was one thing he talked about the most, it was his family situation. This was not always tedious, and as a friend I felt he just wanted someone to listen to him.

   “Ohh my god I hate my life. My mom is so stupid. All I did was when I got out of the shower, I rolled around in her bed. Then wiped with her sheets. I screamed and called her a pedophile when she walked in the room and saw me naked. I mean god, its no worse than what she does with fat hole in that bed.“

      A moment passed as my brain processed this sudden influx of information. My mouth curved into a grin as I replied,  “Riiiight. Who is fat hole again?”

      “Oh he is my mom’s boyfriend. He is so fat and ugly and just Photoshops pictures of himself everyday. And guess what? He is a magician but is, like, currently jobless due to no job. My mom gets mad at me ‘cuz I tell him to kill himself everyday.” He followed this with a flamboyant gesture of the hand. Somewhere along the line, he gained a flippant attitude and blamed it on my influence. But I was soon to meet someone who would lead me away from everything I knew in this town, including Molekid.

*

      My dad was visiting with my new step mom one night. He brought a pit-bull mastiff mix puppy named, “Bubbles”. I grabbed the puppy and smuggled him into my room. I enjoyed watching him waddle about, plump with parasitic worms because of the

inadequacy of his breeder. Everything about him captivated me. His wrinkled skin already looked too big for him. His tail stuck straight up into the air as he feebly pawed at my lap. He was barely at the age where he could walk, and I knew he needed me. Or maybe I needed him. Or both.

    My grandma intruded into my room and demanded I go outside and watch a movie
with all of them. I said nothing, but she persisted. My dad came in and took Bubbles, I then had no choice but to go with them into the living room. Sinking into the couch, I stared at the screen that reflected swash-buckling pirates. My grandmother was literally latching onto me, thinking, knowing I would flee at the first opportunity. She talked about how attractive all of the boys were in the movie. I began to ooze with bitter thoughts and hatred. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.  You disgust me. Let me go. With no interest in the plot and a sudden onslaught of childlike stubbornness, tears leaked down the side of my face. Everyone became alert and questioning of my hicks and sobs. Embarrassed at this pathetic display of emotion, I ran into my room and hid under the covers. My dad came in, and confirmed how socially stunted I was by asking questions. I wanted to go and live with Bubbles. I wanted to get away from my grandmother. I needed to get away from Carmel. An hour later, I was in the car with my dad, my new step mom, and Bubbles. I was on my way to live with them in Oakland.

*

     This happened in the middle of 8^th grade. Transitioning into independent studies was not too difficult of a process. When I contacted Molekid through AIM, he congratulated me on getting out and he wished he could do that same.

*

      I rolled over in my bed and nudged at Bubbles with my leg. He was snoring again.    Six months have passed since I first moved in with my dad and become home schooled, and Bubbles was about seventy pounds and growing. My eyes weren’t even able to close before my dad slid open my door and started shaking my bed.

    “GOOD AFTERNOON ITS LIKE FIVE O’ CLOCK! Wake up wake up! This isn’t healthy. I’m going to make you work in the café again if all you do during the day is sleep.”

    My dad and stepmom co-owned a motorcycle shop that included a tattoo parlor, a café, and a soon-to-be TV show based on this shop. Going there meant being with other people. People who I felt were only nice to me because I was the owner’s daughter. Working with my dad was awkward.

    Shake shake shake.

    “Nyurrrrg.” I grumbled as I rolled out of my bed. What day was it? Tuesday? Saturday? Whatever. Everyday was the same when you didn’t leave your house. I crawled into my parents’ bedroom and fell asleep on their bed.  This bed began to shake too. Ugh! I gave up, and walked past a stern-looking dad back into my room and turned on my computer. After a few hours of Ultima and Star Wars Galaxies and having dinner, I had the occasional Internet conversation with Molekid. These involved topics such as him peeing his pants after seeing a scary movie and the importance of Ragnorak and the like. Life was exquisite.

     My father and I were in a car, coming back from work one rather unusual day. He pointed out homeless people and stated, “Oh look, there’s your boyfriend.” I returned the gesture to him. Then he saw one of the homeless people carrying a plastic back, and he said, “Oh look, your boyfriend got you a present. Aren’t you even going to say hi?” A moment of silence passed. He must have decided to have one of those arbitrary father-daughter moments because he then said, “You know, I don’t really mind if you are lesbian or not. As long as you bring home plenty of cute girls for daddy.” That was the cue to put on my head phones.

*

    Much to my joy, Molekid soon moved to Redwood City, which was relatively close to Oakland. We visited one another every weekend. This was a lovely tactic for maintaining high fun levels after I entered Berkeley High School in my junior year. Life at Berkeley High was stressful, if anything. Spending time with him was a release. When we were together, we could rant all we wished. He told me a story about how when we were in Carmel together, we were talking loudly about bestiality or something obscene. We attracted many odd looks and accusing murmurs. He told me that when they looked at us like that, I would scream, “Oh cowabunga! What are you leering whores gawking at? Jaisus don’t you know how fat your asses are? I wouldn’t fuck that with a rag on a ten foot pole. You people really aren’t in any position to be judging me.” And they would look away quickly. He remembered the strength inside of me that I had forgotten- that empowering, bordering on insanity narcissism. But now, I had “matured”. Without him going to school with me, I had searched for other means of company. Doing so resulted in me becoming less abrasive.

*

     As time passed, we drifted apart. I began to notice more and more of his qualities annoying me. Once when he was over at my house, we bought a copious amount candy and dumped it all in a large bowl. We played video games while eating out of the bowl, when he did something crude and disgusting.  He suddenly screamed “EW I dun’ like this one!” and spat the treat out, and threw it across my room in disdain. I told him that he should go pick it up. Much to my chagrin, he replied,” No.” Conflicts between us would continue in this fashion. My room would be a mess every time he left my house. I had to clean up sheets that were strewn all over my floor and deal with ants that were attracted by many empty soda cans. I started to have difficulty telling him secrets because of his newfound apathy. 

     We stopped going to one another’s houses as much. We stopped talking to one another online as much. Soon enough, we stopped talking at all. A year passed.

*

     A new school year was here. I was alone again. I was not longer greeted with his silliness when I logged online after school.  I began to miss his company, his humor, and his mole, even though it was cancerous and he had to have it surgically removed. Recently, I came across his Gaia account. This revealed to me that he was doing drugs, on his way to boot camp, and that he would be back for Christmas. He had changed. I had no means of contacting him since he had no Internet connection in boot camp, and never had a working cell phone. We both had new friends now.

     Who knows if I ever changed from that paranoid, angry person that screamed profanities whenever I had noticed that I was being observed oddly. My head still screams as loud as ever when such an event happens. I still possess that narcissism which is fueled by anger. But at least I know when and when not to speak my mind, I hope. And maybe he never changed from that boy who always went along with my eccentricities. Nevertheless, we have gone our separate ways, leaving only the influence that we had on one another. I still chuckle to myself when I remember how he once peed his pants when he saw a picture of someone with a really bad case of acne. I remember when someone made fun of his shoes; he took off those same shoes and beat that person until they ran away. I remember how he once written an essay about how my outspokenness had influenced him. Neither of us had to be blonde haired and hetero to fit in because we had one another. Only one more significant life experience added to the big chalkboard. I realize now that I’ve got a new life to live, with all of its absurdities and quirks. Now pardon me, I have a certain dog to roll around with on the floor.