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akaiaowl · 5 years ago

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Happy Stranger Things Day!!

It’s been 4 years since Stranger Things was first premiered on Netflix! (already?) This series is very close to my heart, since it managed to inspire me after 3 long years of writer’s block. To commemorate that, I’ll be posting the epilogue to my first fanfic on AO3: Reality in Motion (also known as RiM by some in the ST fandom). Here goes the summary and first chapter:

Reality in Motion

Modern College AU.

It hurt her to listen to the ruthless voice in her head, but, as much as she hated to admit it, El knew it was probably right. It had happened countless times before. Well, actually two. Two times in which El found herself feeling funny and giddy and hopeful about someone, only to be disappointed. It always ended that way. She was destined to be alone and it was probably for the best.

AKA: Socially awkward Jane Ives' first semester in college. Also AKA: Not your typical nice-boy-meets-drunk-girl-at-a-party Mileven fic (because of all the angst and slowwwww burn, be warned).

Chapter 1: Changes

Wednesday 29th, November 2017

If there was something El Ives put her mind to, she was sure to accomplish it. Always.

Well, most of the times.

As a matter of fact, today was one of the few rare exceptions to that rule. This, since Will Byers, El’s best friend, had managed to convince the otherwise socially awkward El to finally come with him that weekend to some party at a friend’s house.

They were both currently seating on the beige colored carpet of her dorm room, supposedly trying to be productive by getting their History 102 assignment done before the due date.

“Pleeease El! I’m about to beg you, it’s almost Christmas break and, for once, I’d like for you to come meet my friends and not stay locked up here again like a loser”, Will had been pouting at his friend for over two hours.

“Hey, I happen to like being a loser”, said El feigning indignation and scowling at her skinny best friend.

Will managed to hold back his smile at his oldest friend’s antics and maintained a serious expression for the sake of getting his point across. They’d been friends since the age of twelve and both knew just how determined the other could be. Holding each other’s stares defiantly in a silent challenge, neither of them wanted to give in.

As she stubbornly stared into Will’s lively brown eyes, El suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. She had been having a few of those for a while now, especially whenever she thought back on their high school days on Hawkins High School. Actually, the biggest irony was thinking about how much she had looked forward to graduating and moving as far away as humanly possible from that hell hole she called hometown. Whereas, now, she couldn’t help feeling strangely homesick. As a matter of fact, lately, El was often ambushed by random flashbacks from her teenage years and usually found herself wishing she could somehow go back and do it all better.

She regretted everything, actually, except for her friendship with Will.

Their friendship was yet another reason El kept thinking back in nostalgia to her high school days: even though Will and her had managed to get accepted into their dream college together and even lived in neighboring dorm buildings, she felt him more distant than ever before. Worse than that, El was painfully aware that she was the reason of the increasing (figurative) distance in their friendship and she loathed herself for it. Now, more than ever, she hated herself for her apathetic and awkward personality. Why couldn’t she be a normal eighteen year old? Why couldn’t she just stop feeling so nervous around other people? Because of this she was finally managing to drive her best friend away, her partner in crime, after being the closest of friends for over half a decade.

For most of their first semester at college she had declined Will’s enthusiastic invitations to parties and any social events, preferring to skip them in favor of spending her afternoons in the solitude of her room either reading ahead or watching some movie or TV show. It was just easier that way, it seemed. El had never really been a social butterfly and she knew how much Will loved meeting and bonding with new people. So, she just figured that she could give him some space by making herself scarce.

However (and she’d never admit it out loud), as Will started spending less and less time with her and his invitations became rare occurrences, El began feeling terribly lonely (which was weird). She usually cherished her alone time, often glad she wasn’t out there fake smiling and making small talk, getting emotionally drained after overthinking and worrying over every tiny detail of her social interactions. Nonetheless, now, it just felt like a very different kind of loneliness.

El felt lonely in a bad way, a way she hadn’t felt for quite a long time: the kind of lonely she used to feel before meeting Joyce Byers and befriending her son, Will.

Finally, after glaring at Will some more, El lowered her gaze in defeat. Mostly because she missed spending more time with him, and also because she was a bit curious about going to a college party.

“Ok. Fine, I’ll go. BUT I’ll only stay until a reasonable hour and you better not be dragging me up there so I can be your designated driver”, answered El with an annoyed huff, hurling one of her fluffy pillows on Will’s general direction and feeling quite annoyed (mostly at her pathetic, abnormal self).

Her friend easily managed to catch the pillow midair and offered El a sympathetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She knew he was worried about her spending so much time by herself – the fact that she had no roommate made it easier for her to just hide away for hours on end without any excuse.

“I’m only doing this for your own good El, you know I look out for you and it’s about time you start having a normal college experience and, you know, getting to know people. After all, the semester is almost over”.

--….--…--…---

Friday 1st, December 2017

El bit her lip as she stared at her reflection on the mirror critically. Was her top too revealing? Was her midsection looking gross and bloated? Should she put any make up on? Was her hair ok? Were jeans and sneakers too casual for the party?

Man, I badly needed a School of Life 101 crash course, El thought with a groan.

It was always on times like this that El really wished she had a roommate or a best friend who could actually give advice on these kinds of things. It was also on times like these that El regretted not learning about this stuff back on high school. Finally, after examining her reflection some more, she decided to change her sneakers in favor of her black leather boots and apply some lipstick to her dry lips.

Feeling quite nervous, she turned her phone screen on and was surprised to see several messages from Will.

8:02 pm U excited yet for your first college party?

8:03 pm Totally getting drunk as skunks 2nite.

8:46 pm Waiting for the guys, we’re coming to pick u up

9:29 pm On our way, expect a call in 15

9:44 pm Almost there

9:59 pm Ok, let’s go

*3 missed calls from MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD*

10:03 pm Pick up the phone

10:11 pm We’re waiting downstairs

10:27 pm What the hell u doing? We’ve been here for ages

El was surprised to find out how long she had taken to get ready, her nervousness was really not helping. As quickly as possible, she grabbed her tiny purse and keys and made her way out. At that very moment, her phone screen lit up and the contact name Will had programmed for himself popped up.

*incoming call from MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD*

Smiling, El answered.

“I’m sorry, I completely lost track of time, that’s all. I’m almost there”, she said breathlessly while making her way down the flight of stairs.

“No problem El, just making sure you were still up for it”, answered Will sympathetically.

“Wait. So did I actually have an option?” replied El only half joking.

She really was terribly nervous, like she always was whenever she had to face a new social situation.

Will laughed at her lame attempt at making a joke and was silent for a bit, maybe trying to empathize with his best friend’s nervousness.

El could hear Will’s friends talking loudly on the background:

“We need to hurry if we want to get wasted before the night ends, that’s kind of the point of tonight”, a loud male voice whined pathetically.

“Hey, I’m actually enjoying watching this show”, another male voice answered in fake annoyance.

“Booooooring”, someone else interjected.

“You’re too lame Wheeler”, the first voice teased.

The conversation on the background grew faint as El realized Will must have walked away from his friends to talk to her privately.

“Everything will be fine and you’ll have fun, you’ll see. If you feel uncomfortable or something you have us”, finally whispered Will before hanging up.

El had really tried to avoid meeting Will’s friends for a while now, feeling resentment and jealousy towards them because her best friend spent most of his time with them now and talked all the time about how fun and loyal they were.

It actually made sense that they spent time together since they were all taking science related careers and had most of their classes together – Will was an engineer major, like Lucas, while Dustin and Mike were physics majors.

It was silly, she knew.

Calm down El, it’s going to be ok, Will’s friends are probably as nice as him.

Finally, El got to her building’s common area. She saw four guys sprawled comfortably all over the beige couches, two of them were fighting over the remote and the other two were trying to watch whatever show was on TV.

They didn’t notice her presence until she started timidly approaching Will, who was gazing at the screen with mild interest. He was the first one of the group to notice her and his face was instantly filled with a broad smile.

“You’re finally here!” he exclaimed, startling everyone.

“Guys, this is El”, Will said loudly. Then, pointing at each of the guys next to him, he introduced them, “These are Lucas, Dustin and Mike”.

“Thanks for waiting”, El managed to smile at them without making eye contact. She hoped they didn’t notice her nervousness.

“No problem”, said the smallest one of them, Dustin, “honestly, we were all dying to finally meet you”.

“Yeah, we had a bet going on about Will’s friend being imaginary”, laughed Lucas.

Upon hearing that last comment, El snorted while trying to contain a laugh and turned to look at Will with amusement. Her friend merely shrugged.

“See how you make me look bad El?”

“Oh, it was only for the sake of making the bet more interesting”, answered El with a laugh, “it would have been no fun without the mystery, now would it?”

The guys smiled, amused, and the air significantly relaxed. She felt a tiny bit more comfortable, and the voice in her head repeating her own doubts and fears in a loop grew quiet for the first time that night.

“So, who won the bet?” asked Will, looking at his friends.

“Me”, said the tallest boy, Mike, smiling.

He was the only one who hadn’t spoken up yet, but she recognized his voice from her phone call with Will – he was the one who claimed to be enjoying the TV show while they waited for her to arrive.

Overcome by curiosity, El risked a glance up at him and was surprised to find him already looking at her, matching her interest. They made eye contact.

“So thank you for being real, I guess”, he said smiling kindly at her.

She quickly averted her gaze, not knowing what to do or how to respond, and tried to keep her upcoming blush from actually showing on her face. It wasn’t even a compliment, why was she reacting like this?

Social awkwardness truly sucked.

There was a short moment of silence, which was (thankfully) quickly broken by Lucas.

“Ok, let’s get going”, said Lucas enthusiastically as he strode to the nearest exit.

--….--…--…---

Saturday 2nd, December 2017

She’d drank too much, too soon.

Of course, the fact that Will kept refilling her red solo cup with mysterious mixes of liquor didn’t help at all. But she wasn’t complaining at all. All things considered, El found the whole experience quite interesting. Actually, she was pleased to realize that the alcohol numbed that voice that constantly reminded her of all her insecurities and flaws. She found this quite liberating.

She felt like she could do anything. Be anyone she wanted.

Will’s friends had left them to join a game of beer pong not so long ago, which had also helped El feel a whole lot more relaxed. Up until then, she had been too scared of acting like a weirdo around the guys and so she had barely talked.

For the first time in a long time, no worries or guilt lurked El’s mind.

As time went by, the music surrounding her stopped being too loud and the vibration of the bass on the floor actually made her lively in a way she had scarcely felt before. Before she knew it, her foot was tapping the floor to the beat of the unknown song. She tried to pay attention to whatever Will was saying (maybe a funny story about someone in one of his classes? What was that about a teacher?), but words kept jumbling around making it hard for her to understand anything at all.

My thought process is screwed up, El thought.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that that was the funniest, wittiest thing she had ever come up with, so she giggled uncontrollably.

Will smiled affectionately at the giggling girl beside him. He had really tried to be a good friend that night, staying with her the whole time – probably suspecting that if she got to feel too awkward, she’d escape the party.

“I loooooove you so much Willy Will”, said El hugging her friend, “do you know that?”

El’s ears suddenly caught onto a tune, alerting her of something.

Something quite urgent.

Do you recall, not long ago We would walk on the sidewalk? Innocent, remember? All we did was care for each other

“BYERS!!!! COME ON!” she exclaimed giddily, standing up clumsily and dragging her skinny best friend to the middle of the room, “IT’S OUR JAM!”

But the night was warm We were bold and young All around, the wind blows We would only hold on to let go

Will could only smile at her random behavior. He had never been a good dancer and he had not drank nearly as much as El had, so he just sort of awkwardly tried shuffling his feet and swaying his body to the catchy song.

“BLOW A KISS FIRE A GUN, WHEN YOU NEED SOMEONE TO LEAN ON”, El was screaming while swaying her hips wildly, her eyes were closed, “BLOW A KISS FIRE A GUN, ALL WE NEED IS SMEBODY TO LEAN ON”.

Will tried his hardest to keep up with El’s moves, but she was like a woman possessed, jumping around and twirling in every direction. It seemed that all those months of pent up energy – probably gathered after all those afternoons of voluntary isolation – were finally finding an outlet. After a couple of songs and happy to see his friend finally having fun, Will decided his job there was done.

“El. El! EL!!” he screamed to get her attention.

She faced him, smiling wildly. Her face shiny with sweat from the exertion and the warmth in the room. Will couldn’t help mirroring her grin.

“I just can’t keep up with you!” he said teasing her, “I’m gonna go find the guys”.

El stuck out her tongue at him and waved goodbye.

“YOU’RE SUCH A KID ELEVEN!” Will exclaimed as he headed to the other room, where he last saw his friends heading to.

--….--…--…---

Her feet were killing her.

El made her way to the nearest sitting space she could find, a couch on the left side of the room. She sat down for a minute in the crowded couch, slowly trying to move her toes so she didn’t feel them cramping anymore. She was currently sandwiched uncomfortably between a sleeping guy and a couple making out. She tried to ignore the snores and the sounds the couple were making.

She hadn’t seen Will or any of his friends for at least a couple of hours and she was not about to go wandering off looking for them. Will was probably drunk by now, maybe talking to the cute guy from their History 102 class that he always rambled on about. El smiled fondly, remembering how much of a hopeless romantic her best friend was.

She tried laying back on the couch and closing her tired eyes, but everything was too hot and her feet hurt too much. It was way too uncomfortable.

El glanced hopefully at the glass doors that led into the balcony. With any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone out there smoking.

She hated the smell of tobacco. It reminded her of him.

El shut her eyes tightly, desperately trying to chase away the memories that begged to be replayed on her mind, and massaged her throbbing temples. She tried to take a deep, calming breath and relax somehow, but the air felt too moist and everything smelled like alcohol and sweat. Suddenly, she was too aware of the extremely loud music and the annoying presence of the people around her. And there were too many people. Too many unfamiliar faces. Frustrated, El opened her eyes slowly, glancing around at the room full of strangers.

Dejection filled her thoroughly, tonight had been great so far and she just happened to ruin it by opening a door she had closed more than five years ago. She’d promised it would never haunt her, never hurt her again. But it was always there, lurking. It was always him, never allowing her to escape his choking grip.

Without even thinking about it, she had started walking on the opposite direction of the balcony, towards the main door of the house. As she stepped outside of the house, she couldn’t help noticing the wide brown door was ajar. El moved forward taking slow, deliberate steps, knowing her balance was far from being the most stable.

She glanced around quickly.

Sighing in relief at the fact that she had apparently managed to escape the smokers, El leaned on the nearest wall and stared off into the darkened streets and houses. Her body still felt light, but most the energy she had at the beginning of the night had ebbed away by now, leaving her exhausted. Soon enough, she noticed that the volume of the music and the noise from the house was once again bearable for her. However, without the loud (loud! loud!) music infecting her thoughts, she was left at the mercy of the familiar cold voice in her head: it was her own voice, but ruthless and emotionless, and it never tired of always repeating everything she didn’t want to hear.

She wondered what time it was, she was too lazy to get her phone out and check the time. Her fuzzy brain was making everything a lot harder.

“You ok?” a familiar voiced questioned.

El found herself staring up into the freckle-covered face of one of Will’s friends.

“Just tired and hot”, she replied, “it’s like a freaking oven in there”.

He just chuckled.

“Why are you out here?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh, just getting some air to clear my head”, the tall guy answered shrugging, “I am the lucky soul who gets to be the designated driver for tonight”.

El smiled in amusement.

His name is Mike, El suddenly remembered, her scattered, hazy thoughts becoming a tiny bit clearer.

“You know, I was convinced the only reason Will invited me here was so I’d have the honor of being the DD”.

They remained in a comfortable silence for a while, both staring off and busy with their own thoughts.

“Will is worried about you”, Mike stated after a while.

“I know”, El answered sadly, “it’s just hard for me, you know?”

Mike furrowed his brow in confusion.

“No matter how hard I try, it’s hard for me to feel comfortable or relaxed or even normal around new people or in new places”, she explained almost in a whisper.

“It’s ok to feel that way”, he said like it was the most natural thing in the world, his gaze showing empathy.

El snorted, fully aware that no, it was not okay to be such an introverted freak. She was not stupid. She knew it was a limitation, something that held her back from experiences and people and things she really wanted. She was all too aware that it was what isolated her from everyone and ultimately stood like a solid barrier, shielding her even from the ones she deeply cared about.

“I felt very lonely coming here at first”, Mike confessed smiling crookedly in her direction, “I consider myself a lucky guy, having Dustin as a roommate and meeting Lucas and Will on my first week here”.

“Will is an amazing friend”, El answered smiling, “and all of you seem like pretty cool guys”, she added honestly.

Mike blushed a bit and lowered his gaze, focusing on his wristwatch.

Who even owns a wristwatch these days?, wondered El with amusement as she glanced at him with the corner of her eye.

“Hey, it’s barely 1 am, how do you feel about going for a drive and coming back to pick up our friends’ drunken asses?” suddenly asked Mike.

Full story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840366/chapters/29318523

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #mileven #mileven fanfiction #mileven fanfic #stranger things angst #stranger things day #mike wheeler #mike and eleven #eleven #jane hopper #el hopper #el and mike #eleven and mike #mileven fluff #st #fanfiction

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thepheonixesorphanage · 7 years ago

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30 Day OC Challenge

So my friends and I decided to do a 30 OC Challenge just for fun! I’ve decided to post the first 10 days here. Feel free to read and give me any feedback. I’d love criticism or comments on what you think of them. Very much looking to improve on my writing.

Days 1-10 below the cut.

DAY 1: Introduction

Elliot was red. She was cherry lollipops and red vans. Her skin was tan and freckled like constellations, but inside she was burning a dark red that was hot to the touch. Her personality singed skin and left marks that you wanted to show off. With determination and confidence, she owned herself and didn’t let anyone forget that. She was a touch of spice you didn’t know you wanted until you got a taste. And it burned. But oh was it just right. Elliot Katherine Demarco. Even her name rolled off the tongue like waterfalls crashing onto rocks, or the sheathing of a newly forged blade. She was the jump out of an airplane, the start of an avalanche, the build up of adrenaline, and you couldn’t get enough.

June was just as June as her name portrayed her to be. She was vibrant in an array of colors only she could see and outgoing like a bird eager to take flight. She was dark skinned with soft edges that made you want to get lost, with hair just as all over the place as she was. A standard unto her own that no one could take. Her mind was scattered, tangled in thought and question that never seemed to stop. She was warm summer nights that left imprints of curiosity and wonder, a desire unspoken on the tip of the tongue. Her dark brown eyes were filled with a never ending burst of excitement and fascination that you didn’t want to look away from. June was warm, sweet, intoxicating, and everyone craved more.

DAY 2: Job

Lulu’s Cafe was that small coffee shop in downtown San Francisco. It had a cute hipster vibe on the outside with a calm rustique charm on the inside that was always thriving during lunch time no matter the day. Lulu’s cafe was the place that attracted the young teens and hipster wannabes. Mason was made for Lulu’s. A coffee enthusiast, with a love for the simple things in life, and not to mention, a hipster girls wet dream. Mason was a doc martin’s, plaid shirt and leather jacket kind of guy, complete with a close shave and thick, wavy, brown hair.

The customers loved Mason. His customer service routine was equipped with big smiles, laughter, and pleasant conversations between him and the guests. This is what made him so good at his job. Everything he did was genuine. But that’s the kind of guy Mason was. Lulu’s was happy to have Mason, and Mason was happy to have Lulu’s.

Monty’s theater was a fifty plus year old theater in the heart of San Francisco with the charm of a typical grandmother’s home. The type of home with a bowl of strawberry candies and pillow mints that no one knew where they came from or how long they had been there for. The theater smelt of fresh popcorn and at times, the vague lemony scent of furniture polish. As anything over fifty years would be, it was falling apart, with its fading carpet that looked like it belonged in a blockbuster video store, and cabinets that were barely hanging on to its last nail. Even though the theater was a bit “outdated”, to Kam, it was home. Or at least a second home. He had become close friends with the people he worked with and enjoyed his time there. Even though the pay wasn’t the best, Kam treasured the small theater for the people he met and the coworkers he had befriended, and goddammit, he knew he would be stuck there forever.

DAY 3: Hobbies

June spent 90% of her time with Jamie her best friend. At school, after school, before school, at home. They did everything from getting coffee to sleeping over to sneaking out at night. June typically had free range to do whatever she wanted when it came to her dad as long as it wasn’t illegal and she was home before 11pm. June often followed Jamie around after school. Instead of doing her homework she had taken to accompanying him to his improv practices in drama club on tuesdays and thursdays. Every other day, she spent the remainder of her time in her room either watching tv or “attempting” to do homework with Jamie. When Jamie was busy, June didn’t really know what to do besides watch TV or sit on the computer. Hobbies weren’t something she picked up on. Sure she didn’t mind reading but her attention span didn’t really allow her to sit for too long on one thing.

DAY 4: Family

Adopted from Hawaii just after birth, June was very much loved by her mother Stella and her father Aaron. Or so June thought. Four years later, June began to wonder how much her mother really loved her when she left them for another man and his family. Over the next 13 years, her mother kept in contact with her father but June wanted nothing to do with her. So much so she purposely went by June, the abbreviated form of her middle name Juniper, instead of her first name Stella; of course named after her mother. Just saying it was like vile in the back of her throat. June however, loved her father very much. He worked long and hard hours as an accountant to provide for her and gave her a wonderful life full of everything she could want and she saw that everyday when he came home from work with tired eyes. It was just the two of them, and that was how she liked it.

Two older brothers, one younger, her grandmother, a rather young mother and father, and of course, Elliot. The Demarco household was always full. Together Elliot and her family lived in a tiny trailer park that barely housed the lot of them but nonetheless, they made it work. There was never a dull moment. Noah and Liam, the two oldest fought over the dumbest of things. “Those are my fucking socks!” Liam would shout. “We have the same fucking pair!” Noah would shout back. Their mother would simply shake her head. The youngest Ben was always going on about the latest fad or interest. One week would be painting, the next would be basketball. Her grandmother, Camille, hogged the one tv they owned in the living room, always watching TLC or HGTV. Between that, or talking to her friend Janice on the landline from her weekly knitting club. John and Theresa, Elliot’s parents worked early in the morning and came home in the afternoon. Family time was important to them and even though they didn’t have a lot of money, they were happy. It was crazy and loud, and sometimes Elliot thought she’d go insane, but it was home nonetheless.

DAY 5: Friends

June was rather well known in school for her loud and funny personality. She didn’t care what people thought and loved making people laugh. She had a few people she might consider friends but they weren’t really the friends she went to for things or asked to hangout with on a daily basis. Jamie however, was her best friend. Like her, he too, didn’t care what anyone thought and just like her, had a big mouth, except he didn’t have a filter. They were the comedy duo of Ulysses Memorial High School. Jamie was openly gay and proud. He wore collared shirts buttoned at the top with pants in various patterns that changed depending on the day of the week. Every conversation he had usually consisted of, “So listen hoe,” or “Honey you did not?”, and 90% of the time, “Okay sunshine, calm down.” Sunshine was his nickname for June. No real reason in particular. Jamie happened to say it one day and it just stuck. He was the God of nicknames. June tried one day by calling him the “Full Moon” to her “Sunshine”.

“Are you calling me fat? Juniper Martell, calling her best friend full to his face. Okay hoe, I see.” Needless to say it didn’t catch on. Despite the terrible nickname, their friendship was like that of the sun and the moon. They both came with a strong force that brought them closer and no matter what came at them, they would always be there for each other.

It was Linda, Martin, Chris, Jack, and Elliot. Always together, anywhere in town, anytime of day. Besides school of course. Elliot shared a class with all of them except Martin, but they spent enough time outside of school that it didn’t matter. Most of the time they could be found in The Main, a small part of town where a lot of the local businesses were located, one in particular being Fun Center USA, their favorite. Linda and Martin always competed for the top score on Space Invaders. This typically took hours with a small crowd joining in to see the new record. Jack talked to the girls that came in on friday nights, and when there were no girls dumb enough to feed into what he had to say, he hit up the arcade. Elliot and Chris went straight to the batting cages. There was nothing like the rush of the impact and the sting of the bat in their hands. Seeing the ball shoot across the field made Elliot’s adrenaline pump and they constantly fought to see who could hit the ball harder and farther. Chris always said it wasn’t a contest and didn’t matter, but Elliot liked to argue it was because he couldn’t admit to losing. Elliot wouldn’t say she was exactly close to them all, but as far as friends went, she guessed they were a pretty cool group to run the town with.

DAY 6: Guilty Pleasure

Elliot could spend hours upon hours watching TLC. She blamed her grandmother of course but like she said, “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make them drink.” She was right of course, but Elliot wasn’t going to admit it. Cake boss was the shit. The cakes where beyond amazing. How in God’s name do they create these sculptures that you can EAT?! And the drama??? The show consumed her. She could care less whether it was real or not, that shit was entertaining. That and Four Weddings. Elliot never knew if she wanted to get married, or if she’d even get the option, but that didn’t stop her from rating other peoples weddings and seeing how terrible or great the night went. Some of the women on that show went all out spending thousands on a dress they’d only wear once, and the perfect venue they spend maybe five hours of their life at. Her favorites where the more bizarre brides. The ones with a halloween theme, or a batman themed wedding, or a fucking underwater theme. The list could go on. She would never outright tell anyone, but she had a soft spot for family and home channels.

DAY 7: Casual Outfit

It was all bright colors for June. From yellow polka dotted pants to blue dresses to checkered skater skirts with bright purple tights. June’s closet looked like a rainbow exploded in her room. She accessorized with sparkly rings and necklaces that caught the light and large bangles that matched the days color scheme, if you could say she even had one. Her favorite shoes where a pair of basic black flats that buckled at the ankle and match anything and everything. Her go to pair for any outfit. June’s clothing was loud and bright just like her personality. It wasn’t a secret that she stood out in school, but if she was going to, she was going to own it.

Three pairs of ripped jeans, one nice for special occasions. Graphic tees galore. That was mostly what people gave up to thrift stores, but Elliot was happy to take them off their hands. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure right? Her favorite piece however, was her shoes. Red checkered vans, a birthday present from her parents. She wore them everywhere and anywhere. The only other pair was a beat up pair of off-brand black vans that she wore for when she was running out for something real quick. Elliot wasn’t one for accessories but she was always seen with a faded red backwards hat. It was against school dress code of course, but that didn’t stop her from carrying it along with her for when she decided to leave. Fashion and clothing wasn’t Elliots main focus. They were second handed and worse for wear, but her style was hers and no one could take that from her.

DAY 8: Formal Outift

Elliot was a same four outfits a week kind of person with only one formal outfit for whatever special occasion it called for. If it weren’t for her mother, Elliot would roll up to a wedding with ripped jeans and faded graphic tees, unfortunately her mother nagged to the point they spent a whole day at Goodwill and various other thrift stores looking for the perfect outfit. After trying on a skin tight, yellow mini dress, and a pant suit that made her look like she belonged in a Michael Jackson music video, Elliot found pants that just so happened to work perfectly with the top and shoes her mother found. Everything about the outfit was perfect. The pants were a navy blue with matching suspenders. The fabric stretched ever so slightly fitting the curve of her hips and buttoning at the waist. The top was a white and navy blue striped button up that Elliot tucked into the pants and rolled the sleeves to just below the elbow. The top was soft and lay perfectly over her shoulders, dipping into the curve of her waist, accentuating her feminine figure as the suspenders gave her a hint masculinity to the outfit. It was subtle but much needed addition to the outfit. Elliot felt beautiful and confident and thought maybe this wasn’t so bad afterall.

DAY 9: Spirituality

June had been raised in a non-denominational church her whole life. Her father was a deacon at a reasonably big church a few miles downtown, and June participated in the choir like she had been doing since she was ten. She was religious, but when she discovered she was attracted to girls, she wasn’t so sure anymore. It’s not that she instantly decided God wasn’t real, but most christians preached such things as sin and that you’d end up in hell. Her church had never preached against it, it was just never really...brought up? June believed in Heaven and Hell, she believed in God, but to her something didn’t add up. Her father was a very religious man. Not the kind to drill the word of God into sinners of the world, just one proud to be Christian and expressed that through crocheted pillows and inspirational wall art. One day June would tell her father how she felt, but not for a while. Maybe when she went off to college? Or moved out of state? Or when the people of Earth decided to colonize Mars? Whichever came first.

Elliot’s family wasn’t the religious type. If anything, they’d call themselves agnostic. They knew something had to be out there, but what exactly, they didn’t know. The Demarco’s were quite possibly the most open minded and non-judgmental family anyone could meet. Elliot had come out to her family when she was thirteen. When she told her parents she thought she liked girls, her dad responded with a handshake and a, “Welcome to the club!” The oldest brother Liam responded with, “Wait, so you’re a fa-” but didn’t get to finish before their grandmother slapped the shit out of him, and never again did Liam say another word like that again.

DAY 10: Broken Temper

Mason was a calm type of mad. Not much angered him. Some days he didn’t get enough sleep, skipped coffee, or just wasn’t in the mood. When he was like this he mostly kept to himself. Slight nods, silent treatments, snappy answers. Kam knew not to bother him too much on days like that. Kam had seen Mason truly angry only once. The day began with much begging and a million please’s as Kam finally talked Mason into going to a free concert at a downtown bar. It was open to the public with local performers playing throughout the night. Everything was fine until Mason left to use the restroom and came back to find a man pushing himself on Kam. With a beer in one hand and the other holding on tightly to his shoulder, Mason’s expression changed in a heartbeat. The man leaned in close to talk to Kam, who in return, looked very uncomfortable. Mason knew Kam was too nice to tell him to leave him alone. He was about to politely pull Kam away, until the stranger moved his hand down the small of his back before pushing himself onto him. Mason was there in seconds, shoving the man off Kam. Mason’s voice was loud and harsh. “Hey, get the fuck off of him!” Mason could smell the alcohol on his breath, clearly drunk. “Fuck you man! You don’t own him!” He retaliated, stepping up to Mason who had a good few inches over him. Mason had him by the collar when he felt a light tug on his shirt. He turned around to see Kam holding on, his eyes soft and pleading. Mason turned back to the guy and let go, taking Kam by the hand and leading him out without another word. His grip was tight and firm as he made a beeline for the door. Kam’s only thought after that night was to see aggressive Mason more often.

No one could stop Elliot when someone made her mad. This isn’t the complaining and cursing about life and dumb people type of mad, but the type that actually made her snap. It wasn’t a surprise when people heard that Elliot was caught in a fight at school. Guys liked to test her and push her buttons and Elliot damn well made sure they knew what they had gotten themselves into. 90% of Chris and Jacks responsibility as her friend was spent keeping her out of fights or, when they were too late, pulling her off the poor guy that decided to say the wrong thing to her.

Unfortunately Chris was absent the day Elliot had overheard a conversation between Caleb and his friends over another kid a seat away who could clearly hear every word they were saying. Elliot wasted no time walking over to tell him to “Shut the hell up!” This led to some words being passed back and forth before Elliot took her fist to his face, leaving the giant man baby, as she called him, on the floor, stunned. The end result was a broken nose and a fractured hand, which Elliot thought was well worth it. When questioned by the principal as to why she did what she did, she answered with, “Well maybe if he had left Tyler alone and not decided to call him a, ‘faggot little bitch who can shove a ruler up his ass’, to the entire cafeteria, then maybe I wouldn’t have.” Elliot said holding onto her hand, her voice harsh, brown eyes sharp.

The principal sighed, rubbing her hand down her face. Elliot had gotten to know Mrs. Larsen really well over the past few years.

#mine #write #writing #ocs #original characters #elliot #june #mason #kam #oc challenge #30 day challenge #30 day oc challenge

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theteej · 8 years ago

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7. Knowing Little and Learning Much

I had no idea growing up that I’d end up building a career studying southern African history. Growing up as a mixed black kid in Southern California, I’d had scant direct introduction to the continent more generally and to South Africa in particular. I remember being overwhelmed by The Poisonwood Bible and Cry the Beloved Country as a high schooler, but I think it’s telling that my first two major memories were through books written by white folk about the continent. It wasn’t until my junior year of college that I decided I should take a leap and study abroad somewhere far away. I chose somewhere as far from what I thought I knew as possible—Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. That’s how I found myself anxiously looking out over the dry stretches of scraggly fields with trepidation one July afternoon in 2004 as a twenty-year old undergraduate readying himself for a semester far away from home. That semester changed my life in ways I’m still beginning to understand, twelve years later. Moving to South Africa put so many things in sharp relief; I was unaware of how much of the world that I saw as ‘normal’ was instead based on everyday cultural conventions that didn’t follow me beyond America’s borders. I first heard isiZulu. I began to think about how a country ten years out of apartheid could reconcile its brutal past in its quotidian present. I began to think about how to be a historian for the first time. I made friends from a variety of groups—from astonishingly talented singers, to brilliant actors, to snarky writers, and beyond. I began to learn how little I knew, and how much I wanted to learn. When I stepped onto my college campus again in January, I cried for so many reasons. I cried for missing this new place and who I’d become in a semester. I cried because I’d begun to get the tiniest inkling of how little I knew. I cried because I’d fallen in love with a place and I wanted to spend my life getting back there.

I didn’t make it back to South Africa for another five years; in the interim I’d graduate with bachelors and masters degrees, taught high school, and moved to rural Illinois to start a PhD. I was twenty-five and desperately eager to go back and learn. I had so much to learn. I spent three months in 2009 back in Mzansi, and began my time back in Pietermaritzburg, but the place couldn’t be more different. I was part of an intensive isiZulu language program, and while I spent part of my time back at the University of KwaZulu-Natal where I’d studied abroad, this time my classes were all in isiZulu. I lived first in a residence hall, then in an urban township (iMbali), and then later in a rural community miles away (Manqongqo). This time made me keenly aware of the ways in which history and my own positions had prepared me to hear and perceive so much of the world around me on wildly uneven terms. The majority of the residence of KwaZulu-Natal spoke isiZulu as a first language, but I had really understood none of it in 2004. Much like in Southern California, the predominant language and cultural formations happened all around the white, colonial hegemons of English. It was as if a radio had been playing at a frequency beyond me, at full volume, and I suddenly became aware, ONCE AGAIN, of how little I knew. Of how wrong I was. Of how much I had to learn.

I returned two years later for a full academic year to do the archival research for my PhD. I was twenty-seven, more tired, more wary, more cynical, and yet my positions changed again. I was now in South Africa for the closest thing to business. This time I lived in Durban, the larger city by the sea, located nearly fifty miles (80km) away from the smaller capital of the Pietermaritzburg, and I tried to learn how to be an academic for reals. I struggled to think of my own positionality as a North American academic with so many thoughts and quick analyses and schemas, I wracked my brain trying to think of the ways in which language and culture and colonialism linked my existence and those of the people I encountered every day, I made friends who shaped my life profoundly. To the cynical surprise of someone who spends most of his time critically assessing the myriad transformations wrought by settler colonialism, I found myself feeling at home in Durban in some ways. This feeling made me realize the complexities of travel, of building lives, of claiming identities, but also steeled me for thinking through how to live in a space shaped by centuries of inequality, and to think about how I could take all of this overwhelming knowledge home with me. I ate loads of bunny chows—brilliant, red curries stacked in fluffy white loaves of bread. I drank cup after cup of espresso in local roasteries. I pored over pages of dry government reports and sanctimonious missionary publications, sifting through the arrogance of colonial words for indigenous voices, humanity, complexities of the violent collisions that shape our daily lived reality. I fell more in love.

I returned once more in 2015, this time shocked to be a full “grown-up,” a professional academic at thirty-one, on a university funded research trip. I struggled to be back in a town I’d loved, and to make connections three years after the fact. I despaired of ever finding the right material for my book—I felt the rush of imposter syndrome as I wondered whether or not I could even turn that hard-won dissertation into a readable tome. But I had an amazing month. I saw people I loved, I made new connections, I laughed and went on adventures and tried to record it all down in journals and photographs for the next iteration that would come back, as I always did, to Mzansi.

I boarded a plane for South Africa yet again on June 12, 2016. Ten days before, my boyfriend had broken up with me over the phone. The day before a man had murdered nearly fifty people at a gay club, most of them people of color. As I stood at the gate with my boarding pass in my hand, my phone rang. It was my grandmother, who as far as we knew, was in perfect health. She had eight weeks left to live.

“I’m on my way to the store, but I wanted to call and wish you the best,” her soft voice crackled over the static of her car’s speakers. I could picture her winding around California streets on a sunny afternoon in pursuit of groceries.

“You never forget to call, do you?”

“Of course not! Be safe. Learn things. You always come back with something wonderful, don’t you?”

“I’ll try, Grandma.”

I returned to South Africa this time feeling bereft. Things were falling apart all around me. I knew my life was about to be very different without Benjamin (and had no idea that my grandmother’s denouement was awaiting). I was even more cynical about me wanting to return to a location to be inspired and challenged, and had been writing more and more about settler presumptions. It felt familiar, and I felt nervous about the whole endeavor.

I was not prepared for the realization of how absurdly fortunate I was. I returned to Durban, and immediately fell into the arms of three people I loved at the airport—Mark Daku, my constant Canadian travel companion, and Shéla McCullough and Darren van Niekerk, dear friends who were about to be married. We laughed and bantered and chattered on, my spirits lifted despite the nearly thirty hours of travel fatigue I was battling. I immediately threw myself back into being in a space I loved. I walked the streets of Glenwood and remember being handed a free coffee as I walked into the Bean Green. “No charge today,” the barista said. “You’re home.” I teared up, even as I cynically wondered where home could be, and if such a thing could be true apart from colonialism. I drank the coffee with gratitude and salt-streaked eyes.

I spent two intense weeks in archives, back among familiar pages to flip through. I stared at the Indian Ocean’s relentless fanning of the sandy shore. I got my possessions rifled through by curious tree monkeys. I thought about this being my fifth time in such a transformative place, thirty-two and feeling more than a little bit broken by life around me. This trip was about love, hope, and possibility. I found new documents that excited me. I got to see dear friends who held me as I cried and let me feel less alone or overwhelmed . I got to embrace folk whose words I’d loved on the internet and couldn’t wait to chat with in person. 2004, 2009, 2011-12, and 2015 all crashed up against 2016 for me, and I saw myself at all those other times, and realized how much I still didn’t fucking know.

I watched Shéla and Darren get married on a winter’s afternoon in KwaZulu-Natal, the warmth of family near and far mingling with the joy of people who had become part of a chosen community that stretched across continents. I laughed out loud as Danni Bowler blasted Drake at full volume as she maneuvered through the streets of Johannesburg, insisting I sing along. I danced until my legs ached with Dean Hutton, Mvelase Peppetta, and Dexter Sagar in a tiny Cape Town club. I played a card game with Lauren Beukes and her amazing daughter on a chilly evening. I insisted on a road trip for schnitzel in the Midlands with Lauren Jarvis and Liz Timbs, each of us egging each other on to belt another Beyoncé song at the top of our lungs. I sat over dinner with Charl Blignaut, Sekoetlane Phamodi and Louise Ferreira and remembered that in moments of great pain are also moments of incredible love (and scintillating wit). I affectionately called Marc Kalina dad and listened to brilliant musicians at a historic anti-apartheid jazz club in Pinetown. I woke up every day emotionally overwrought, impossibly sensitive, and deeply grateful. I drank loudly and laughed harder with Mbali and Hlanganani than I’d done in ages. I got to tour Dean’s brilliant and devastating art exhibit that got me banned from facebook for a day. I sobbed while standing on Table Mountain in the rain with Amber Abrams and reconnected with my doppelganger Damien Williams over copious glasses of gin.

I remain deeply suspicious about the ways in which one can imagine being home in a space that is already occupied by others. But I also am eternally grateful for the opportunity to return to a country where I feel embarrassingly loved, deeply cared for, included in the lives and hopes and dreams of others so very dear to me. South Africa has transformed me as a student, as a thinker, as a writer, and as a person. I keep coming back to a place that teaches me how very little I know, and makes me hunger for the chance to learn more and more. This year was painful, but it was also beautifully reassuring that connections continue, that friends endure, and that life continues to hold love and meaning.

Ngiyabonga kakhulu, abangane bami.

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This is the tenth of sixteen short essays about things that have changed for me this year. Stay tuned for the (finally) remaining few as time goes on. #Teej16

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travelinghermit · 8 years ago

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July 23 - Vallegrande & The Che Guevara Museo

Tonight I am sleeping in yet another four white painted walled box with a tiny window that I cant even use because it opens to the hotel lobby and not outside. I guess when im spending only $8.00 for a room I cant be critical of what I get.

Today was an unexpectedly long day but an enjoyable day even though my butt is now permanently numb from all the bumpy mountain riding. I woke up this morning and it was yet again a impeccable day. Finally after getting through the Rainy season, and then the hail, snow, fog, extreme cold, and just about everything that comes with traveling at high altitude, im finally in an area where I get constant hot sunny weather. Im just going to keep expecting that with every nice day is the final one to save on dissapointment. I know the cold awaits me further South, the question is how far South?

After eating four delicious chicken empanada’s I packed my bags and was on the road by 8:35am. The riding from Mairana to the town im in now Vallegrande was some pristine mountain riding. The sun lit up the dry desert mountains and the air carried a bit of a morning chill which was appreciated, with good amount of wind aswell.

Vallegrande is known for absolutley nothing other than being the spot where Che Guevara’s lifeless body was airlifted to be dropped onto a table and proudly presented to the press as proof that the Bolivian army had killed the notorious Che Guevara.

My map indicated there was a mausoleum for where Che’s body and the rest of his guerilla comrades were buried in an unmarked grave around here and the remains were exhumed in 1997 to be brought to Cuba but I couldnt find it. After twenty or so minutes of searching I realised “What do I care about an empty grave?”. The sole reason for coming here was to find the school that he was imprisoned and killed in and for that I had to ride to the neighbouring village of La Higuera where according to my GPS was a short 60k away but in reality it was a very long 60k through the many ups and downs of a dusty mountain road.

The entire morning I had Che Guevara on my mind. Trying to figure out what it is about this guy that had me driving all this way to see an old building where a guy was shot. My first introduction to the man was in Grade 10 where we had the choice to choose any topic for a four page essay and the topic I subsequently chose was to argue whether or not Che Guevara was a hero or villain. Why I chose this topic still remains a mystery.I dont quite remember which side I argued for and even thinking about it this morning its so 50/50. Bolivians are put in the same moral predicament as Che is regarded and celebrated as a hero around these parts even though he as a foreign invader infiltrated Bolivia under a pseudonym for the sole purpose of overthrowing their leader (most likely in death), abolishing their government, and instilling communism. Thats pretty radical but it was their (The Bolivian) army and their government that killed him and his comrades. Its also well known that the Communist party of Bolivia did not aid or support Guevara’s revolution at all and that Guevara had zero support from the farmers, peasants, and Bolivian people in general. In the midst of the fight in the dry Bolivian mountains which lasted seven months or so im sure Guevara realised what an impossible task lay before him with roughly twenty men and dwindling supplies.

Its been exactly 50 years since Guevaras failed revolution in Bolivia fell apart. Infact around this time in July 1967 the battle was just beginning to get heated. Today people have forgetten, no one does their research, and everyone follows just what is cool and Che Guevara is “cool”. So as im walking around the very town that plastered his lifeless body on a table in victory for tabloids to photograph, his heroic image is adorned on walls and posters of him hanging in shops. Its all very strange to me, you will never see another foreign rebel celebrated and championed as much as Che Guevara in any other part of the world.l

Yet just like the man himself the situation in Bolivia in 1967 was very complicated. I dont know much if anything at all about the president or government of Bolivia at the time but I do know he was no angel, no champion of the people. Perhaps a revolution was exactly what was needed or maybe fate did the favour for us with the fatal crash of his helicopter (I have no wifi and thus cant find the presidents name) shortly after Che’s death. Maybe the Bolivian people were just lazy, timid, and submissive or maybe they foresaw the futility of Guevara’s error ridden revolution. Its been 50 years since and so yhe answers to these questions have been lost to history.

I reached La Higuera the village in the dusty mountains where of course Che’s face is plastered on every wall even more so and theres even a giant statue of him standing in a salute with army fatigue. There wasnt many people around when I rode up to the small museum, the same building Che and one of his comrades were imprisoned and murdured inside. A lady came out to unlock the door for me and when I walked inside there was an eeriness like when you know people have been killed there especially a very well known person. The lady showed me the tiny stool Che sat on when he was imprisoned whether it was or not I still ooed and awed. The tiny museum to my surprise had english descriptions of Che’s life but the bulk was all about the goings-on in Bolivia leading his guerilla brigade. Many people wrote him messages and posted them on the walls, or with flags of their country, none written in English.

I left with no better understanding of the man. I dont really care for what he did later on in his life after his own motorcycle journey but there are so many questions that keep me enthralled with his life. What exactly does it take for such a radical change to occur in a man from an upper class Argentinian family who went to University and became a doctor to then join a radical communist movement less than a year later and risk his life not even fighting for his own country? Infact it couldnt be farther away. The question stumps me completely.

Ive said it before that this moto journey is inspired by Che Guevaras Motorcycle Diaries he wrote during his journey in 1953. These diaries were even more so a giant influence for why I write my own journals every day for no reason other than opening my eyes on the importance of keeping a written first hand account of a special point in time because you never know what will happen to these writings in fifty or sixty years. Maybe nothing will happen but atleast I will have them to remind me of what a real journey is like and that I truelly lived them and not just in some ephemeral dream and for that I am indebted to Che. Strip away the communist ideals, strip away the guerilla warfare, the Che I look up to was the 24 year old motorcycling South America for no reason other than “just to travel”.

"Many will call me an adventurer, and that I am... only one of a different sort: one who risks his skin to prove his truths."

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oceanicplanets · 8 years ago

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It took me a long time to realize that included me. When I was younger, I could go hungry at a restaurant because I was scared to give the cashier my order, and then a few hours later, I would be on stage at my weekly drama class, strutting my stuff with my performing arts pals. My hand would often be the first to shoot up in the classroom, but I once burst into tears when I had to read an essay of mine aloud. I baffled my parents and my friends—the drama kids couldn’t figure out why I turned into a wallflower offstage, and everyone else in my life didn’t know what to make of me when I wasn’tacting shy.To put it simply, I was TERRIFIED of negative attention. I’d rather freeze up and not do anything at all than say the wrong thing and be criticized for it. At the same time, I was hungry for praise, and I structured my life around getting a lot of it. I was good in school, so I spoke up in class and took every extracurricular that I had room for. Teachers loved me and I won academic awards left and right. Drama allowed me to express myself without having to come up with my own words, and as long as I worked really hard to please the director, I couldn’t go wrong—at least not until I left school. My community-theater dreams were shattered by three failed auditions, and afterwards I stuck to classes and clubs, where I was always guaranteed parts.This anxiety didn’t end in the classroom. I’m a naturally shy person, and I used to want all my interactions to go perfectly, so I practically wrote them out in advance, always terrified that the other person would go off-script and force me to think on my feet. If I was ordering food, for example, I’d expect the waitress to ask what I wanted, I’d tell her, then she would leave. If she unexpectedly asked me what toppings or sides I wanted with my burger, I was rattled and took WAY too long to decide. Or, worse, she might be chatty and ask a completely unrelated question about my day, and now my whole narrative was off and I wouldn’t know how to answer. Do I just say “good” or do I give a full rundown, and then how do I segue back to my order, and oh no, I’m taking too long to answer and I look like an idiot, WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO HAPPEN TO ME? Basically, even the prospect of feeling awkward counted as negative attention, which made me more awkward, because now I was this creepy quiet girl who would turn into stone when asked to do ordinary things like order a hamburger.I can’t tell you how many times my parents cajoled me into doing something I didn’t want to do, like cash a check at the bank, and then I’d make a tiny little mistake, like writing down my routing number instead of my account number, and I’d stutter a little bit but pretend to laugh it off even though I was dying inside, because I’d made a stupid mistake and now that teller was thinking that I was a dumb teenager who didn’t know how banking works. I’d get outside and yell at my parents “DID YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENED? You made me do this and it all went wrong and don’t you feel terrible?” And they’d just shake their heads wondering where they went wrong raising me.In those cases, my social anxiety was extreme and noticeable, but I think the more damaging stress I dealt with is something that many, many people experience: I was working so hard to be perfect that I took any sort of reprimand or critique or social misstep as a judgment on my character.As you can imagine, school was a minefield. When I was six or seven, I once got caught climbing a tree on the playground, and I’ll never forget how sick I felt after my teacher yelled at me to get down. It was like I’d done something very, very wrong and it could never be rectified. I couldn’t understand why all my friends, who’d also gotten scolded, were able to happily play somewhere else—it took me all day to get over it.In high school, I wanted to get good marks on all my assignments, because being an honors student earned me the praise I desired, but also because when I didn’t live up to my high standards, I’d be crushed. Math was my weak point, and the few Cs that made it onto my report cards stood out as black marks that would forever paint me as a failure. Even constructive criticism could shake me up, like the note I once got on a creative writing assignment to come up with a “punchier ending.” The teacher loved the piece, but the ending was mediocre and now that I was aware of it, I felt terrible for turning in that piece of crap.That same sick feeling I got as a kid after climbing that tree was triggered any time I did something wrong, like accidently hurt someone’s feelings or make a mistake at work. A gentle reprimand—“you did this incorrectly, please fix it, and don’t do it again”—sounded to me like someone screaming at me. I once forgot to return a book I’d borrowed from school before summer break, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say it took me about EIGHT YEARS to be able to hear the name Nancy Drew without feeling shame. I was certain that the teacher who lost it harbored a grudge against me, so I hid the book in my room and spent the next decade or so fighting random spikes of anxiety whenever I thought about it.After high school, criticism becomes even more common, while praise is harder to come by. College professors don’t get excited just because you understand the coursework, and your manager at the big box store you’re working at on weekends probably won’t even notice you unless you screw up. It was a big change, and it forced me to make an important adjustment: I had to start looking to myself for encouragement. Was this essay/poster/poem something I could be proud of? Did I do the best I could? Did I have fun doing it? I started doing photography as a hobby, just so I could look at all my pretty pictures, and spent ridiculous amounts of time on projects that had no purpose except for the fun of creating them, like the time I started making wall art out of old sticky notes. And this was surprisingly easy—it turned out that pride in yourself for hard work feels just as good as praise from another person.Learning to deal with criticism, on the other hand, was much harder. My constant fear of failure was starting to interfere with my schoolwork, because I’d procrastinate to stave off the possibility of not excelling, and then I’d turn in less-than-stellar work anyway, because I didn’t give myself enough time to complete it. So my freshman year of college, I made the big decision to see a school counselor. And, man, I wish I’d done it a lot earlier.One of the very first things my counselor did was ship me off to a doctor for anti-anxiety medication. Once I was on the right cocktail of pills, I felt like a new person. Suddenly, talking was a little less scary, and the shame of failure was much more fleeting. (Not everyone who has anxiety needs drugs to cope, but if you feel it’s interfering with everyday life, I do recommend at least talking to your doctor.) I also started therapy, and my counselor really helped change my outlook on the world. In some cases, I just needed practice. She’d give me assignments to do things I found terrifying, like asking for a job application at a local fast-food restaurant, and I slowly gained more confidence in my ability to handle these kinds of interactions. Most of my fears of rejection were in my head—no one ever told me, “Wow, you really effed up that conversation!”I also talked about other things that were bothering me, and I got some clarity. Everyday schoolwork just wasn’t important enough for me to feel so stressed about it, and furthermore, it was OK to fail. I took this message in, and when I started to crash and burn in college biology, I didn’t force myself to stick it out. I accepted that biology and I were just never going to get along, and I dropped the course. Just a year before, I would have berated myself for weeks this for doing this, but now I only felt relief.A year or two after I graduated high school, I had a conversation with my old algebra teacher. I said something about being bad at math, and he told me that I was never bad at math—my other classes just came so easily to me that I didn’t know what it was like to struggle to learn something. He pointed out that many of my classmates celebrated when they got a C. My perspective had been so skewed that I assumed I had really embarrassed myself by not being the best, and that others thought less of me as a result.I realize now no one is thinking as hard about me as I am. That teacher on the playground was just worried that I’d fall, and she probably forgot about the incident five minutes later, while I’m still thinking about it 15 years later. My creative writing teacher just wanted to help me improve my story. Waitresses and bank tellers have dealt with literally thousands of small mistakes and awkward moments over the years.Earlier today, I made a rather large mistake at my day job, resulting in my having to send a correction email to several thousand people. It was really, really embarrassing. But instead of retreating in panic and begging my boss not to fire me, I calmly apologized and then wrote a self-deprecating Facebook post so that EVERYONE had an opportunity to laugh at me. It felt a lot better than mentally beating myself up.On the flip side, with the understanding that my failures were not permanent came the knowledge that most of my accomplishments have been similarly fleeting. My academic awards have done absolutely nothing for me apart from a few moments of pride and fodder for scholarship applications. Most of the compliments I got from my drama teacher are just fuzzy memories today.I’m not saying that any of this was worthless. Being a good student served me well, but not because my teachers loved me—rather because it gave me skills and opportunities to move on in life. It’s important to work hard and nurture ambition, but for the right reasons—not to escape criticism, but because it makes you happy. It’s better to learn from your mistakes than not to make them at all. ♦

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akaiaowl · 7 years ago

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<<EXCERPT>>