#37: 22 March 2009

Good: Jammie lent me all her Sims CDs!

Bad: Two were corrupted

FML: None are compatible with Windows Vista.

*

My last post was called Pink Chalk because that was the title of a short story I wrote for a creative writing class I took in my sophomore year.

It was based on a true story.  I did have friends called Rachel and Nabila.  And they did unfriend me.

Not because I refused to lend them my color pencils!  But because I got first place in my class and they were jealous and told all the girls not to talk to me wtf.

There was no pink hopscotch map and no kicking little Indian boys in their shins.

There was, however, crying in my bed at night (BECAUSE I HAD NO FRIENDS DAMMIT) and my mother going to see my teacher and then my teacher telling everybody to be friends with Audrey and tadah I had people to spend recess with again wtf.

Rachel is now happily married and a photographer in South Carolina.  Nabila is… well I don’t know what Nabila is but there are plenty of pictures of her on Facebook in skimpy clothing with white/mixed men.

Anyway, I wrote what I did because my teacher told me to write about something you really know.

I took that class because I liked writing.  And I still do.  But back then I remember feeling so nervous about the class because it was filled with strong opiniated American women (ie. English being their first language) with great speaking skills who liked to read aloud their essays and merrily criticized everyone but themselves.

But when we all submitted our final pieces I got an A on mine (and I hardly get As!  only A-s).  The teacher took me aside and told me this was something I should pursue but then the next semester I went to Japan and when I came back I pushed writing aside and took up Studio Art instead (which got me a fucking B and pulled down my GPA so I couldn’t graduate magna cum laude wtf)

It took me 3 years to decide to post the piece on my blog but one second to take it down.

Because someone said it was stupid and boring *sigh

I like writing a lot.  But I’m too scared that I actually suck at it.  So I don’t try very hard so that no one can say I tried and failed.

I think I’m too chicken to face rejection and failure more than anything else.

edit: i’m reposting the piece here. thank you to everyone who’s been so encouraging:)

Pink Chalk

I scrutinize the pile of colored chalk in front of me. Few are full sticks, most are broken pieces; little more than powdery crumbs of pastel shades. Carefully I extract a pink piece that is larger than the rest. Pink because it is my favorite, and therefore also my lucky color. Luck because I will need it today. Today I have a plan.

I push myself off the cement bench I was sitting cross-legged on, and deliver a few quick slaps to the back of my shorts to shake off dust and bugs. (Once ants crawled up my pants and it hurt so much I cried even though I am seven years old, a big girl.) Then, gripping the pink chalk firmly with my hand, I crouch down on the cement sidewalk and deliberately, carefully press the chalk down on the ground and create a slow heavy line, straight as can be.

Footsteps clop, clop, clop from behind, but I barely hear them. It’s my Mummy with a yellow umbrella to shield against the sun. “Baby, what are you doing?” she asks, her eyes squinting in the bright light.

I don’t look up from my thick pink lines, but I say firmly, “I’m making a hopscotch map.”

Mummy squats down next to me, and with the hand that’s not holding the umbrella, starts picking up my chalk pieces, one by one. “This can wait,” she tells me. “Come inside, I’ve got iced Milo in your pink cup waiting for you. Come inside.” She stands up and holds out her hand.

I am silent and don’t move from my spot on the ground. “I’m making a hopscotch map,” I say again.

Mummy looks at me with a sharp look in her eye. She knows I never refuse iced Milo. But still I keep quiet, unwilling to tell her what has happened.

After a moment, Mummy says, “Okay darling, come in when you’re ready.” And then she clop, clop, clops back up to the house.

I look at her retreating back, watch as she slips off her plastic sandals at the front door, until she disappears into the living room. Then I turn back to my pink chalk.

The sun is making X-rays on my back but I don’t care. This has to be the best, most beautiful hopscotch map in the whole neighborhood. So I slit my eyes against the midday sunlight and concentrate on keeping the lines straight and the squares square.

When I’m done with the most beautiful hopscotch map in the world, everything will be fine again. Rachel and all the rest will forget what happened and I will have friends.

Last Friday during Art, Nabila had tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Can I borrow your colored pencils?”

And I had shook my head and said, “I forgot to bring them.” But in actual fact, my cardboard box of colored pencils was safely tucked between my knees, hidden under the skirt of my pinafore.

Later when it was time for recess, I had forgotten all about my fib, and stood up, knocking my pencils to the floor with a clatter. Then everybody had found out that I had told a lie because I didn’t want Nabila using up all the pink, and for the rest of the day, nobody would talk to me and I had to eat with the boys.

But I know when I’m done with my plan, things will be right again. I will have friends and I can eat with Rachel and the rest at recess once more.

I stand up, dust the chalk dust from my hands, dust the bugs from my pants, and skip down the street in search of Rachel.

Even though I’m in a hurry, I remember all the safety steps Mummy and my teacher taught me. Never walk on the street, always on the pavement. Only cross when there’s a zebra on the road, and you have to look right, then left then right again.

My steps slow down when I see the playground ahead of me. I mount the cement steps leading up to it, careful not to look down at the big ditch underneath; I don’t want to fall into it. I am glad to find Rachel and Nabila sitting on my favorite red swing, using their legs to kick themselves as high as they can go.

My pink rubber sandals suddenly seem as heavy as anchors. They have seen me coming, and instead of the “Hi!” and wave that I expect, they are poking each other in the ribs and cupping their hands around each other’s ears and whispering. But then I remember my lucky hopscotch map at home.

“Hi!” I say brightly.

Rachel and Nabila use their feet to brake their swinging but they are silent, not answering my hello, not even looking in my direction. Nabila glances at Rachel. I think she’s waiting to see what she will do, but Rachel just looks down and smoothes out sand with the toe of her sneaker. The only sound I can hear is that of the trucks zooming on the big street across from us.

I count to five slowly in my head in case they decide to say anything. “I’ve just finished making a brand-new hopscotch map,” I tell them.

Quiet.

“It’s really pretty. I spent a lot of time making it. Do you want to come over?” I ask hopefully. I get an idea. “And maybe after that we can go in and have iced Milo and then play Barbies, my Dad just got me a new lady and-”

To my surprise, Rachel pushes herself off her swing, stretches out her hand to Nabila who takes it, and says in a loud voice, “We don’t play with selfish people!”

Then holding hands, they run away, kicking up sand and gravel beneath their feet as they go.

I am left standing by myself at the swings. Some boys from my class have arrived at the playground with a football but they are not playing, just standing there and looking at me. An Indian boy, littler than me, his shorts pulled up to his ribs, giggles and points at me. I can hear a few titters scattered among them.

My nose tickles even though the sun is still high up in the sky and it’s hot. I think I’m going to sneeze, but then I feel a tear roll down my cheek.

So I run towards the Indian boy, kick his right shin and give him a push hard enough to send him backwards onto his rump. Then I fly down the cement steps, over the ditch and back to my Mummy, iced Milo and my pink hopscotch map.