Author: hgr2020

It was the beginning of Christmas break, and our parents decided to kick off with brunch. We had already known about the famed Palace Diner from a local news report that caught the whole family’s attention. A quirky little restaurant, the Palace Diner made its home an old train car which can only fit about fifteen people. It boasts the claim that it is the oldest diner in Maine.

With high expectations, my parents, my big brother, and I narrowly squeezed through the entrance. The only light wafted threw the weathered windows. We sat down in red-cushioned, spinning stools attached to a long table that housed all of the diner’s guests.

A man pranced up to us and asked if we wanted coffee. Upon seeing him for the first time, I instantly found him peculiar.

He was covered in tattoos. Pale green ink seeped into his skin, spreading outward cell by cell, creating an effect of soft edges that suggested the passage of time. His arms were a tapestry of skeletons, death, and unfamiliar gods. The natural born part of him was non-threatening; his pale skin was yet untouched by stress, save the gentle crow’s feet accompanied with a genuine smile. Fuzzy blond hair subtly poked outward from his chin. From the bottom of his chin, another tattoo began: it was a simple, thin line, needle-pointed into the middle of his throat. It cut down his addam’s apple, then slithered into his shirt.

He bounced away with our orders, tending to neighboring customers. When he returned with coffee mugs in hand, I read the message on his right hand: “H-A-T-E,” one letter per fisted finger.

The waiter dashed into the kitchen, jaunted across the counter, and danced toward the doorway. His mannerisms were endearing; the way he softly sang to himself the projected music he had heard hundreds of times before, how he lightly tapped the shelf above him in tune to the retro songs. In the shady train car, he beamed with the utmost respect and kindness to each customer, welcoming one with a smile and asking the name of another. His infectious optimism made it seem like his disguise of an adult would fade away to reveal the joy of a child.

As I ate my greasy brunch, I pondered the question: how could such a polite person have “HATE” permanently written on their knuckles? Surely, no one with that many tattoos would not attach meaning to them. I tired to picture a life which would compel one to make such a decision. Perhaps this young man had seen death. Maybe, with each skeleton etched into his arm, someone he cherished had passed beyond the void. With each pound of the needle, he shed a tear for  the memories of past kinship. When he chose the images of gods, he was yearning for meaning, a reason to keep going, a why, a how, yelling into the deep abyss of his brain, begging for a response from the numbing silence. As the minuscule blade slid down he throat, he was reminded of the fragility of life, and how his live will eventually run out of ink.

We set up to leave with full bellies. The waiter came back, carefully cleaning up the mess of plates and mugs we had left behind. As he cleared my place, I noticed his left knuckles.

“L-O-V-E.” I left, carrying a little of that infectious happiness with me.

Here’s to the “dumb” kids who could never get above a C. They are the children society has tossed to the side as it embraces strait A’s. With each passing report card, parents yell, and the kids yell back. Here’s to the kids who try every time, but the same red ink beams into their eyeballs. Here’s to the kids who realized that trying yields the same result as procrastination, and so stopped the process early on.

Here’s to the “dumb” kids who throw pencils into ceilings instead of planting them in paper. Here’s to the kids who show up late to class with coffee in one hand and phone in the other. Here’s to the kids who giggle in the back chairs, stuffing laughter down their throats when teachers call their names. Here’s to the kids who spend weekends at each other’s houses instead of buried in books. Here’s to the kids who make plans instead of planners, and scheduale time around friends instead of quizzes. Here’s to the kids who climb out of their bedroom windows, feet dangling in the chill of the night, gazing at the moonlit yard beneath them. Here’s to the kids who stay up way too late and sleep in class. Here’s to the kids who speed down highways, with fear and adrenaline and pure joy in their veins. Here’s to the kids who date and break up and date and break up again, regretting it every time. Here’s to the kids who get in trouble and grin with memory in detentions. Here’s to the kids who have sleepovers and eat too much candy and share too much gossip. Here’s to the kids who go to parties and dance at them, too. Here’s to the kids in their cliques, who know themselves but not the outside world. Here’s to the kids who avoid working but find their passions in the process, who dream, who break their own hearts, who rebuild, who neglect the future but experience the present. Here’s to the kids who were never taught that they had more to offer than letter grades and high GPAs. Here’s to the kids who wish they were “smart.”

Here’s to the “dumb” kids whos’ eyes will soften and crack with wisdom. Here’s to the kids who will someday have little eyes gaze up at them as they rest their weary backs on weathered couches. Here’s to the kids whose shoulders will shake with each chuckle as they remember that time when good ol’ Paul or Joe or Sam got themselves in real big trouble with the principle. Here’s to the kids who will tell stories. Here’s to the kids who will wonder how each other are doing. Here’s to the kids who still call sometimes.

Here’s to the dumb kids. May you never forget what we have failed to learn.

I am not the same person I was a year ago, or a month ago, or a week ago, or yesterday. I morph constantly, shedding the skin of old demeanors. I am not a better person than I was, nor am I a worse person. I am just a person.

Does this happen to everyone? Or is this just a symptom of my youth? Do adults feel the same? Is it fickleness to change one’s beliefs, or an evolution of logic? I am changing ideas, opinions, and personality. Or maybe I am not changing at all. Maybe I have constructed a self-inflicted illusion to help me cope with what I do not know.

As a child, my thoughts were very simple. My goal was to gain happiness as quickly as possible. With a brain like a cardboard puzzle, I pieced together simple pathways of thought. Want to play? Get a toy. Want to move? Go outside. Hungry? Eat. Upset? Cry.

At my age, I can now construct ideas my tiny child mind could not have begun to comprehend. I can understand religion, politics, and relationships. I can challenge the fundamental fountains of moral code. I can pick apart logical pathways. I can understand the point of view of other human beings, without having ever experienced life as them before. I have new emotions that I never experienced as a child,

But this is the same for everyone. Why do we change so dramatically? Why could not we have all stayed as simple as the animals? I like to believe that it is because each human is a complete work of art; they are a tapestry of perfection and flaws, mood and logic, hope and hopelessness, love and hate. Each human is a unique, special, beautiful masterpiece unseen before in all of history. No two people are alike.

But, even as this is, we are not so simple. This is why we change—we are not stagnant like paintings, but transforming artworks. We are nebulas, exploding constantly, expanding, changing hues, all to become one beautiful creation. My advice is to embrace the change, and to continue to love getting older; you are adding more to your beauty.

Words hide secrets.

Things never spoken, things repeated in your head for years. A rhyme you cling to, to remind you, to justify you. Things heard when doors are not shut. Secrets communicated through codes, penetrating enemy lines, saving lives, ending others. Secrets kept by nurses and doctors, watching the faces of bright-eyed children, and turning away to whisper to the parents. Secrets kept before birthdays, bringing joy. Secrets revealed by time, age, and wisdom.

Words inspire.

Sargents scream for one more push-up. Rebels sing for one more day. Old men plead for peace. The receivers of inspiration march on and sing. They smile, feed the poor, continue fighting the negatives of life. The world becomes infected with a good disease, challenging its afflicted to leave the world a better place than they entered it. You watch this happen before you. You have breathed the infection, and smile a little brighter that day for it.

Words are kind.

Crying kids who never forget what their mentors taught them, pushing away tears. Kindness communicated in smiles, hugs, and laughter. Kindness is patting someone on the back, kindness is saying hello, kindness is saying goodbye. Kindness welcomes others and makes them feel heard. You remember kindness. You discover kindness within you. There are problems you cannot fix through actions. And so, you give little sentences, phrases you memorized, and hope for the best.

Words are angry.

You shout, not think. But those are not lies. It cuts. Scars. They may never be forgotten. You speak of fire, of the color red, of pointed toungues. Your opponent has a million excuses in their arsenal. Shot one by one, they fly off of you. Stupidity, you think of them, but never consider for yourself.

Words are absent.

You are begged for more. Commanded for it. One more push, shove, punch. It does not faze you. They scream, but your lips are closed. They are shocked by you, angered by you. You enforce it by walking away. You relize that silence is the loudest cry.

Words have power.

 

 

 

 

There is a group of kids close by me now. I know I should not eavesdrop. I know I should not stare. But I cannot help it. One of the girls, a small one with hair dyed the color of a galaxy, sings tunes from choir and a musical. A boy’s broad shoulders are large enough to catch a bounty of evening sunlight. All four of the students converse, listen, and laugh. I think they know I can hear them; their voices are lowered.

A few days ago, my mom asked me if I had friends.

Yeah, I have friends. I listed a couple of people. But not close friends. To be honest, I only made those friends a few months ago. And before those few months, during summer, I had one friend. And a few months before that, during my sophomore year, I had plenty of friends. I think. Maybe those were just acquaintances. And a year before that, in what seemed like a whole different world, I had one friend. A year before that, I had three friends. Four years ago, I had no friends.

Most of the time I do not care. I am too busy to think about those things anyway. I have to go to school. I have to pay attention in class. I have to do my homework. I have to eat, exercise, shower, sleep.

Sometimes, I have to do nothing. Sometimes it only lasts a minute. Sometimes it lasts hours. Who I am and what I am made of come from the moments when there is nothing, because in those moments I can just wander, and my brain always goes to the same places.

I can get overwhelmed in those moments of nothing. Especially when there is something that reminds me of myself. Like when I see a group of kids close by. I watch them converse, listen, laugh. I want to walk up to them. I want them to see me, and then yell my name. Maybe one of them would greet me with a hug. I would crack a joke. They would all laugh. One of them would show me something on their  phone that reminded me of you! We would talk about that class we all hate. We would laugh about that time in third grade in which one of us shoved Cheetos up their nose. We would have inside jokes that nobody else understood. We would know each others’ favorite color, movie, and song. We would share secrets. We would get into drama. We would fight. We would give each other the cold shoulder, cry, and make up again. We would show up at each other’s houses, uninvited, wearing pajamas, raiding the fridge, and calling the parents “Auntie” and “Uncle.” I would sing with the small girl who has hair made of galaxies. I would stand next to the boy and both of our backs would become sunlight.

Yeah, I have friends.

Right?