HOME | DD

Description
It was five o’clock on a Monday and I still could not get my mother to shut up.

She blabbed like all good mothers; remember those times you were picked up at a friend’s house and the parents just went on and on for twenty minutes, even though they claimed we need to leave as quickly as possible. There was always something to talk about: the weather, the children, the school, and, maybe only for my family, politics. These three topics came up the most in casual parent-to-parent conversation, leaving us to stand blankly on the sidelines dreaming of our emancipation at age eighteen.

Adults tried the same tricks on me, for they had heard–from my parents, of course–that I was somewhat mature, and not just in my body structure. A minor interest in politics lead to a full-blown education in the in’s and out’s of the American government, it’s history, and how goddamn awful those Republicans were. My bumper stickers proclaiming “Somewhere in Texas a village is missing an idiot” and “John Stewart ‘08" became a light amongst a crowd of moths, more streaming towards it as the days passed and the months floated on by. And I get called clingy: my economics teacher who I hated with a vengeance hotter than the lowest level of Dante’s Inferno itself and expressed vigilantly decided I was “outspoken” and “interesting to have in the classroom.” The angry student became more of a decoration than a taboo.

My mother’s long-winded speech was no different than the lecture I received on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday–fuck it, you get the point. There was always something to be done or appointments that needed to be drilled into my brain for the umpteenth time, and, though it may have relieved the stress of having to carry my schedule on her shoulders, I couldn’t help but feel it was partly her own fault.

“You have SAT practice tomorrow. Do your work.”

“I know mom. You don’t need to nag me. I was the one who talked to him after.”

“Okay, just remember you have SAT practice tomorrow.”

It seemed to be something that happened at age forty. Not quite on the level of a mid-life crisis, but not subtle enough to be a minor change in habit. Maybe it was just childbirth that did you in.

Emancipation is a beacon of light for any teen, almost bright enough to be the gateway into Heaven. Of course, some were afraid of the world and preferred to huddle up in the corner of their childhood bedroom and stay their until the Social Security checks started coming on their sixty-fifth birthday, but, at least by the average person’s standards, that was unnatural. Birds fly away from the nest just as an eighteen year old high-tailed it out of their house on whatever moving vehicle they could find, whether it be a car, bus, train, plane, or scooter.

It’s amazing what kinds of plans you can come up with when wasted. The thought of running away always came up in our hippy circles or private drinking parties, so much so that it felt like a tradition. And just as the nice fat Jewish guy in “Fiddler on the Roof” said, tradition is not something that should be broken.

We weren’t exactly reasonable, per se. I still thought money grew on trees, and he assumed that there would be adequate food and rest along the way. Gas wasn’t an issue because it was only a theory. Sleeping would not be a problem because there is always a good place to rest in any location in the United States. We didn’t even have to worry about time. After all, it doesn’t really exist.

Or does it? We’ll get into that later. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

You could call us hopeless dreamers who were just setting themselves up for the glory of disappointment and regret. You could call us overly enthusiastic, exuberant, stupid, or cocky, but it didn’t matter either way. We would make the journey from coast-to-coast without an issue, for it was our destiny. That’s what the Magic Eight Ball said at least, though my father couldn’t disagree more. Especially since our main source of information came from a child’s play toy and not from some supposedly logical set of processes. He threw the concept of a higher power away and shoved the bitter tasting item called “reason” down our throats, ignoring our cries of protest and disdain.

“There’s more important things out there,” he said for the billionth time, practically stationed in the same place and position as the last time, which, if memory serves, was last week. “You need to start looking into schools and find your places in the labor force. Then start focusing on marriage and children.”

I stared blankly at him. The deja vu still hadn’t left me.

What if I wanted to live a life free of the balls and chains that we called “children”?

“I don’t want you to get too creative,” he said sternly.

Why? I always asked him. Why can’t I meld the world into the shape that I want it to be? Why can’t I ride cross country on a Vespa or stay up all night or write stories? Why can’t I decide my own destiny, ignoring that stupid protocol that you regurgitate for me every single day?

“The truth,” was all he ever said to me, each and every time he would get up from the bed or couch or chair and leave me alone, staring blankly at whatever surface was before me, lost in my own imagination.

And I would think,

What do you see when you close your eyes?

I see a path called “reason” and a path called “emotion.” I see a dark cloud hovering over the forest of reason and a bright blue sky over the valley of emotion. I see a family of misfits content in their own obscurities, completely blind to the fact that society thrust forth a series of Orwellian ideals meant to eliminate the differences between us all. Though they may be subtle, dressed in the clothes of non-conformity, one can find that by following these “non-conformists” that precious sense of identity is lost in a sea of conforming uniqueness. We try in vain to express our individuality, only to find the bandwagon already waiting impatiently in your driveway.

I shake and I stutter; I cringe and I crawl away, being unable to deal with this so-called advice that has been dumped on my plate. I retreat into my own imaginary world, customizing each individual piece to fit to my standards. Here lies the only possibility for perfection and the only plan for a fully functioning utopia. But I cannot bring it out into the light of day and build it brick by brick so it can benefit the whole world, or at least whoever wants to join me on this personal crusade.

And thus I am left lying here chained to the wall left hand corner of my room surrounded by the suggestions of my elders, who, for some reason, still see my dreaming as a mere sense of creativity, which could potentially be used in a future career. But it was never anything more. No deeper feelings were experienced, for I was unable to without spiraling down into what they claimed to be insanity.

And thirty years from now I shall still reside here. Sitting waste-deep in the rotting advice that I received countless years beforehand. ‘Cause I ain’t moving until you let me drive cross country on that cherry-red Vespa.

Description
It was five o’clock on a Monday and I still could not get my mother to shut up.

She blabbed like all good mothers; remember those times you were picked up at a friend’s house and the parents just went on and on for twenty minutes, even though they claimed we need to leave as quickly as possible. There was always something to talk about: the weather, the children, the school, and, maybe only for my family, politics. These three topics came up the most in casual parent-to-parent conversation, leaving us to stand blankly on the sidelines dreaming of our emancipation at age eighteen.

Adults tried the same tricks on me, for they had heard–from my parents, of course–that I was somewhat mature, and not just in my body structure. A minor interest in politics lead to a full-blown education in the in’s and out’s of the American government, it’s history, and how goddamn awful those Republicans were. My bumper stickers proclaiming “Somewhere in Texas a village is missing an idiot” and “John Stewart ‘08" became a light amongst a crowd of moths, more streaming towards it as the days passed and the months floated on by. And I get called clingy: my economics teacher who I hated with a vengeance hotter than the lowest level of Dante’s Inferno itself and expressed vigilantly decided I was “outspoken” and “interesting to have in the classroom.” The angry student became more of a decoration than a taboo.

My mother’s long-winded speech was no different than the lecture I received on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday–fuck it, you get the point. There was always something to be done or appointments that needed to be drilled into my brain for the umpteenth time, and, though it may have relieved the stress of having to carry my schedule on her shoulders, I couldn’t help but feel it was partly her own fault.

“You have SAT practice tomorrow. Do your work.”

“I know mom. You don’t need to nag me. I was the one who talked to him after.”

“Okay, just remember you have SAT practice tomorrow.”

It seemed to be something that happened at age forty. Not quite on the level of a mid-life crisis, but not subtle enough to be a minor change in habit. Maybe it was just childbirth that did you in.

Emancipation is a beacon of light for any teen, almost bright enough to be the gateway into Heaven. Of course, some were afraid of the world and preferred to huddle up in the corner of their childhood bedroom and stay their until the Social Security checks started coming on their sixty-fifth birthday, but, at least by the average person’s standards, that was unnatural. Birds fly away from the nest just as an eighteen year old high-tailed it out of their house on whatever moving vehicle they could find, whether it be a car, bus, train, plane, or scooter.

It’s amazing what kinds of plans you can come up with when wasted. The thought of running away always came up in our hippy circles or private drinking parties, so much so that it felt like a tradition. And just as the nice fat Jewish guy in “Fiddler on the Roof” said, tradition is not something that should be broken.

We weren’t exactly reasonable, per se. I still thought money grew on trees, and he assumed that there would be adequate food and rest along the way. Gas wasn’t an issue because it was only a theory. Sleeping would not be a problem because there is always a good place to rest in any location in the United States. We didn’t even have to worry about time. After all, it doesn’t really exist.

Or does it? We’ll get into that later. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

You could call us hopeless dreamers who were just setting themselves up for the glory of disappointment and regret. You could call us overly enthusiastic, exuberant, stupid, or cocky, but it didn’t matter either way. We would make the journey from coast-to-coast without an issue, for it was our destiny. That’s what the Magic Eight Ball said at least, though my father couldn’t disagree more. Especially since our main source of information came from a child’s play toy and not from some supposedly logical set of processes. He threw the concept of a higher power away and shoved the bitter tasting item called “reason” down our throats, ignoring our cries of protest and disdain.

“There’s more important things out there,” he said for the billionth time, practically stationed in the same place and position as the last time, which, if memory serves, was last week. “You need to start looking into schools and find your places in the labor force. Then start focusing on marriage and children.”

I stared blankly at him. The deja vu still hadn’t left me.

What if I wanted to live a life free of the balls and chains that we called “children”?

“I don’t want you to get too creative,” he said sternly.

Why? I always asked him. Why can’t I meld the world into the shape that I want it to be? Why can’t I ride cross country on a Vespa or stay up all night or write stories? Why can’t I decide my own destiny, ignoring that stupid protocol that you regurgitate for me every single day?

“The truth,” was all he ever said to me, each and every time he would get up from the bed or couch or chair and leave me alone, staring blankly at whatever surface was before me, lost in my own imagination.

And I would think,

What do you see when you close your eyes?

I see a path called “reason” and a path called “emotion.” I see a dark cloud hovering over the forest of reason and a bright blue sky over the valley of emotion. I see a family of misfits content in their own obscurities, completely blind to the fact that society thrust forth a series of Orwellian ideals meant to eliminate the differences between us all. Though they may be subtle, dressed in the clothes of non-conformity, one can find that by following these “non-conformists” that precious sense of identity is lost in a sea of conforming uniqueness. We try in vain to express our individuality, only to find the bandwagon already waiting impatiently in your driveway.

I shake and I stutter; I cringe and I crawl away, being unable to deal with this so-called advice that has been dumped on my plate. I retreat into my own imaginary world, customizing each individual piece to fit to my standards. Here lies the only possibility for perfection and the only plan for a fully functioning utopia. But I cannot bring it out into the light of day and build it brick by brick so it can benefit the whole world, or at least whoever wants to join me on this personal crusade.

And thus I am left lying here chained to the wall left hand corner of my room surrounded by the suggestions of my elders, who, for some reason, still see my dreaming as a mere sense of creativity, which could potentially be used in a future career. But it was never anything more. No deeper feelings were experienced, for I was unable to without spiraling down into what they claimed to be insanity.

And thirty years from now I shall still reside here. Sitting waste-deep in the rotting advice that I received countless years beforehand. ‘Cause I ain’t moving until you let me drive cross country on that cherry-red Vespa.