Hello hello! I am back with another post… a week late.
To be honest, I’ve been struggling in this section of the blog— the 10th grade section. To be honest, I think it’s because the individual I am writing about/ getting ready to write about is very complicated in my life. I think that makes it more uncomfortable to write about, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing… I am sure that I will learn a lot about myself and my philosophy in writing this section, but I also think it presents more challenges.
I’ve also been struggling because I don’t really know what’s necessary and what isn’t. I feel like I am overexplaining certain details or focusing too much on a short span of time and then not explaining anything about a large span of time. ETC.
I’m trying to go easy on myself, because it’s just a blog. It’s just a project I have assigned myself, and I am in the process of completing it. I’m trying to remind myself that not everything has to be neat and perfect…. so I should just write what feels right. This long section about going to get milkshakes feels right…ATM.
Someone asked how my trip to Alaska was:
It was magical. I would even call it life-changing. I have never seen a place so naturally beautiful. The mountains were like something out of a fantasy book. The rivers glistened blue like diamonds. There were moose all over the place. The midnight sun was unbelievable. Though I think my favorite part of the trip was writing letters and postcards to my friends. I am trying to write to people more. I think it is so romantic (in the sense of: romanticize your life). I am still waiting on several replies.
Thank you for asking.
Anyway, enjoy this post. I am trying to be more regular, because I fear if I don’t hold myself to a schedule, I will fall off the face of the earth. I appreciate your grace and understanding, though. 🙂
If it had been just me going to get a milkshake after school, I would have gone up to University Boulevard first, and then I would have made a left and walked the five blocks up to Bonnie Brae, a childhood favorite. I was surprised when Able and Pedro opted to go South instead of North. I couldn’t think of anything in that direction for almost a mile. I pointed out that Bonnie Brae was the closest ice cream to the school, but neither of them seemed to care, but they didn’t care. They scoffed at the mention of Bonnie Brae, and continued on their jaunt down Franklin, and away from the neighborhood I grew up in.
As we walked, we exchanged the information de rigueur among new school friends: Birthdays, favorite colors, class schedules, political affiliations, and religious beliefs.
I tried to guess at both of their birthdays and guessed both wrong. I guessed (or maybe hoped) that Able was a November Sagittarius — he was a July Leo. I guessed that Pedro Pete was a December Capricorn— he was a May Taurus with the same birthday as my grandfather. That sent a chill down my spine; I had a newfound sense of serendipity about our meeting.
Able asked me to guess his favorite color as well. I noticed then that he was wearing four or more shades of red. His shirt was red, his shoes were red, his backpack was red, he carried a red jacket. I deduced that the answer was red. I was correct. He asked what mine was, and I told him it was dark purple, because it was my favorite color to write in and paint my nails.
Able also revealed that he was a devout and practicing Christian, more devout than anyone I’d ever met in real life. He told me that he went to church every Sunday and Youth Group every Wednesday. He told me he was not vaccinated and that he would not get vaccinated. He told me that he was practicing abstinence until marriage and that he did not believe in divorce or abortion.
“Like you don’t think they’re real?” I joked. Though I don’t think anything could have masked my discomfort.
I thought of myself as a very open-minded and accepting person, and I tried to extend that attitude towards Protestants as much as anyone else, but that didn’t change the fact that they weirded me the hell out. Catholics I didn’t mind so much. As mentioned, three-quarters of my family is Catholic, and from what I’d seen, they tended to keep non-Catholic people out of their Catholic business as much as possible. The Protestants, on the other hand, all seemed like quicksand people. I’d experienced it from the summer missionaries at my mom’s apartment complex and occasionally from the kids at my middle school: they hold some sort of innocuous and fun-seeming event like a pool party or a barbecue — something with free food and agreeable music. They send out kids your age to invite you; they call it a “hangout”. You go, you have fun, you let your guard down, and suddenly you’re sitting in a circle, and they’re proselytizing to you. If you tell a Catholic that you’re Jewish, they’ll avoid the topic of religion like a wasp in their sunroom. You can tell a Protestant “Sorry, I’m Jewish,” until your throat gets sore; nothing will stop them from telling you that Jesus was the savior and he died for our sins.
So I tried to be accepting of everyone, but protestants made me uneasy. Able was making me uneasy.
“No, like I don’t think people who do those things are allowed into heaven,” he was not joking at all. He was the most serious I’d seen him yet.
“That seems a little extreme,” I said.
“What’s extreme about it?” he asked.
“Yeah, Milkweed,” Pedro Pete butted in, “what’s extreme about eternal damnation?” His tone told me that he wasn’t on the same page as Able when it came to this topic, but also that choosing to enter a debate about it was a losing battle.
Unfortunately, I can’t resist a good argument. So I pushed, “I just can’t really imagine any soul to be so beyond repair that it would deserve an eternity of pain and suffering… let alone the soul of a person who decided to do something as inconsequential as participate in premarital sex, abortion, divorce, or what ever else is considered ‘sinful’.”
“How can you say those things are ‘inconsequential’? All of those actions bear extreme consequences.”
“Extreme to the individual, maybe extreme to several individuals, but ultimately just a tossed pebble in a tidal wave. I can maybe accept the existence of hell for people like Hitler… people who reap mass destruction and hate. But generally, everything in life for normal people is too gray for anyone to judge.”
“You think murder, if committed by what you call a ‘normal person,’ is ‘too gray to judge’?”
“Are you still talking about abortion?” I asked.
“Abortion and all other murders,” he waved his hands as if he was gesturing to all the murders in the world.l
“Yes,” I answered simply.
“That’s messed up,” he said, as if his point had been made.
“Look!” We were approaching a Little Free Library; they were just beginning to crop up all around the city, and my grandmother had taken me on a driving tour to see some of her favorites just a couple weeks before. “I love these things,” I said as I cracked open its little glass door.
This Little Free Library presumably belonged to a professor at Denver University or maybe a grad student. All it had for fiction were a few tired-looking John Grishams. The rest of the books were dense, hard-cover academic texts. Their subjects ranged from Anatomy to Law to Psychology.
“You should pick one,” I said to Able.
He picked out one of the academic books, a red one.
I read the title “Behavioral Psychiatry and Therapy of the 20th Century. Are you interested in Psychology?”
“I might be after we read this book,” he answered as he tucked the book under his arm.
***
At fifteen, my map of the city was rough and simplified. I could have drawn a map of the entire South side of the city from Sheridan Boulevard to Monaco Parkway, and the West side from 44th Avenue all the way to Dartmouth Avenue. I could tell you the most interesting things in each of the three quadrants, and I could give you landmark directions to get from any one of these interesting locations to the next— though I couldn’t tell you how far any one of these things was from the next. Everywhere I’d ever been— with the exception of local parks and libraries— I’d been driven to.
As such, when we made it to Evans Avenue, it felt like we’d traveled a remarkable distance. Though it was only eight blocks.
I’d been under the impression that Able and Pedro Pete knew where we were going better than I did. They’d given me that impression, but as we stood at the intersection of Franklin and Evans, they both lost their sense of confidence.
“Okay,” Able clapped his hands, “there must be a good place to get milkshakes around here somewhere…”
They both stood with their hands on their hips, staring off in different directions like explorers sizing up their next range. I was incredulous.
“You two didn’t have an idea of where we were going?” I asked.
They both shook their heads no.
“Why didn’t we go to Bonnie Brae?” I asked.
“We didn’t want to go to Bonnie Brae,” Pedro Pete answered, seemingly annoyed that I was even bringing it up again.
“Let me ask someone,” Able said, surely sensing that I was growing tired of not having a milkshake.
He walked up to a college kid with headphones in and a binder under his arm. He was waiting for the light to change so that he could cross.
“Excuse me, good sir, do you know where my friends and I could obtain some milkshakes?” Able asked. If he’d had a cap, he would have tipped it; if he’d had a mustache, he would have twisted it.
The college kid looked over at Pedro and me and pointed East. “There’s a Ben and Jerry’s up there,” he said. Then he crossed the street, offering no further instructions.
“To Ben and Jerry’s!” Able turned on his heel and continued down Evans.
***
Ben and Jerry’s was another four blocks away, right in the middle of DU’s campus. I bought my strawberry shake with my own money and Able sat on the same side of the table as Pedro Pete, with me on the other side. I hadn’t been sure if Able had been trying to flirt with me or not over the first two weeks of school, though I was fairly certain by then that he was not. I was thinking that maybe instead this was just their way of inviting me into their friend group. Sitting opposite both of them at the table made me feel like I’d made it to round two of interviews.
My phone vibrated. My heart jumped because I was sure it was Bella finally texting me. I tried not to look too excited as I checked, but my effort was in vain.
I read the text:
Hey, cutie 🙂
It was from an unsaved number. I knew it was her.
I texted back:
heyyyy
“Who’s that?” Able asked. His brows were raised, his eyes attempting to peer over the edge of my phone screen.
I blushed. “It’s just someone from school,” I answered.
“Yeah, duh,” he rolled his eyes, “who from school?”
“This girl, Bella, I just met her.”
“Bella who?” he pressed on.
I was surprised by how interested he seemed to be in my social life, especially so soon after meeting me, but I supposed that was just how friendship was. Still, I was surprised with myself that I still didn’t even know Bella’s last name.
I told him I didn’t know, and then I told them both how I’d met Bella in the first place.
“Are you into that?” Able asked.
I blushed. I was still getting comfortable with openly discussing my queerness with people. I told him that I was, in fact, into that. I told both of them that I was bi, and I told them a little bit about Solaria and our summer love.
They nodded with understanding. Able changed the subject to the nose piercing I’d gotten over the summer. He was asking me why I’d decided to get it with a sort of evil tone in his voice. I was preparing to provide him with another explanation when the door chimed.
The three of us all turned to look at who had come in. It was an exceptionally cool-looking ninth grader, and she was walking directly over to us.
“Do any of you have a lighter?” she asked. Her voice was extremely delicate, matching her flower-like face.
I did have a lighter, though I didn’t smoke. I thought lighters were cool; I liked flicking them on and watching the flame until my fingertips got too hot to go on. And I liked being able to offer one to people in need. I found it to be a useful tool in obtaining social cred with other freaks and weirdos in my realm.
As I reached into my pocket, Able launched into a speech. This speech, while certainly more based than his speech on abortions and divorce, fell on equally deaf ears. Without asking the girl anything about herself beyond her grade, Able told her that she was throwing her life away by choosing to pick up such a dirty habit at such a young age. I think everyone agreed that he was right, but something in the way he spoke, as if he was above it all made it impossible to resonate with. I handed her the lighter anyway, maybe just to see if it would push him over the edge.
It didn’t, though he did tell me I was an enabler, and that I might as well have given her the cigarette myself. I felt a little guilty, though I didn’t think my personal lighter philosophy would change any time soon.
No matter how I pushed on Able’s philosophical buttons, he still seemed to want to go on hanging out. I guess he was used to people disagreeing with him, and maybe he still thought my soul was saveable. After milkshakes, the three of us walked around the DU campus until we found a shady place to read the book we’d picked out. After a half hour of popcorn reading, and only six pages completed. We decided the text was incomprehensible.
“We will pick out a better one next week,” Able declared.
“Are we getting milkshakes next week?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t we?” he asked back, as if milkshakes on Friday had been an established tradition between the three of us.
I found it to be incredibly comforting, so I couldn’t help smiling. “You’re right.”
When we were done reading, it was past six p.m., and I knew I had to get home. I knew that when I got home, things would be quiet and dark. I knew the air would be full of death, and my grandmother would be a version of herself that I was unfamiliar with, but I felt like I could handle it.
We took the long way back, stopping at the school to chat with Pedro Pete’s sister, Lilly. Lilly was a senior and a member of the student government. She was at the school enjoying a football game with some of her fellow preps. Able told me that he intended to marry her one day.
I nodded as if it was a perfectly normal thing to say.
I made it home by seven.
I wondered if my grandmother would scold me for being out so long, but she didn’t.
She was waiting for me in her bathrobe. The house was as dark and still as I’d expected.
She asked if I’d had fun.
I told her I did, and I told her I got a part in the play.
She gave me a half smile.
“That’s good, sweetie.” Then she told me that my grandfather had died that morning.
***
Life in the aftermath of my grandfather’s death was melancholy, but not bad. The house was haunted, but not scary. My grandmother would say she could feel Homer’s ghost creeping through the house, moving her belongings just to get a rise out of her. Maybe that was true; maybe it was her own passive telekinesis playing tricks on her, maybe she had a poultergiest.
In my free time, I explored the house. Cabinets that I was always too afraid to open as a little kid seemed to be oddly within reach. Their contents shook me to my core while simultaneously filling me with glee. One cabinet housed hundreds and hundreds of keys to people’s homes — Marge told me they were likely relics from Homer’s career as a handyman. I wondered if any of them still worked. I wondered how many houses in the Wash Park neighborhood I could just walk into if I’d wanted. Another held dozens of vintage buttons from old political campaigns. Another had several magnifying glasses and reading specs. I took souvenirs from each cabinet I opened, and placed them in my jewelry box only to take them out and admire them every night.
Probably reminded of her own mortality, Marge started to bequeath her own treasures unto me. Emerald rings, charm bracelets, trinkets she knew I would appreciate. These too lived in my jewelry box by day and occupied my imagination in the night.
My grandmother and I spent a good deal of time working through her VHS collection as well. We watched Teen Witch (1989), then Teen Wolf (1985), which led to Back to the Future (all three) and then Peggy Sue Got Married (1986). From Peggy Sue we went to Parenthood (1989) with Steve Martin, which led to The Lake House (2006).
These were the moments where we grieved to ourselves. In dark rooms, in front of the TV’s glow, the Milkweeds had time to think about their sadness in private.
When we dealt with the death, when the death was the issue at hand, our emotions got packed away. In the discussions about the price of cremation and urns, or in what the obituary would say, or in who needed to be invited to the memorial, we were not in mourning; we were a pragmatic American family. Routine was our greatest comfort.
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