Blog #6: On Note-Passing

            Sitting two seats away from each other, my best friend Emily and I exchanged sideways glances. Her dirty blonde hair almost identical to my own was on the very top of her head in a perky messy ponytail while my own was fashioned in a messy bun. In my striped purple shirt and sparkly studded jeans she was my counterpart in her hot pink skirt and jean skort. It was the fifth grade and that Christmas we had attended a Mary-Kay party teaching us the essential techniques in order to fashion our make-up with style and grace. You could see this by our matching shimmery baby pink lip gloss and our use of clear mascara; we weren’t allowed to use black yet. Emily had just begun crushing on the boy that sat one row ahead of us and two seats to the left, Miguel. Oh, dear Miguel. He was one of the smartest in the class, in not only that he knew all the answers to our long division problems but he also was the class clown. Perching her chin in her palm she gazed at him contently and gaze a dramatic sigh. Then jumping as if startled, she started feverishly writing on a piece of lined paper as our teacher, with her back facing the class, wrote instructions of our next task on the blackboard. Giraffe-like, I stretched up and over trying to make out what the heck she was doing. Folding it with perfection we both became lost in her origami creation of the perfect note for passing. She slid it to the person next to her and before another blink had settled our teacher made both of us jump this time as she snatched the note right from the desk and walked back to the front of the class. My jaw dropped contrasting with the jolt of both my eyebrows to the crown of my forehead. Another sideways glance at Emily told me that she was as red as the lipstick Jordy Rhorman had worn to school without her mother’s permission. She slowly slid deep into her seat and all I could think about was what could possibly be in that note. Being the best friend that I am, I exclaimed loudly and dramatically, ”Please don’t read it! We’ll do anything!”

Blog #5: Oh Stretch Marks

            My sister pulls her shirt up to underneath her breasts so that we can see her watermelon tummy. It is so large that I can’t help but think that something other than a baby must be hiding in there. Red, as bright as fire, squiggly lines run up and down her stomach, just like how green ones run up watermelons. Treena, my sister, has me put my hand on her stomach, feeling for a little kick. The little red worms were like outlines of where to place my hand. Deeply embedded and run tight. Tiger Stripes. After nine months of carrying a baby and four hours of hard labor, she earned every one of those tiger stripes. Her bravery and strength defined in every one.

When, you think of scars, you think of someone’s uniqueness. You think of how that separates them from any other person. A scar shows something painful you went through, and survived in the end. If you Google stretch marks, the first thing to find is how to remove them. Stretch marks are also scars, but why are these scars ones that no one feels pride for?  When someone receives these marks it is merely a representation of rapid growth or weight change.

If I take off my shirt, I also see those same squiggly lines run up my love handles and run from my armpits to the outside of my breasts. I used to think that these stripes aren’t something that I earned. They are things that I actually worked hard not to receive. Scars are supposed to show that you’ve gone through something painful and gotten through it. If I think about it, my tiger stripes were given to me when I went back to school and no longer had a B cup but went to a full flown DD. Those tiger stripes were given to me for holding my head high as I went from a lanky adolescent to an hourglassed woman. These battle scars are proof that I lived through those stares, through the not being able to wear the same size of jeans, through the being sized in the middle of Victoria’s Secret. Head held high, chin pointing towards the sky, representing my stripes with pride.

Blog #4: Velvety Head

            I got the call at about 8:30 AM. It’s going to happen today they say, I need to bring coffee for everyone they say, I’m not going to school today they say, I need to hurry they say. It happened at 8:52 AM. I was actually able to go see her about fifteen minutes later. The walls are white and smooth, as is everything else. Clean. Tidy. It smells like old people. Walking down the narrow hallway, the florescent lights beat down on top of us, illuminating the way. My armpits are either sweating because of the lights or because I was nervous. Gage, my best friend, walks a step behind me, carrying the tray of Starbucks beverages we had brought along with us. In my hands are a bunch of baby pink balloons and a floral printed stuffed elephant. We turn down the maternity ward and walk through the doors. A chubby Hispanic nurse at the desk is busy at work, typing things down with a smile on her face.

“Excuse me?” I say just above a whisper.

Not even looking up from her work she replies, “What family?”

“What?” I whisper again, confused, leaning over the counter.

Looking annoyed but still smiling she replies, “Which family are you here to see darling?”

“Treena Kilsdonk? Well actually her real name is Matreena Kilsdonk, but it might be under Matreena Revoir? That’s her boyfriend’s name. Not Matreena. Revoir.”

Looking back down at her work she replies, “Treena is in room 2A to your left.”

            I say thank you and shuffle down the hallway to my sister’s room. Treena is sitting upright, looking normal. You wouldn’t have guessed that she just ejected a 5 lb., 12 oz., 19 inch baby. Treena’s eyes glisten and sparkle when she sees me, “Would you like to hold her?” I tried to protest, “I’ll drop her, she’s too fragile.” Treena doesn’t listen to my words as she lifts and slides the little thing in the crook of my arm. We kind of just stare at each other for a while. Then she smiled, my little niece smiled. A sleepy, comfortable, happy baby smile. “She’s beautiful” I whisper as I felt her velvety soft head.

Blog #3: The Cinnamon Bear

As Abby gabbed to me, I peered over my shoulder and surveyed the people around us. An elderly woman slowly pushing a shopping cart loaded with cans of Cat food, a ginger lady that looked about my Mother’s age filling a bag filled with M&M’s and then a Win-Co worker in a red vest strolled by. He was a bland person, one of those average joes that don’t stand out and you can’t remember their features. I raised my eyebrows and smiled meagerly at him turning back around towards Abby. She kept chattering about her boyfriend Nick until I scanned back over my shoulder to see if the worker had left. As soon as he did, I popped a chocolate covered cinnamon bear in my mouth. It was rich yet fiery and thrilling. Perked up all my taste buds. She didn’t even see me do it. No one saw me do it. No one will ever know. She kept waving her hands around telling this exaggerated story as I looked through the rest of the candy. Licorice? Sour Jacks? Kisses? Wait, yes. Sour Jacks. As she scooped some candy ropes into a bag I popped a Sour Jack into my mouth. I couldn’t help but smiling as I listened to her boring story, chewing my prize slowly. This one spoke to the sides of my tongue, making it flutter with sourness. I worked hard to keep my face composed. My chest began to flutter and I wanted to keep going and going. It all tasted so wonderfully. My cheeks started to get rosy and my fingers tingled. I wanted one of each. I tossed around the idea in my head on if what I was doing was morally wrong. I couldn’t come to an answer. I still had the sugary grinds on my tongue left over from the bright green Sour Jack as I realized that there were no signs that said sampling the candy wasn’t allowed. Abby looked directly at me while finishing up her story as I bravely grabbed another chocolate covered cinnamon bear and popped it in my mouth. I winked at her and started walking away. She said nothing but simply started chuckling to herself.