Six Years

This is not the usual blog post of a poem or something I’ve written. This is a reflection of 6 years of my life. But before we go back let’s talk about the now. I know I could never live in Vermont when I grow up and graduate college. 6 years of my life spent at Harwood Union Middle/ High School ruined any hope of that. Not that I wanted to live there due to the weather but those 6 years made sure that wouldn’t happen. Looking back on it all I can clearly see I was depressed. When I check my Timehop app in the morning to see what exciting things I did on whatever date in whatever year I did it, it is obvious I was in an incredibly unhappy place. While I can’t place these events, there were two times during those 6 years I wondered if this was all life was ever going to be and wondering if it was worth living.

I’ve noticed more recently that I am negative when I am home on breaks. I don’t want to socialize with anybody and generally think badly of people. You may think this makes me a horrible person, and that is okay. But let me start from the beginning.

            I was going into 7^th grade at Harwood, a nervous, awkward, shy 13 year old with braces and some new clothes to start the year off right. I planned my outfit weeks in advance: a denim skirt, converse, and I believe I wore a ruffled tank top. The first day of school was fine. I sat in the front of all my classes to get the most out of what they were teaching, but after a while I people saw me as the teacher’s pet. I did all of the homework and turned every assignment in on time. Apparently people thought it was cool to hate teachers, talk behind their back and not do homework.

I had been warned about one teacher in particular before even starting middle school. Everyone said he was horrible, and people didn’t like him even before they started school there. I wanted to make my own decision and he ended up being one of my favorite teachers. I told people that when they said he wasn’t good or was weird or creepy. They would shoot me down and say it was weird I thought he was a good teacher.

            One day we were getting changed after gym when a girl I thought was my friend said to me, “You know if you weren’t friends with _________________ you would be popular.” I was shocked that someone would say that. I told her, “I’d rather have one real friend than a bunch of fake ones.” And I can tell you that if I stopped being friends with my one friend things probably would have turned out differently. I would have probably been popular at least for 2 years. I am so thankful I didn't take her up on that offer. However that was probably the tipping point.

            I went to a friend’s birthday party and I was so excited. We had been friends for a while. I recently felt as though we were drifting apart but I thought her invitation to her party meant that things were going to get better. I was wrong. For most of the party I was bullied. I was told to close my eyes and get off the trampoline everyone was jumping on. I got off the trampoline and sat on the ground but I never closed my eyes. Luckily I was getting picked up before the sleepover (I was never a sleepover person). I told my Mother it was horrible. However, at my request she couldn’t tell my “friend’s” mom as that would only make things worse for me at school, not better.

I was bullied on the bus by a boy who said, “nobody liked me, I had no friends, I was ugly and I was a loser”. This went on for about a month. The bus driver did nothing (the bus driver has the important job of getting everyone home alive). There were days I got off the bus crying. I would hold it in up until we got to my stop. Finally I let my Mother called the principal, she talked to her and it stopped. I hated that I couldn’t have dealt with it on my own.

            8^th grade wasn’t all that great either. One teacher in particular seemed to love to hate me. But then again she hated most students. I looked forward to 9^th grade when we would merge with another middle school. I didn’t go to any birthday parties, which was a relief.

            9^th grade seemed okay as people were generally trying to get a feel for whom they were up against. I was still seen as the teacher’s pet that did all the homework, raised my hand for every question, and turned assignments in on time. I did the spring musical, which was fun as well as the one act festival, which was fun, but I felt excluded many times. Looking back, I think I liked acting so much because it was an escape from who I was and the world I was in and the people I was dealing with. I still enjoy acting, but now I enjoy the world I am in (for the most part).

            In 10^th grade I did the fall play, which didn’t go well. I was excluded by all the thespians (people who act), their jokes, and sometimes people would just look at me and laugh. But being on stage made up for most of it. I felt free and didn’t have to worry about what other people thought. I felt like I was in a different world.

            In 11^th grade I acted in the fall play (The Crucible) where, in one scene I sat on a bench with a bunch of other girls. They all had jokes, which, of course I was not, included in. Excluding people hurts. Please remember that next time you think its funny. They would also audibly talk about me. This happened in years past as well but I never had to sit on a bench with the people who talked about me. This was the hardest year for me. I judged myself harshly, what I wore, how I acted, how my hair and makeup looked. And to me it was never good enough. 

One of my guy friends invited me to a party in this shack in the woods where people get shit-faced and do who knows what else. I was about to respond when a really popular boy said, “Oh she can’t come. Don’t invite her. She would call the cops on us.” My guy friend nodded in agreement and took back the invitation. Towards the end of the year all three of my friends abandoned me, all in the same day, for a reason I am still unsure of.

            I was also being bullied by freshmen. While I was a junior, freshmen were bullying me. Not just any freshmen, but those who were or wanted to be my brother’s friends. I complimented one girl on her dress one day and she flipped her hair and walked away. Trust me, I said it loud enough. Sometimes they even pretended to be nice to me in a backstabbing sort of way. They would be friendly one day and talking about me behind my back (but so I could still hear) the next. Because of this year I became quieter and quieter. I stopped talking much during play practice and just watched. I went onstage when required and off when I was supposed to. Backstage I did a lot of homework and stopped making attempts to socialize. This was also the year I met some very nice, amazing, incredibly unpopular (like me) people who did the musical. We haven’t stayed in touch but I am sure they are doing great things! We all went to prom together as a group and it was a lot of fun. You don’t need to be popular to have a good time you just need a good group of friends.

(No, this is not the best picture of us, but we were dysfunctional and broke the 'norm'.)

            My senior year was uneventful but carried over much of the bullying other years had. Freshmen and sophomores threw spitballs at me on the bus, which I told them to stop doing. It still happened frequently. I also felt bullied/ left out by some teachers who favored the popular kids. This was probably because they weren't popular in high school and suddenly felt a need to suck up so they would be everyone's favorite teacher. Well almost everyones. And don’t worry; I was made fun of even on graduation day. Why would I put rhinestones on my graduation cap? Apparently to some people it looked stupid.

Sometimes after I graduated I told myself I imagined everything and I wasn't bullied or left out as much as I thought I was. Then I talked to several other girls who went to Harwood and told me they experienced and felt the same way I did. If you are bullied don't ever tell yourself that you are alone or making it up in your head, because you aren't.

            I’m not looking for pity here so don’t feel bad for me. Just please, please, please be incredibly aware of your actions. Be kind to everyone. Remember that every person is fighting a battle, whether visible or not. If you have children talk to them about bullying. So many people take their lives over this and it needs to stop. Even people who don’t commit suicide, their lives are forever changed. When going shopping up in Burlington I have to pass Harwood. My heart speeds up and most times I feel as though I’m going to throw up. There were many times my parents could have stepped in. They could have contacted the drama teacher, the principal and/ or other teachers. But many times it can make the situation worse. Please be mindful of your words and actions towards others. They have a much bigger effect than you can even begin to imagine.

Grampy Bob

Dear Grampy Bob,

There is just so much say. You were one of the most amazing and supportive people I ever met. I knew you played baseball at Harvard but we never talked about it. You wanted to talk about what I liked to do. You wanted to hear about plays and musicals that I did, and what I wanted to do when I grew up. You'd always say in your Massachusetts accent,  'that's very good Emma A.' Whether it was grades, passing a test, deciding to be a teacher or getting a part in a school play, that was always your reaction. 

You had a great laugh and smile. Whenever you called you always said 'hello? I know you're home.' Before proceeding to list everyone in the houses name including Simon. You loved Simon and called him Si-Si. While I'm not looking forward to the day Simon dies I know he already has someone up there waiting for him. 

While I'm writing this I still don't believe you are gone. 

I flew down to Florida two days after and I still didn't believe it. I still don't. When it was too much I went to your office and shut the door. If I thought I was going to cry sitting in there got rid of the tears before they could even escape. I felt so okay. 

But I still don't believe it. I'm sitting here crying and I don't believe it. I can't wrap my head around it. 

Not only were you one of the most supportive people in my life, you were one of the most influential. First comes Caleb, then my parents and then my grandparents. My parents are each half of their parents. 

A little piece of my heart broke off Saturday, February 7th and it will never be glued back on. 

XOXO

Emma A.

Luke

A boy died.

Not just any boy.

A boy I’ve been following on Facebook.

He was 2 and a half and his Mommy wrote on the Facebook page almost every day.

I felt her pain through the struggles, the countless surgeries, her daughter’s flu when little Luke was about to be admitted to the ICU. I’ve followed their journey for the past year and a half.

And then yesterday at 12:45 pm it was over.

He died.

And even though the Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome killed him, he fought. And he fought with a smile every day a new picture would be put up of him smiling at his 6 year old sister, Mommy or Daddy.

But it’s over.

So fast.

A blink of an eye.

For the first time in a long time I sat at my desk, my chest heaving and I cried.

I asked God why babies have to die.

I asked God why I keep following these pages, which have all ended in death.

I don’t understand.

Why did he have to die?

Why was it him?

He didn’t even get to live!

His life consisted of pokes of needles, cuts into flesh and fast rides in ambulances.

But he still smiled.

Despite it all he still smiled.

Even in his last day of life he smiled. 

I had a friend

I had a friend.

We used to be good friends, maybe even great.

We hung out all the time, watched TV, played games.

She even helped me clean my room when it was messy.

I’d tell her not to come over because my room wasn’t clean and she always said she didn’t mind helping.

My generation doesn’t call people up to see how they are doing. We stalk them online with apps like Facebook and Instagram.

I chose Instagram because it’s all pictures and pictures are worth a thousand words.

All I was was disappointed.

This old friend was having trouble at school so her parents sent her to a private school.

Her pictures were of a good girl gone bad. Wild child…. almost Miley Cyrus-like. Probably worse.

There was a picture of her clearly naked in bed with her boyfriend here.

Another of booze with friends there, while not seeming to care how incredibly illegal it all was.

The worst was booze, and marijuana. When I was younger and we were friends, I never thought she would be the way she is. Part of me wanted to email her and say ‘what happened?! If you need help or anything let me know.’ But I know it wouldn’t do anything.

I can’t imagine how her parents feel who probably had to cut back to send her to a private school in the first place. They send her there because she was making bad decisions in public school where you still come home every night. Private school a few states away, or more like boarding school would only be worse. No parents, no rules, nothing and no one to tell her what is good and bad.

Then I wondered if they sent her away because they didn’t know how to tell her what she was doing was wrong. And they thought just by sending her to some far away school that would fix here.

Well, they couldn’t have been more wrong.

Last Christmas with Grammy

I wrote this on December 24th and didn't write it for my blog and after May 24th I knew I didn't want to share it. But now I want to share it because I don't think poems and writings are made for just one person. They are made for sharing. To spread feelings and bring back memories.

She walks in, slowly and eases into a stiff wooden chair.

Her walker is moved to a corner, far out of reach.

The children run around, moving constantly.

She leans back, tired, breaking into a cracker with a cheese spread. She has a little bourbon with a lot of water.

I sit down and talk to her, we talk every Christmas. Each year it’s a different topic. This year its college. How do I like it? Did it take a while to get aquianted, etc.

All I want to do is ask questions. In the time I don’t see her I think of questions.

Questions of the past.

I think of questions at the most unlikely of times, walking to class, taking a shower, falling asleep, watching a movie. I write all these questions down on small scraps of paper, inevitably lose them and can’t remember them once given the opportunity.

King George the sixth- she doesn’t remember anything about him nor does she say she ever followed what was going on with the royal family.

The 1940’s and 50’s- women used self tanner like lotion on their legs when stockings were too expensive and it got all over everything, furniture, clothes, hands, it never dried. So women gave up.

What about drawing eyeliner on the backs of their legs?

That was earlier, but when there were sales on stockings, women lined up and it became a massacre (massacre wasn’t her choice of words, but it was something along those lines).

She moves from the stiff wooden chair where children are running and dancing nonstop to another wooden chair to eat dinner. I eat in a separate room.

After dinner she moves into the living room, it’s a process.

She sits down for a third time now in a comfortable winged chair near the doorway. Her walker is moved again, far away this time in a different room.

I sit next to her and we talk.

As people open presents I notice her feet in her small black lace up sneakers. Her black translucent socks rolled over. Her ankles chaffing. I imagine her dancing in the 30’s and 40’s.  Her now slow feet swirling around a room in a shin length dress in a pale blue, patent red shoes, a band in the background.

We talk about the 40’s and 50’s, the dresses, the fashion.

I show her my dress from the President’s Ball and she liked its pale pink color and 1940’s shape.

She stands up to leave from her 100^th Christmas Eve, not coming Christmas Day and I take her coffee cup, bringing to the kitchen.
I wonder how many things her tired hands have held, a rattle, a blanket, hugging her Mother, Harry’s hand, Grandpa, cupcakes, paintings, shaking hands and many other things.

She gets help walking to the door and as she leaves I can’t help but think of all the things that happened in her life, so many moments, memories, people who have come and gone, Christmas’ and each new year.

Year after year I am thankful for the time I get to spend with her. Each year is more and more precious. One more year she is here.

And I’ll remember her like this. Old, folding over, needing help with everything.

But she was once a child, laughing, running around, free to roam. She was a teenager, sneaking off at night, climbing through her second story window (at least that’s how I imagine it). She was a young adult, middle aged. Watched her son grow, then her grandchildren and now her great grandchildren. But I won’t remember her that way. I’ll imagine her now, like this forever. But I’d like to imagine her dancing forever with Harry in her light blue dress, and patent red heals with a swing band, dancing forever.

~ Because someone we love is up in Heaven, there's a little bit of Heaven in our home. ~

How Can I Keep From Singing?

4/15/13- Boston Marathon Bombings 

“My life goes on, in endless song. Above earth’s lamentation.

I hear a real though far off hymn that yields a new creation.

No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging,

love be Lord of Heaven and Earth…. How can I keep from singing?”

A loud bang breaks the silence.

Screams erupt from every direction.

One runner falls to the ground, his seventy-eight year old legs unable to keep him up any longer after the past four hours, nine minutes and forty-six seconds that they have carried him.

Volunteers in bright lime green jerseys run away from the sound, moving to the other side of the road.

A moment later another blast comes from fifty to one hundred yards down the road.

Chaos.

Confusion.

Fear.

Watching the television for around five hours, watching the news updates.

First a few were injured.

Then ten.

Twenty.

A third controlled explosion.

Decided as bombings.

Thirty.

The same clips and reels played again, and again. 

And again.

Fifty.

Two more bombs found, unexploded.

Ninety.

A press conference with Head of the Fire Department and Governor.

One Hundred.

Are there more?
Helplessness.

“My life goes on…”

Togetherness.

“In endless song…”

Wholeness.

“Above earth’s lamentation…”

Reaching for hope. Nobody died. Not yet.

Two are dead.

“No storm can shake my inmost calm…”

Obama speaks.

“Is this an act of terror?”

JFK Library fire.

“While to this rock I’m clinging”

“Are these events related?”

One hundred thirty hurt.

Three dead.

One is an eight year old.

Someone is being questioned.

It is recognized as an act of terror.

“… How can I keep from singing?”

Taken by: Emma on 4/15.