Sep 2014
In an overpopulated world, vanity is necessary for survival. The need of the self, above all else, becomes a main factor in the daily pursuit of happiness. Anyone who’s made a difference was extremely aware of themselves, and that was the difference. Humankind is raised to do so, or at least the strongest among it are.
The depression came and went like strong tides. It seemed to be controlled by some satellite, indeed, some forlorn object which she could neither control nor pinpoint. Still, the presence was always there, surging predictably in what she considered routine cycles. “Is my entire life to be lived like this?” She looked for meaning in it. She looked for meaning in the root of it. The cause was disappointing.
She grew up to be a tall American stunner. She didn’t have to try to be slender and she didn’t have to try to be pretty—she merely was. This realization didn’t occur until she was eleven years old, though, and she went through childhood being gawky, wishing she was privileged and had male parts. As a younger girl, she noticed the gender differences among her peers in the ways they interacted. In elementary school, during recess, it was assumed that the boys would dominate the basketball courts and other “balled” sports and the girls stuck with jump ropes, hopscotch and jungle gyms. This carried on outside of school also.
The boys of the neighborhood would play games outside, showing off their competition, athleticism and strength, and she too wanted to play. She was occasionally allowed to partake in such activities of privilege, and her cousin who was similar in age lived across the street. “It’s okay, she can play with us,” he’d vouch for her, but if the majority ruled her out, she had to leave. Depending on who was present, the situation played out differently. “She’s a girl!” was the general excuse to not include her.
One day, however, the neighborhood boys did allow her to play a game with them. This game involved throwing and catching a ball, but whoever had the ball was targeted and sought after to be “smeared”. She felt proud that the boys finally decided to include her, although she didn’t question why they didn’t at first—the acceptance itself was enough for her. She stood on the field eagerly, reaching out her arms when she saw the ball fly in her direction and calling out to have the ball passed to her. They wouldn’t.
She was an obstacle, something to avoid running into another body that served no use to the boys, and therefore she was ignored. She was slighted by this, but retained her optimism and ran around in proximity, pretending to be involved. After several minutes of this, one boy, who was about to be smeared and had no other options of passing, tossed the ball to her. Thrilled, she caught it and ran. She was chased by the boys because she had the object they wanted, but once she gave it away, they immediately lost interest and chased whoever had it. That was the way the game was played.
The ball was passed to her twice again after the first time, before a particularly aggressive boy, who she recognized as one of the boys not wanting her to play, tripped her. She did not possess the ball, but he targeted her for some reason which she did not know. She stood up and resumed playing, but his aggressively towards her resumed, and he tripped her again. This time the other boys noticed. He laughed audibly and the other boys stared. Her humiliation caused her to shed tears, and the humiliation was further extended by this weakness. The drive of anger was stronger, however, and something inside her desperately and obsessively stirred.
She rose, and the act of standing up charged her wildly, so much that the drive of attacking him seemed like something she couldn’t suppress. She ran over to him and tackled him. She leapt towards him and forced him on the ground, and he pulled her shirt and tried to pin her down. She kept her legs strong and loose, maneuvering her body on top of his in a straddle he couldn’t escape. She looked down at his wretched face of what she viewed as hatred and she punched it again and again, cocking her right fist back and giving relentless blows as she could deliver them. He thrusted his hips up, knocking her off balance and slung his arm across, slapping her face and knocking her over.
They aggressively rolled around on the ground, and the other boys stared in amazement at the bizarre display. She felt the need to crush him, to hurt him, to show him pain he wouldn’t expect from her. She was awakened and aroused, strong and determined, and the rush of fighting gave her strength to use her body in ways she never before imagined. She regained her position on top of him, locking her legs against his side and began repeatedly scratching his face until she felt his skin cells collecting under her nails. The power she felt encouraged her to scratch harder, and his squirming body and scrunched face crying out in discomfort began to grow red. Lines of blood scattered across his face in vertical and diagonal directions, and her relentless lust for making him pay hampered her ability to measure the price paid.
A neighbor’s door opened, and before she could see who might see her, she rose up and ran away. The boys who stood staring rushed to the boy on the ground with the scratched face, ignoring her flee. She ran across to her house before anyone could notice. She never looked back, and when she got home, she hid under her bed for hours. During these hours, she felt the fear of having challenged conventions, and having lost control as a result. The combination made her feel in control for the first time in her six years of existence. Eventually her mother came into her room and asked what she was doing. “Nothing,” she sheepishly responded. She crawled out and left the room. Her mother’s initial concern subsided, as she knew her daughter was a queer girl.
The depression came and went like strong tides. It seemed to be controlled by some satellite, indeed, some forlorn object which she could neither control nor pinpoint. Still, the presence was always there, surging predictably in what she considered routine cycles. “Is my entire life to be lived like this?” She looked for meaning in it. She looked for meaning in the root of it. The cause was disappointing.
She grew up to be a tall American stunner. She didn’t have to try to be slender and she didn’t have to try to be pretty—she merely was. This realization didn’t occur until she was eleven years old, though, and she went through childhood being gawky, wishing she was privileged and had male parts. As a younger girl, she noticed the gender differences among her peers in the ways they interacted. In elementary school, during recess, it was assumed that the boys would dominate the basketball courts and other “balled” sports and the girls stuck with jump ropes, hopscotch and jungle gyms. This carried on outside of school also.
The boys of the neighborhood would play games outside, showing off their competition, athleticism and strength, and she too wanted to play. She was occasionally allowed to partake in such activities of privilege, and her cousin who was similar in age lived across the street. “It’s okay, she can play with us,” he’d vouch for her, but if the majority ruled her out, she had to leave. Depending on who was present, the situation played out differently. “She’s a girl!” was the general excuse to not include her.
One day, however, the neighborhood boys did allow her to play a game with them. This game involved throwing and catching a ball, but whoever had the ball was targeted and sought after to be “smeared”. She felt proud that the boys finally decided to include her, although she didn’t question why they didn’t at first—the acceptance itself was enough for her. She stood on the field eagerly, reaching out her arms when she saw the ball fly in her direction and calling out to have the ball passed to her. They wouldn’t.
She was an obstacle, something to avoid running into another body that served no use to the boys, and therefore she was ignored. She was slighted by this, but retained her optimism and ran around in proximity, pretending to be involved. After several minutes of this, one boy, who was about to be smeared and had no other options of passing, tossed the ball to her. Thrilled, she caught it and ran. She was chased by the boys because she had the object they wanted, but once she gave it away, they immediately lost interest and chased whoever had it. That was the way the game was played.
The ball was passed to her twice again after the first time, before a particularly aggressive boy, who she recognized as one of the boys not wanting her to play, tripped her. She did not possess the ball, but he targeted her for some reason which she did not know. She stood up and resumed playing, but his aggressively towards her resumed, and he tripped her again. This time the other boys noticed. He laughed audibly and the other boys stared. Her humiliation caused her to shed tears, and the humiliation was further extended by this weakness. The drive of anger was stronger, however, and something inside her desperately and obsessively stirred.
She rose, and the act of standing up charged her wildly, so much that the drive of attacking him seemed like something she couldn’t suppress. She ran over to him and tackled him. She leapt towards him and forced him on the ground, and he pulled her shirt and tried to pin her down. She kept her legs strong and loose, maneuvering her body on top of his in a straddle he couldn’t escape. She looked down at his wretched face of what she viewed as hatred and she punched it again and again, cocking her right fist back and giving relentless blows as she could deliver them. He thrusted his hips up, knocking her off balance and slung his arm across, slapping her face and knocking her over.
They aggressively rolled around on the ground, and the other boys stared in amazement at the bizarre display. She felt the need to crush him, to hurt him, to show him pain he wouldn’t expect from her. She was awakened and aroused, strong and determined, and the rush of fighting gave her strength to use her body in ways she never before imagined. She regained her position on top of him, locking her legs against his side and began repeatedly scratching his face until she felt his skin cells collecting under her nails. The power she felt encouraged her to scratch harder, and his squirming body and scrunched face crying out in discomfort began to grow red. Lines of blood scattered across his face in vertical and diagonal directions, and her relentless lust for making him pay hampered her ability to measure the price paid.
A neighbor’s door opened, and before she could see who might see her, she rose up and ran away. The boys who stood staring rushed to the boy on the ground with the scratched face, ignoring her flee. She ran across to her house before anyone could notice. She never looked back, and when she got home, she hid under her bed for hours. During these hours, she felt the fear of having challenged conventions, and having lost control as a result. The combination made her feel in control for the first time in her six years of existence. Eventually her mother came into her room and asked what she was doing. “Nothing,” she sheepishly responded. She crawled out and left the room. Her mother’s initial concern subsided, as she knew her daughter was a queer girl.
