*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 11/18
Essay #7: The Importance of Rules
(My least favorite essay topic to date. The whole class, all thirty of us, had to write this essay after a small group of people were late coming back to the bus after seeing an exhibit at the Santa Monica Pier. Heather, Sara, James, and John should have had to write this essay and the rest of us should have just made fun of them, but that didn’t happen because they are popular and that’s just one of the important rules of life: popular people have a get-out-of-jail-free card, which is literally true for O.J. Simpson, according to my father. Credit for completion on this one.)
Daniel Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
Rules are super important. Without rules, there would be chaos. Because some people at the History of Thanksgiving exhibit today didn’t follow the rules, there was chaos. Heather, Sara, James, and John (two popular couples, as you know) spent way too much time fooling around on the pier and then sauntered back late to the bus carrying French fries. The rest of us had to wait on the bus, and Ms. Harrison (as you know) was really angry because first she couldn’t find the missing kids because of all the tourists walking about and all the swooping seagulls, but also she was afraid we would hit rush-hour traffic and then not get back to school on time. Kids breaking rules was going to cause the teacher to break a rule, which I guess is that if you take kids on a field trip, you have to get them back to school before the bell rings.
As a woman of sorts myself, I am glad there are rules, honestly. Sometimes when I am really upset I want to do some truly socially unacceptable things that I would carry out if there weren’t real life consequences for my urges. So rules are good to protect me from doing things that would harm others or me or just embarrass me. For instance, last month there were about two days that I just wanted to cry over everything.
I was shopping with my mom at the grocery store, and this model woman and her beautiful daughter came up to talk to my mom. I guess my mom sold them a house, and so they were very friendly. When my mom introduced me to them as her daughter, they both had this sort of shocked look on their faces like they couldn’t believe I was Evelyn’s daughter. I pulled my stretchy hat down over my eyes to try to avoid their gaze, but my mom gave me a nudge, which meant she wanted me to try to be social. I’m sure it is hard for my mom in situations like this. She didn’t know when I was a tiny, cute baby that I would grow up to be an ugly teenager. Anyway, these chicks really were disgusted with me, and I just wanted to punch them in the face, and I think I might have if there weren’t laws to prevent me. (Although, there should be laws preventing people from looking at you in a disgusted way just because you aren’t pretty.)
I imagined myself grabbing a bunch of food from the frozen food aisle and whizzing it at their perfect little noses and breaking them. I wanted the girl to have to go to school with a big swollen nose and a big black eye. That really isn’t a very nice thing for me to think. But thank goodness there are rules in this world and because of that I didn’t mess up those women’s faces.
Teacher comments: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Danielle. You are too hard on yourself.
*SECRET ME-MOIR ENTRY* 11/30
Secret #3: My F’d-Up Meeting with Marv
We had Thanksgiving break and I stuffed myself silly. It was awesome to see Aunt Joyce and spend the whole time watching Masterpiece Theater and old BBC videos, which inspired us to speak with British accents all weekend. I did not think that when I came back to school Ms. Harrison would remember that she wanted me to see Marv, the school psychologist. But apparently the woman has a memory like an elephant.
The day we got back to school, I had to wait outside Marv’s office for everyone and their mother to see me. First, Sara walked by after being in the nurse’s office, her second home, and as she limped by she piled all her brown hair on the top of her head as if its weight on her shoulders was simply too much to bear. She let out a sigh and gave me this obnoxious look of “just what are you doing here?” because, I swear, she has marked the counseling and nurse’s offices as her private territory. So now I guess she thinks I’m trying to steal her medical staff. Hardly.
Jacob took some note to the front office and saw me sitting there wearing my gray fedora and he said, “nice hat,” but what’s terrible is that I was reading Jane Eyre, and Jacob is not stupid. I’m sure he found it laughable that someone like me would lose myself in such a novel. I will be no one’s Jane Eyre. (Well, I might end up like the Jane Eyre of the first half of the novel, who works as a nanny and takes abuse from the dark and troubled hero. But I can’t imagine that I’d ever reach her level of redemption.)
I finally got into Marv’s cramped office and had to sit on the only chair available: a red one shaped liked a giant hand. So weird. The chair made me feel like a dwarf, but the small room made me feel like a giant. My equilibrium was way off. He sat behind his desk and didn’t say anything forever. So awkward. I felt compelled to speak.
“So who is that hippie with the clown nose?” I asked about one of the framed posters on the wall.
“Oh, that’s Wavy Gravy. You know him?” I shook my head. “He’s an activist hero of mine. When I was a kid, this guy was fighting to make a better world. He got beat up by the authorities so often he decided to become a clown. What a genius reaction. Inspiring, right?”
I didn’t understand but I said yes just so we could move on. I stared at my confused reflection in the giant peace-symbol mirror Marv had behind his desk and tried to change my expression to a look of intense interest. I picked up one of the pet rocks he had on his desk and nodded in approval. Who knows of what. I was improvising.
Marv finally said, “I know I’m not much of a hippie on the outside. Good haircut, collared shirts, and ties are the rules of the job, but inside, my heart is all Wavy Gravy.”
“Mmm. Nice. I think I’ve had his ice cream.”
From that strange moment, Marv commented on how unique it was that I italicize all the vocabulary words in my English essays. I let him think it was unique instead of telling him I have to or something bad might happen.
Then he saw my copy of Jane Eyre and complimented me on my high-brow literary tastes. He didn’t know that when I read such stories, I lower the brow. I picture the heroine as a girl with rolls and rolls of fat on her stomach and cellulite on her thighs and the hero, Mr. Rochester in this case, likes her anyway. I know enough not to throw my crazy front and center like that on a first meeting. I actually said very little to Marv and thought I made a clean getaway, but when I got home, I found out he talked to Mom: I have to join a social skills class and start taking yoga. Damnit.
*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 12/5
Essay #8: Movie Magic
(Apparently, not my best effort. D)
Danielle Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
This is a very broad topic, Ms. Harrison. I’m just saying. I’ve decided I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me recently with regard to movies. It stresses me out a little when I think about this incident, so I’ve put on my black combat Chucks while I write this essay because those give me a sense of control, albeit a false sense, I know.
I used to be allowed to order whatever films I wanted through my family’s online subscription. I am not allowed to do that anymore. What happened is not even really my fault, but my parents don’t see it that way.
I wanted to rent this Jake Gyllenhaal movie called Brothers after I heard Sara and Heather talking about how good it was. I had never heard of it, but the title made me think it was a nice family-type film. Also, I think Jake Gyllenhaal is super cute. He reminds me of a real life person, who, for reasons I can’t explain here, will remain nameless.
So, I rent Brothers. Did you know that some American movies are remakes of movies made in other countries? I had no idea until this unfortunate incident. Oh, I better explain something else to you, too. I am not allowed to watch super-violent movies. My parents are against me doing that, and, quite frankly, I’m just not the kind of person who can handle seeing disturbing, violent images on film. That’s a good FYI for you in case you were planning to show us any slasher films in class. LOL.
Brothers comes in the mail and I start watching it, and, to my shock, it’s in Swedish or Danish or some interesting language like that. I’m thinking, whoa, Jake Gyllenhaal is way smarter than I thought. So, I’m watching this movie and Jake is nowhere to be found, but I assume he’s coming up somewhere. But, some SUPER-upsetting moments happen while I’m waiting for his entrance. Just one example: one guy in the film is forced by a psychopath to kill his cellmate or else he will be killed himself. That is an impossible situation to be in and so horrific. I had a meltdown. I froze like a deer caught in headlights and then started breathing rapidly, and the movie kept playing and Jake never showed up, and I was watching the scenes while crying and stuff, but my eyes would not unglue from the screen no matter what. Eventually, I curled up in a fetal position. On top of that, I had left a baked potato in the oven and it was burning in there and I wasn’t even aware of that because of the trauma of the film.
My dad came home from work and saw the smoke in the kitchen and what was happening to me, and he sent me to my room. He got emotional over all my emotions. Bye-bye ordering-my-own-movies privileges.
Jake Gyllenhaal is in the American version of that movie, but I am not allowed to see it. My father had a long talk with me about reading the descriptions of the movies before they are ordered. That’s what responsible adults do. My father is very in to me behaving “like a responsible adult” and learning to understand myself better and knowing what I can tolerate. Believe me, I’m grateful that he is always trying to help me in this way, but it is stressful because, obviously, I don’t always live up to expectations.
So, then, I went through my parents’ movie collection and found Brokeback Mountain and watched that because I was in a Jake Gyllenhaal mood. If you haven’t seen that movie, OMG, it’s depressing. I cried during that one, too, but I did it quietly and watched it on my computer in my room surrounded by my hats, my snow globes, and all the postcards on my headboard. After the movie it took me days to hang my hats back on my wall in the right order and to categorize the snow globes as I wanted them. But, the effort was time well spent.
Mainly, that movie made me think about an article I read in an entertainment magazine. While his male costar was getting to fall in love and have a baby during the filming of that movie, Jake was breaking up with his girlfriend. That had to be really hard to handle in the moment, watching someone else be happy all the time. Jake couldn’t have known then that his costar was destined for such an early and tragic death. He couldn’t have conceived that life would do that to him. No one imagines such a thing. I am sure Jake is now walking around this planet ruined, and I ache for him. The wheel of fortune is unfathomable.
So, there’s movie magic for you. These particular movie experiences sent me for a whirl, for sure.
Teacher comments: Not the tone I was looking for. Please pay attention in class when I give the guidelines for the assignment or check them online before proceeding.
*SECRET ME-MOIR ENTRY* 12/6
Secret #4: Too Secret to Title
(So secret that I am hot while writing it, will die if ever read by another soul.)
I have no right to love Jacob Kingston, and the only thing that makes it acceptable in my own mind that I have these feelings is that they physically hurt. I think about him and my chest tightens, I can’t breathe, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
Last year in U.S. history, our teacher assigned us partners to work with on a research project. Mr. Resurrection (that’s really his name) paired me with Jacob. I didn’t love Jacob then. I didn’t love anyone.
On the first day of the project, while we were poring over the handouts, Jacob looked up from his stack and said, “You have really cool green eyes.” That one sentence started all this pain.
Jacob is the most popular, good-looking guy in the class. He is dating the most gregarious, generous girl in the class, but she is not the most beautiful—that’s Heather, the blond bombshell, who has told us a million times about how she’s been photographed for magazines. Jacob’s girlfriend, Keira, is tiny but athletic, and her short, thick black hair is a lovely contrast to her porcelain skin. Her cheeks and lips are naturally rosy, so she never needs makeup. Somehow, I love Jacob more because he loves Keira. I’m sure he loves how she laughs well and at all the right times, how her short hair can be styled in a million fun ways, and how she fits in everywhere. Keira includes people.
Last summer, I actually went to a pool party because a parent invited the entire class, and my parents forced me to go. I sat in a chair under a tree with my giant yellow sun hat tilted over my face for most of the day. When I was brave enough to look out from underneath its rim, I watched Jacob hold Keira on his shoulders in the pool while she shot everyone with a water gun. He was so careful with her, not wanting her to fall off or be uncomfortable. He held on to her so tightly. In that pool and all over campus, they appear to be one living being, the way couples are supposed to be.
Jacob is the quarterback of our football team, and God, that makes him even hotter. It’s so embarrassing to admit this but I bought a San Francisco 49ers’ snow globe because that is Jacob’s favorite team. I kinda hide that one behind the other twenty-seven in my room because it doesn’t fit in, and I don’t want anyone to ask me why I have a football team snow globe. Although, I could always tell people that several members of The Romantic Era were football players—it’s true—and that’s why I have that snow globe. That’s good thinking.
Jacob has beautiful wavy brown hair that I stare at in every class because how can I possibly avoid looking at him when there are only a dozen kids in each class and Cruel Fate scheduled me in every one of Jacob’s this year? Sigh. I would love to move my fingers through his hair; I picture doing that sometimes. His brown eyes are so big and kind and appear hungry for all there is to see. Someday, maybe my eyes will find a way to want to see all there is to see, too.
There are some days that I remember what Jacob said to me about my eyes, and I try to remember that for as long as I can instead of thinking about the thing I can’t ever forget. Some feelings are so big they will swallow you whole. You have to do something to protect yourself from the swallowing.
The knot in my stomach is bigger than ever.
*MENTAL HEALTH MISSIVE* 12/8
Letter #1 for the Commitment Hearing Committee (so they know what was the beginning of the end of any piece of sanity I had left in high school).
Dear Commitment Hearing Committee that is not currently real but could materialize should things get worse from here due to my social skills class.
A social skills class can really be of no benefit if everyone in the class has no viable social skills. Hasn’t some expert thought this through a little more fully? None of us is going to evolve into anything beyond our misfit selves if we have no one to emulate. I fear we will stay stuck as a sour group of potential.
I swallowed the lump in my throat for the entire two hours, and picked obsessively at loose threads on my red Chucks and my blue conductor hat, thinking just how far off course my life has gone that I’ve ended up here with these people in the basement of a dilapidated Presbyterian church whose membership is obviously dwindling. The fluorescent lighting made me feel like a criminal under interrogation.
I’ll just list the stats as they exist at this point:
Charles—stiff as a board, bug-eyed, monosyllabic, possible hermaphrodite, grunge-band-group wannabe.
Megan—very pretty but seems to have no idea about that, stares at floor or inside her sweater at all times, picks her fingernails or unravels sweater, speaks so quietly I can never hear her.
Andy—smells awful, really awful, makes me want to gag, probably just needs to be told to shower regularly, get a hair cut, and wear something other than all black and he may be functional out in the world.
Iggie—makes things out of paper the entire time.
Daniel—most normal member of group. He has awesome black hair that is just a little too long. I think he keeps it that way on purpose because when he gets all passionate about what he is saying he jerks his head dramatically and flips his bangs out of his face. He wore a flannel shirt over a Che Guevera print tee, black Chucks, and was obviously pissed about being in this class: I like him for all those things. I kept staring at him. I’m sure he thinks I’m a freak.
At one point he said, “Look, life is what you make it and I feel the monastery offers an elevated existence that is actually more real than the synthetic bullshit Walmart-ized vibe of the twenty-first century . . . ” Our group leader, Lisa, is constantly trying to get him to talk in the present about the details of his life, but he just won’t: He’s completely obstinate. Daniel is not a physically big guy. When we both stood up to stretch at the break, I noticed he was just an inch or two taller than me, like five nine or so, but his personality was well over six feet. I’m sure this class will do nothing for him, but he’s at least entertaining.
It is clear to me that Lisa is in way over her head. She smiles constantly at all our wan faces while speaking from note cards about how we are going to work on “connecting with people” and “feeling comfortable with ourselves” while we learn to “embrace ourselves as social beings.” Read the crowd, lady.
We sit in a circle in these lame white folding chairs. Against the wall there is a dusty table that has flyers about “surrendering to a higher power” and a plate of cookies, but I can’t eat them because the entire room smells musty. Not appetizing. I start counting the yellowed, dirty tiles on the floor and become acutely aware that this room is used for an AA meeting after we are through, as if our future selves will be visiting to show us a vision of what is to come for all of us.
Suddenly, I just start thinking about how I’m at least twenty pounds overweight, how every bag of potato chips is a single serving bag to me, and how sitting on my ass for hours at a time is an Olympic sporting event in my world; I start obsessing on all the different flavors of potato chips I like, especially barbecue, and then I start thinking about all the brands of barbecue potato chips I like and how I don’t like Pringles; how sometimes I see how small a bite I can take or how long I can keep one chip in my mouth before it dissolves, I actually time it; how I look for all the same size chips and keep them in groups according to size and amount of BBQ flavoring, and I realize I am having an OCD anxiety attack but cannot do anything to stop it and that’s when I think that probably someday I will have to be committed to a mental facility of some sort and of how I will have to go home and write this letter to the committee so they will know I am at least cognizant enough to know I should be sent somewhere.
In the future, if someone looks into what might have caused my demise, these letters will be proof that this class was part of my fall into psychosis. That I was prescient about where I was going.
Lisa: Danielle, why don’t you turn to Iggie and tell him something about what you would like to do in your spare time?
Me:
Lisa: Danielle, remember, there are no wrong answers to be given here. And be sure to look at Iggie and use his name when you address him because that is gracious and a sign that you are open to connecting with someone for conversation.
Me: Iggie, I think it would be cool if I had some really good ideas about what to do in my spare time so I didn’t have to be here on a Tuesday night.
Daniel laughs.
What I’d like, actually, is a gigantic magical eraser that I could rub over everyone in the room and watch as their faces and bodies slowly turn into rubbery fragments that fall to the floor. Then I’d get a broom and sweep up their powdery remains and dump them into the ashtray cans that are everywhere in this church basement. Then for fun, I’d like to run out the door and keep running until my face is chapped by the wind. Maybe I would cry for a very long time because I just erased all the people who are most likely my kindred spirits, and I can only feel disdain for them.
*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 12/12
Essay #9: Things I’ve Seen
(Ms. Harrison wanted us to give a “rich and detailed account” of something “significant” we have seen. I pick a bad topic. D+)
Danielle Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
I have seen things that will not be discussed here, and I have seen things that will be discussed here but probably shouldn’t be, but you assigned the essay and so I’ll leave your reaction up to you and call it your business. You should be aware that when you assign an essay topic like this to teenagers of the twenty-first century, you are going to get some interesting responses that go beyond descriptions of the lame holiday decorations at the mall or whatever. The world is not like it was when you were young. (Not saying that you are old, just saying the world is different, that’s all.)
From across the street, I’ve seen my neighbor, a forty-year-old corporate executive, buy pot from this kid who drives a Hummer, which is an abomination to the planet, according to my father. My parents don’t like our neighbor at all, but it’s not because he buys weed from the Hummer-driving kid. They don’t like him because he’s living with a woman who is only twenty-two. Although my parents are very judge-not-lest-ye-be-judged kind of people, on this issue, they judge.
When I’m walking the dogs, I’ve seen this dealer sing songs from his car to alert Ken, the corporate executive neighbor guy, that his delivery has arrived. All the dogs bark when this is going down because they have instincts. Sometimes, the dealer gets out of his car and pees (I don’t know if I can say that in this essay, but I did see that) on the lawn. The dogs all want to pee then, too, which can get kind of messy.
I’ve also seen my father walk across the street and speak to our neighbor. I’m only speculating here, but I’m pretty sure that my dad was talking to our neighbor about the inappropriate nature of his drug dealings when there is a teenager living across the street. It would be a lot funnier if what I had seen was my father buying weed off him. (JK)
Teacher comments: Do not write about contraband. You are capable of description beyond what you demonstrated here; such a topic is beneath your intellect.
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #1 from Marv
(I give him a B, mainly for effort.)
Danielle,
Your teacher, Ms. Harrison, tells me that you are a very good writer. She suggests that we may make more progress together if we put our ideas into writing rather than talking. I thought it was an intriguing idea since you seem hesitant about expressing yourself in conversation when we are together. This is very unorthodox, but I spoke with your mother, and she felt it might be a good idea. She, too, lauded your writing ability, and hey, you never know, our communications back and forth may support the budding author within you. What do you say?
Marv
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #1 from me to Marv
(My attempt to humor him and validate the cashing of his paycheck. I slide it under his office door.)
Marv,
I do like to write. However, I have no idea what I would write to you.
Danielle
*SECRET ME-MOIR ENTRY* 12/14
Secret #5: The Pied Piper
Today I watched Jacob lead a pep rally with the whole school—elementary, middle, and high school. It was chilly outside and I sat shivering in a back row bleacher. The crisp air may have been one reason I was shaking, but I think there were feelings I’m not sure how to describe bubbling up from inside and shaking all my parts.
The rally was outside on the football field, and the student council and the athletes went nuts with it. They got all the people who live in the houses surrounding the school to sign permission slips about noise so music could be pumped out of huge speakers. A local radio station sponsored the event and a DJ came. Keira wore the panther mascot suit, and even though I didn’t want to have this thought, she reminded me so much of a friend I used to have. It was the way she was dancing around the crowd, her musicality, I guess I’d call it. When she swayed to the beat, her body looked like a letter S, my favorite letter. S is sophisticated, sexy, sultry—a seductress letter. When I dance, I am just a bouncing O. An O is an outcast letter. Anyway, she was popping in and out of the crowd and letting some of the young kids jump on her back. Watching her was what Ms. Harrison would call sublime because her grace was both beautiful and painful to experience. I teared up watching her.
Jacob was on the microphone the whole time, introducing the football players and leading cheers and the games. Whenever he asked for volunteers, like for the balloon toss or the pie-eating contest, practically the entire student body, three hundred people, raised their hands—everyone just desperate to get up and be near him.
After all the games, he let a bunch of fifth graders smash the remains of the whipped cream pies all over him, and he just laughed and embraced all the little guys who were eager to hug him. Everyone was cheering and laughing and throwing confetti and blowing noisemakers, and I sat quietly in a back bleacher being totally enamored of Jacob’s charisma. That’s the thing about him I can’t escape. I, like everyone else, am pulled in by his charisma.
When the bell rang to signal the end of the rally, he couldn’t shake the line of kids running behind him. And even though I physically veered away from his devotees on my way back to class, every other part of me was following his trail.
*MARV MISSIVE* 12/16
Letter #2 from me to Marv after I see him at the nutrition break and he asks again if I would consider simply writing down some things I think about.
(Marv, that’s really vague. But I do it, and this is what he gets.)
Marv,
Recently I have thought about how difficult it is to go through life fat. My thoughts may be because the holidays are coming and my mom bakes like a fiend this time of year, and I have no willpower to resist her treats. Being fat is far more difficult than being a woman, or a member of an ethnic underclass, or a paraplegic, or a midget. I say this, not to diminish the difficulty of those minority groups, but to highlight the fact that those poor people can’t help their positions, and so people cut them some slack.
When you are fat, people assume it is your fault. And even if it is, why does it have to matter so much? Ancient Samoans had it the best because the bigger the woman, the hotter she was. Los Angeles is no ancient Samoa, let me tell you. In this city, I’m a painful reminder of what the svelte could become should they neglect their pilates classes and regular plastic surgery appointments. On this campus that is so lovely, (seven perfectly painted Spanish-style stucco buildings, fifteen large transplanted trees, forty-five shrubs, eighty-four rosebushes—that’s right, I counted—one guy constantly leaf blowing the place) I’m a real eyesore.
Lately, I’ve just been thinking about how much it sucks to be fat. Thank God it’s winter and I can hide under some layers.
Danielle
*AUNT JOYCE E-MAIL* 12/16
E-mail #1 to Aunt Joyce, who I just desperately need to help me
Dear Aunt Joyce,
I know you are in New York on business and I know you are really busy, but I really need to talk to you about something, and I’m hoping you can just find time to read this and then give me advice that rescues me like you have always done.
I am hopelessly in love with someone I will never have. Don’t even think about writing back with a phrase that starts “Oh, Danielle, you don’t know that you’ll never have him.” Trust me, and just regard my awareness enough to know that he will never love me. And, by the way, he has a girlfriend, and the point isn’t that he won’t love me, the point is that I love him, and I wish I didn’t and I don’t know why life gives you these feelings that can’t be reciprocated or acted upon. What the hell?
I don’t want to talk to Mom about this because I can tell when she looks at me she still sees me like I’m eight, and I just don’t want advice designed for an eight-year-old. Also, I’m just not sure Mom understands pain, and, don’t take this wrong, but somehow I think you do.
Please just take these feelings I have, work some magic with them, and give them back to me in a way that is more manageable.
Your dorky niece, Danielle
*AUNT JOYCE E-MAIL* 12/16
E-mail #1 from Aunt Joyce, who always responds when I need her to
Ah, Sweet, Sweet Danielle,
How blessed you are to know love in this way, and you just so happen to be revealing it to me near the holiday that symbolizes miraculous birth. Your literary mind surely sees the significance. This is the emergence of great hope.
You feel love! That’s terrific. Come on, girl. Look back a few years. Did you think you would thaw enough to let feelings of this sort foment? This is the magic of love. I know you wonder how I can speak with such authority while I remain single and childless, but those facts are not reflective of the true experience of love. Marriage and children do not always follow love. The feeling is the gift itself, so think about that. Look at how something so invisible can have such powerful effects. Doesn’t that say something to you about the nature of reality? Perhaps all is not as you see it in your world. I’d bet my life it is not.
I love you, kid.
Your Forever Aunt Joyce
P.S. Listen to me when I tell you, your mother understands pain.
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #2 from Marv to me
Danielle,
I thank you for your candor. It is not easy to write down the thoughts that fill the mind. I know that you and your mother are taking a yoga class together, and I think this is a wonderful thing. Being active can be just the medicine you need. I can write about how I do not see you as you see yourself, but that would not address any of your feelings. Your feelings are valid to you right now. I hope I can help you shift your perspective.
Sincerely,
Marv
*DANIEL E-MAIL . . . very interesting new heading* 12/19 E-mail #1 from Daniel, the guy in social skills class
Hi, Danielle,
It’s Daniel from that class. Obviously I got your e-mail from the completely intrusive one that Lisa sent us all, encouraging us to connect with each other outside of class. I didn’t know how she got our e-mail and I told my parents I thought she was breaking the law by stealing my e-mail address. My parents said they gave her my e-mail when they signed me up for the class. That is so like them. I’m contacting everyone because I think we should ambush Lisa in the next meeting about the way she runs these classes. What do you think?
*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 12/19
Essay #10: Things I’ve Felt
(Ms. Harrison seems to want to know everyone personally. How noble. B-.)
Danielle Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
Ms. Harrison, for the last few days, I’ve “felt” this essay topic is somewhat intrusive. Feelings are private things. Also, the holidays can be hard for people, so to ask about feelings at this time of year may be considered insensitive by some. However, ultimately, I’ve decided to defer to your authority.
I have felt things in my life that are now contained and controlled by what I can only describe as spigots. I try to keep the spigots tightly shut most of the time in order to prevent a flood of emotion on my insides and to manage my day as sanely as possible. However, recently, one of my feeling spigots has loosened. It seems as if this particular feeling has activated a spigot, which is now turned to a permanently stuck position of full-throttle flow. This feeling just keeps flowing over every other feeling whose spigots are either much smaller or very tightly locked. While this spigot thing is really annoying in a lot of ways, it is intriguing in others.
For a long time all my spigots seemed to be turned off. They were apparently rusted shut. Feelings had nowhere to move about or spread out, so they just dried up, I guess. I couldn’t even muster a trickle. I was blocked up and feelingless for a while. But now that I have this flooding gush of feeling about this thing I can’t really expand upon here other than to say it involves an issue of the heart, I recognize there is just no stopping a feeling once the spigots start to turn. What I’m trying to say is that feelings are very powerful forces. They are spigot turners.
I’m wondering what effect this one loose spigot is going to have on the other spigots. I can only hope and pray that any other loose spigots will release positive feelings, things that might help me become a more interesting person. Although, I think by some accounts I may already be interesting but in a bubonic plague kind of way. The bubonic plague is very interesting.
Oh, also, I wanted to tell you that the other day when Heather commented in class “that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger” . . . as if she would know or have any idea about Nietzsche . . . I wanted to tell her “That is total bulls**t. That which doesn’t kill us just almost kills us.” That’s how I feel about that. Heather always gives me an ax to grind.
I’m sure now you are going to suggest that I see Marv because of this whole spigot thing and my animosity toward Heather, but I’ll tell you upfront that I am seeing him already so you can save your time on that.
Teacher comments: Very provocative, but don’t write judgmental comments about your classmates. Using asterisks does not mean you are not using profanity!
*DANIEL E-MAIL* 12/20
E-mail #1: I write back to Daniel
Daniel,
I saw that Lisa sent an e-mail, but I deleted it before I opened it. I don’t think she’ll listen to us. She’s a woman on a kamikaze mission.
Danielle
*DANIEL E-MAIL* 12/20
E-mail #2: Daniel writes back to me
Thanks for writing me back. You were the only one who did. I like your idea of deleting all her e-mails rather than my tactic of reacting to them. I’ll have to get revenge some other way. Hey, have a good holiday.
*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 1/9
Essay #11: A Picture Is Worth a 1000 Words
(I did not enjoy this essay topic, and yet, B+.)
Danielle Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
Welcome back from the winter holiday, Ms.Harrison. I hope it was nice for you. I enjoyed hibernating during this break, lots of sleeping and reading.
Yes, a picture is worth a thousand words, I guess. There are a few that come to my mind and when I see them, epic stories are evident in an instant. Sometimes pictures even evoke sounds like a haunting oboe or something.
I like words more than pictures.
I don’t have a camera. My parents bought me one for my birthday, but when I took pictures and thought about looking at them, I instead tossed the camera in the L.A. river. Then I had to work to pay my parents back for the money I wasted. It was a whole big thing. But if I want to look at some kind of captured image, I have snow globes for that.
I don’t care if pictures are worth a million metaphorical words. I like real words. I should have been born in another era where people wrote letters and socialized over lemonade and a game of cards or a few cigars and talked about life’s pertinent experiences while being shrouded in mystery under elaborate hats and layers of clothing. All their talk floats away along the path of smoke. Maybe remembered but really gone. Each person can keep what they want.
I see most photographs today and all I can think about is newspaper articles, grieving, and a frozen moment in time. Photographs are cruel that way. A photograph captures a moment of truth that can’t be undone and makes it live on and on and on and on. They are reprinted, reloaded, posted, downloaded over and over and over again. They resurface and wound.
Teacher comments: Some beautiful ideas here. I really think Marv is helping you.
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #3 from Marv to me
Probing too deeply for my taste
Danielle,
I read your essay about photographs. It was interesting. Do you want to write more about that?
Just wondering,
Marv
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #3 from me to Marv
What he deserved in return
Dear Marv,
No.
Danielle
*MARV MISSIVE*
Pathetic letter #4 from me to Marv
What I felt forced to write to Marv because Stella is a crazy therapist.
Dear Marv,
Well, sorry about the curt previous letter. Apparently you called my mom because she just called me and said I have to go back to my crazy ex-therapist Stella if I don’t “open up” to you. So annoying. Look, I really don’t want to write about stuff that you already know about from my file. I feel like your asking me is just some kind of game to get into my head, which is my business. Things are neatly organized in there. If I write to you about these things, it may disorganize my filing system.
Danielle
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #4 from Marv to me
Marv is smarter than I thought.
Danielle,
I can understand that you’ve compartmentalized things in order to cope. However, I would ask you to really think about how that is working for you. Is it working for you? Do you feel content?
With understanding,
Marv
*MARV MISSIVE*
Letter #5 from me to Marv
After a few days of thought and knowing I don’t want to go back to Stella
Marv,
I would not say the “method to my madness” is a complete success. However, I cannot undo it at this time. I keep things stored away that must be stored away. When I write about them it loosens the spigots that have kept a hold on them. Please respect this. Turning a knob to full-throttle “on” could mean I can’t get out of bed. How would that work for you?
Danielle