Axolotl Funeral

When I was in third grade, our class had a pet, which is not an unusual thing. It was, however, an axolotl, which is perhaps less usual. Axolotls are related to salamanders, but live entirely underwater, and are native to Mexico. I don’t know if they are common as pets, but I assume not since most people I’ve mentioned them to haven’t owned one, or even seen one. Anyway, we had two, and they lived happily in the back of the classroom where the class pet monitor fed them and ineffectively scrubbed the sides of the tank every so often. I liked to stare at them during free periods, taking in their slimy looking bodies and frilly gills, the faint smell of freshwater and delicately rotting algae filling the air.

They died pretty soon. By like, March, maybe. It turns out having 8 or 9 year olds or whatever do not necessarily get the job done when it comes to taking care of pets, even if it’s a group effort. We decided to have an official funeral for them, and did so after lunch one day. They were packed into a shoebox, the two boys appointed as pallbearers, threatened with detention if they threw it around or something, carrying it carefully between them, and toted out to the small field by the track. It was a small school in the middle of a small community full mostly of staunch Baptists, so my friend Joey was appointed pastor and read a few random verses about mortality, and prayed earnestly over the axolotls, sure to leave a hole in the hearts of their owners. We had a moment of silence before solemnly burying the box and walking back to class.

The next day we found someone had dug up the graves and taken the corpses and box with them. What someone would want with two dead axolotls I couldn’t tell you.

Strategic Conversation

Without really meaning or wanting to, I seem to approach conversations with new people as a game. I feel uncomfortable in these situations, like a person inside a robot awkwardly operating its jerky limbs and halting voice box, but it's the only way I can think of to concentrate and prevent myself from looking like a total fool. The main rules are these:

1. Keep the topic mainly on the other person; if I end up revealing more about myself than he/she has of his/herself, I could seem self-centered and lost in stories they don't really care all that much about anyway. Even if you've found something in common, let them talk about it a little bit more.

2. Don't be afraid of pauses. Someone doesn't have to be talking literally all the time.

3. Try not to worry about how much I'm sweating.

4. Keep eye contact most of the time, but not in a creepy or aggressive way. More quiet and friendly, than intense, "I MUST LOOK AT YOUR EYES AT ALL TIMES."

5. Avoid nervous tics, like picking at my fingernails, clenching my hands, occasional heavy sighs, brushing my hair back, or chewing my bottom lip.

6. Keep a watch on my Southern accent, because it tends to become noticeably heavier when I'm nervous. (If the person has a heavy one too, this doesn't matter so much, but otherwise I think people start to talk down to me, which is insulting.)

7. Don't get lost in my own head, panicking about what I'm going to say or do next. Calmly take the situation as it develops.

The past two weeks have been full of new people encounters, and I am thoroughly exhausted. It is exhausting to have strategy just to talk to people, but I freeze otherwise, so here I am.

Star Nerd

Because my mom falls asleep and quite simply doesn't care, I watch sci-fi with my dad. We demand absolute silence, and watch open-mouthed as someone from the 1960s gets trapped in the Twilight Zone or the Doctor saves the day and universe once again.

I actually didn't care for it when I was a kid, preferring Disney movies and PBS, much to my dad's disappointment when the original Star Wars movies were briefly re-released in theaters. He dragged me along with him to see "A New Hope," and came out all geared up to show me "The Empire Strikes Back," as my mom shook her head at him and watched me act out "The Lion King" with the friend I had been allowed to take. He asked me what my favorite part was, and I related the part when a robot in the background had been bonked on the head and fallen over.

Honestly. I have seldom seen my dad look so dismayed.

I went home about a month ago for the weekend, fell asleep on the couch Friday night, and jerked awake at about 2 a.m. to see my dad solemnly watching an episode of Star Trek and massaging the leg that keeps him up at night. He nodded in acknowledgment of my consciousness, and I watched with him, sleepy and bewildered.

"Why on earth did no one bother to wake me up before everyone went up to bed?" I asked. My dad shrugged and continued to watch the screen with great concentration until the commercial break came on.

"The thing about this show, is it addressed so many contemporary social issues. There was this one episode..." I leaned back and listened to him recite the plots and messages of the same two or three episode he could remember well, somewhat annoyed, but content.

Wolf Project

When I was in grade school, my mom registered me for the "gifted" program, and I wish I could remember more of it. A legally blind woman named Ms. Rogers with the thickest glasses I had ever seen was the teacher, or more supervisor I guess, since I don't remember having any actual lessons; she just sort of assigned us projects we could work on with each other or ourselves. My nerd friend Joey was in there with me, and Coleman was not pleased about being left out, but I played Cheetahs with him during recess, and everything was all right again.

I can only remember one project and one field trip for that class, which makes me sad because they were both excellent, so I wish I could remember more of what we did. I decided to make my project about wolves, and I can only assume Joey's was about Nascar or something. Basically he liked Nascar, pro-wrestling, and being a know-it-all.

I was obsessed with wolves as a kid; I'm not sure why, except maybe it was to do with the well-defined social structure. If there was anything I liked as a kid, it was a clear set of rules. (Later, when I read Ender's Game, the clearest thing I remember being impressed by was the many ranks with corresponding names and color codes.) I went to the local nature center and studied the Red Wolves they have there, and read loads of books on wolves and their relatives around the world, it was *great.* It's one of the few projects I can think of that I didn't stress out big time about. Or maybe I did, and just can't remember.

Anyway, I really enjoyed that class.

ALSO. An informative entry

P.S.

I am really enjoying reading everyone's (Robby and Janelle's, basically) blogs, after being away for like, a month. I will leave a thousand comments in the morning. Well. Later this morning. I need to go to bed, it is after 2 in the morning and I have to get up earlier than noon to say goodbye to family leaving after Christmas.

Just so you know.

Struggle and Change

A lot of life exhausts me, and the most annoying thing is that most of it is my fault because I am a neurotic person. A dislike of being out of control coupled with indecisiveness and social anxiety does not make for a person with great confidence who is at ease with the world. To make up for this inner chaos, I try to project a sense of quiet confidence, to make people think that even if I don't have it all figured out, I am certain that I will stumble upon it eventually. I would like to be humble and competent. What I am, I fear, is self-centered and avoidance prone; this should be clear from this blog. But then we are all struggling somewhere, I suppose.

I used to identify with super confident female literary characters, but as I grew older I wasn't sure if this was just because people, namely my mom, said I should. I also because extremely introverted in middle school, so maybe that played a part in my sudden alienation from the characters I had thought I was so like. Jo, from Little Women, was one of these characters. I was Jo, because she liked books and writing, and I loved books and writing three line entries in my journal, and my sister was Amy, because she liked art and was the youngest. And I was Scout Finch, because I didn't like stereotypically girly stuff all that much and was outspoken, Elizabeth Bennett because I was smart and liked books. I don't know though, those were all things my mom said, and might mostly have been wishful thinking or motherly delusion. Probably both. There isn't much call for a quiet terrified girl who mostly stays that way except for stabs at sociability by making odd juxtapositions in conversation to be funny, in literary heroines, is what I'm saying.

The good news, though, is that I have hopes for changing. Slowly but surely, in good ways. That's why I like New Year's, because I always feel hopeful. New lists, new things, just *new.* If it brings good things, then great, I need sunny days and triumphs. If it brings bad, then those things too will pass, and though any strength gained at the end won't really justify the suffering, it will still be present.

I am terrified of having to find an internship within a week, but I will find it because I have to, and I will get through it because I need to. I am terrified of graduating, more so than of anything in my life, ironically because of the myriad of choices that threaten me, but I will make some choice, and I will deal with what happens next because that is how life works. I have nightmares about losing touch with some of the people I've met in college, but then I did the same thing about the people in high school. Well, that might not be such a good comparison, since growing apart from some of those people still hurts. But I will do my best to prevent it this time, and if it happens, it won't be due to me.

The point is, I will do better in 2011, I think. Realistically, I won't be hugely better off by the start of 2012, but I will be better in some ways. A bit more disciplined, in writing, exercising, praying, keeping up with people, everything in general. I'm not really an optimist, but neither am I a pessimist. I just have faith that things will change, I guess.

High School: Not That Bad

I don't know if it's just because I'm naturally introverted, very cautious, terrified beyond words of the unknown, and generally grateful for authority and rules, but high school was not such a bad time for me. My overall goal was to get good grades and fly beneath the radar, for the most part. These traits seemed to help me stay clear of the stereotypical high school problems you hear about or see in movies: teenage love/heartbreak, rebelliousness, drug taking and alcohol drinking, bullying, crushing isolation, what have you, to the point where the high school the media keeps moaning about doesn't even seem like a real thing. High school for me was kind of nice, really; a place to organize your time around, that gives you an excuse to read a lot.

I realize that I am probably incredibly fortunate to have had this experience, because I do know of people that had a rougher time of it, but then they had a rougher time in general life; family problems are a big part of it. If you think high school messes you up, girl please, try a dysfunctional family. Anyway, I kept pretty quiet and didn't have much drama because people make me nervous and I dislike intensely problems of any kind, social especially, so I didn't have too many friends and didn't talk much to people who weren't my friends.

Except there was this one girl in my gym and shop classes. I'll call her Erin. I'd known Erin since grade school, because everyone knew her. Well, everyone knew her sisters and her cousins, because they were all brilliant. Extroverted, friendly, genuinely talented at everything. And then there was Erin. Absolutely nuts she was, a pothead, drank alcohol every night, whatever else it was she wanted me to believe, and alarmingly, seemed to like me quite a lot.

She would slouch around the field with me while we were warming up for soccer or whatever the hell in gym, and tell me how hung over she was from the intense partying she had done the night before. I never knew what to say, so I'd just offer obvious advice, like "Well, maybe you shouldn't party on a school night." Erin would look at me for a long time, and laugh, hard, before wincing because hangover. Or she and her similarly potheaded boyfriend would sit and watch me struggle with screwdrivers in shop class while telling me about the awesomeness of marijuana.

That was a weird time. I don't know why Erin talked to me so, except I guess she knew I wouldn't tell anyone and didn't seem to judge her.