This is for you, E. :)

"A Moment in Troy"
Little girls--
skinny, resigned
to freckles that won't go away,
not turning any heads
as they walk across the eyelids of the world,
looking just like Mom or Dad,
and sincerely horrified by it--
in the middle of dinner,
in the middle of a book,
while studying the mirror,
may suddenly be taken off to Troy.
In the grand boudoir of a wink
they all turn into beautiful Helens.
They ascend the royal staircase
in the rustling silk of admiration.
They feel light. They all know,
that beauty equals rest,
that lips mold the speech's meaning,
and gestures sculpt themselves
in inspired nonchalance.
Their small faces
worth dismissing envoys for
extend proudly on necks
that merit countless sieges.
Those tall dark movie stars,
their girlfriend's older brothers,
the teacher from art class,
alas, they must all be slain.
Little girls
observe disaster
from a tower of smiles.
Little girls
wring their hands
in intoxicating mock despair.
Little girls
against a backdrop of destruction,
with flaming towns for tiaras,
in earrings of pandemic lamentation.
Pale and tearless.
Triumphant. Sated with the view.
Dreading only the inevitable
moment of return.
Little girls
returning.

My Essay:

"Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?"
-Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions

It's hard to say who exactly is staring back at me in the smudgy mirror. A girl, of a somewhat short stature, black hair, dark eyes, brown skin, one eye slightly less alert, long lashes highlighting blinks, with small lips concealing a big mouth. She is me, and somehow, I am not her. She is not the me I imagine, if only I were inside out; I could show the world what my mind has molded for me: the outline of a perfect identity, jello of many colors. But I am limited by human mirrors, they who are doomed to reflect only what can be seen, never radiating smell, taste, touch, or sound. The mirrors of my mind allow me to travel beyond, but don't guarantee that I'll like what I see. That's not the point, I realize...too late. In my mind, I bear scars of the ultimate war: a battle with myself. In the haste of growing up (as if those who were never reached adulthood), I forgot the beginning. In the grand boudoir of a wink (12), I was a little girl turning into the beautiful Helen of Szymborska's poem, A Moment in Troy. In that moment, I was lost.

The 50's produced a worldwide phenomenon surmised in two syllables: Barbie. The plastic doll with blonde hair, blue eyes, a tiny waist, and a chest that, proportion-wise, would have made walking impossible (especially because she was always on her tiptoes), who became a deity, a goddess that could not be touched and was revered by hundreds of thousands. I wished no more than to be Barbie because I was not turning any heads as I walked across the eyelids of the world (4-5).

My escape from reality was not simple. I dared not peer into the mirrors or windows of my house, horrified by what I saw, skinny/resigned to freckles that [wouldn't] go away (2-3). Looking just like mom or dad, I hated genetics, but even science could not explain my awkwardness (6). In the middle of dinner, I begged my mother for make-up (8). In the middle of a book, I drifted off to a land of beautiful godddesses and heroines who wore bras and high heels (9). I obsessed.

"Little girls," my father tutted, "they're always trying to grow up (1)." I rolled my eyes at him, but he was right. Why? Because no one reveals the ugly side of beauty. Sure, Barbie can be a doctor, a lawyer, an astronaut, or even the President of the United States. No one ever tells little girls how much medical school costs, or that lawyers deal with guilty clients, or that we haven't had a female president for 231 years. Apparently, Barbie can do it all, but no one knows how...convenient?

Still, I vowed to look like her. I saved up my birthday money and Christmas cash, set up lemonade and cookie stands, and hoarded couch change: all to buy myself a new face. At eleven years of age, I found the world of make-up tantalizing and terrifying. I was eager to grow up, but I didn't quite know how. My ambivalence, however, never deterred me from walking through the automatic doors of Eckerd's, the local convenience store, and spending my savings on an array of products. I purchased some foundation, hoping to hide my sunburned exterior, some lipstick, mascara, eye shadow, blush, and what was later revealed to be an eyelash curler. The cashier shot me a knowing look, they all beauty equals rest/that lips mold the speech's meaning (17-18). She realized that in this world it was more important to look good than to know or say anything intelligent. Her understanding smile should have been a warning, but instead she observed disaster/from a tower of smiles (30-31). Pandemic lamentation existed but was not voiced: an aimless attempt at self-realization (38). We were not taught until it was too late.
At home, I struggled, reading the vague instructions on the crinkly plastic, straining to make sense of the make-up. I managed to coat my face in a layer of foundation, four shades too light for my face, the backdrop of destruction (36). Next, I applied bright pink blush on my cheeks and black mascara to my lashes (the eyelash curler remained untouched). Eye shadow iced my eyelids (and the surrounding area) in shades of blue and green (my favorite colors). In inspired nonchalance, I put on three layers of bright red lipstick, thinking that whatever part of the skin the product coated could be mistaken for my lips (20.) I felt like a princess and resembled something like incredibly horrible wallpaper. The boys at my school, I imagined, would fight over me, present me with flaming towns for tiaras (37). Was that not what boys did? I would be triumphant over the weak and the ugly-- they would all be slain (28). As the queen of beauty, I would merit countless sieges just for the right to hold my hand (28).

I never made it out the door. Pale and tearless, I did not understand my mother's worrying (39). She explained that I had used the make-up all wrong and too early, but before I could tell her I'd try again, I began to cry. Perhaps because I had failed, or perhaps because I knew she was right--I was too young for an eyelash curler. I should have used my lashes for wishes, not seduction, smiled out of joy, not flirtation. I could not buy time at the Eckerd's counter, and that idea alone was enough to understand. Dreading only the inevitable/moment of return to adulthood, I reveled in my natural state (41-42). Barbie was replaced by Ann M. Martin, the author of my favorite books, The Babysitter's Club series, and Lipsmackers was my first steady step into adolescence. Unlike little girls returning reluctantly to reality, I found no pleasure in fantasies that involved me causing wars or being worshipped (43-44). No, I was content with being little, held protectively, and lulled into a slumber devoid of omnipotent plastic blondes and

the unforgiving jaws of a metal eyelash curler.

Yogi shoutout!!
peace. :)

Update: Although I started this blog well over a year ago, I really haven't been as good about posting to it as I have been with my journal. That being said, I'll do my best to post more often and perhaps with more "meat" and not just pointless rambling.

Update, part 2: Okay, okay, some have said they like the pointless rambling, so I will ocassionally let that happen. :)