Stupid Questions My Kids Wanted to Ask Me Today
Right now, I am a student teacher at an elementary school, working with 2nd through 5th grade students. I grew up the oldest of 6 children, so I'm very used to having little kids in my life, but being in a position of authority over them is something entirely new to me. Another new sensation is the fact that these students are obsessed with every single detail about my life, and they pretty much think I'm the coolest thing ever. I like that feeling. I don't know why 5th graders couldn't think I was the coolest thing ever when I was actually a 5th grader myself, but oh well. Better late than never.
Today was a pretty standard day. My 5th grade class did extraordinarily well. I got to witness the proverbial "lightbulb above forehead" moment that my old teachers used to talk about so often. "Veinte is twenty, right?" I explained patiently to my fifth graders. "And dos is two, right? So if you have Veinte...dos...veinte y dos...veinte...dos...veintidos..."
"OH!" One of my girls shrieked, her hand flying up into the air. "Oh, I know! I got it! Twenty and two! Twenty two! Do another one!"
I was so proud. They all figured it out, which is saying something for my kids. 4th grade and 3rd grade followed the same suit, really impressing me with their skills and working hard to prove to me that they could count to 100 in Spanish. I was incredibly pleased by the time I got to 2nd grade.
Kate (the actual teacher of the classroom) and I were super excited for 2nd grade, because we were getting evaluated, and it seemed like the perfect day to do so because all of the kids were doing such a great job. So when the visitor came in with her clipboard, we welcomed her graciously into the room with confident smirks on our faces and prepared to blow her away.
God didn't want us to succeed. That is the only explanation. That is the only reasoning I can come up with for why He would open up the skies so that it started pouring down rain on the second graders as they were walking out to our trailer, causing them to run and sprint and push each other and fall in the mud. Kate and I looked at each other in horror. This was not going as planned. We saw our gleaming evaluation plummeting to the ground like a bullet-ridden fighter jet--I could hear my brain screaming Mayday, mayday! Pilot down! Eject, eject!
"Out of my way!" "Ew you're covered in mud!" "I'm going to throw a mudball at you!" "I'm going to throw a mudball at Ms. Kuzy!"
"THE NEXT PERSON THAT MOVES GETS TO SIT IN ISOLATION!" Kate bellowed. "What has gotten into you? Is that the way we come to my classroom? Control yourselves!" The kids barreled inside, still screaming and pulling hair and ricocheting off of each other until Kate came inside, looked at me with a look that clearly expressed her desire for a quick double suicide for the both of us, clapped her hands and got the kids to be quiet.
Now, the kids' routine is to listen to Kate while she's teaching, and ask me questions if they don't understand something so that Kate doesn't constantly have to interrupt her presentation. I'm used to this, and usually not many kids have questions, so there isn't a lot for me to do. However, almost immediately into Kate's powerpoint, a boy raised his hand. I walked over to him.
"Yes?" I asked. "What do you need?"
"Why are you wearing a dress?"
"That is not an appropriate question for Spanish class," I scolded him. "You need to ask me if you have any Spanish questions."
I walked away and went across the room, where a girl had raised her hand. I was starting to think to myself that there were an awful lot of questions today, when she asked me this:
'What is your mama's name?"
"Really, class!" I whisper-scolded. "This is Spanish class, now pay attention!"
Another girl had her hand raised. I walked over to her.
"Is your boyfriend Tony ever going to visit?" (This spawns from my very first day teaching, when the kids were allowed to ask me personal questions and they asked if I had a boyfriend. I said I did and his name was Tony Stark. Nobody laughed, and that's when I realized I was the dreaded "o-word". (old) )
I walked over to Kate, who had paused to see what was going on, and told her what the problem was. The dilemma was that we were being supervised, and we couldn't act like we weren't going to answer kids' questions or tell them that we weren't going to answer anything else in case one of them actually had a real question. My only option was to go to the students with hands up and hope they had an actual question worth answering.
I walked over to one of the quiet kids with her hand raised.
"Do you think my jacket is pretty?"
I walked to the back of the classroom.
"Would you ever have a pet otter?"
I walked to the corner table.
"Why is your hair so long?"
"ENOUGH!" Kate finally shouted, goaded past endurance. "If anybody has a question about SPANISH CLASS, raise your hand! If you do not, then STAY QUIET!"
All the hands went down except for one. One boy looking at me expectantly. I glanced at Kate and then I walked over to him.
"How do I pronounce this word?" He asked me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Tray-in-tah", I said clearly for him in Spanish. He copied me, and it was pretty good. I smiled at him. Just when I thought the danger was over...
"Why aren't you wearing any socks?" He said with the most sincerest face.
The bell rang before Kate could dismember him, but that kid should consider himself lucky. All in all, our evaluation day could have gone a little better... maybe. Oh, what the hell. I'm learning not to let my expectations get too high of a bunch of 7 year olds. I think the fact that we kept them from throwing mudballs at the evaluator should have earned us an automatic pass, or however they grade those things.
________________________________________________________________
I mentioned above that on my first day, the kids were allowed to ask me personal questions to "get to know me". Here are a few of the better ones.
"Do you live in a mansion?"
"Our teacher said her boyfriend is Harry Potter. Is she lying?" (I answered no, I saw them on a date.) "HARRY POTTER IS REAL!"
"Do you like kids? Do you like to eat them?"
"Are you going to have a baby? (I answer "possibly in the future") What does that mean? (It means later) Oh, that means later... are you going to have one tomorrow?"
"Did you ever eat a dog?"
"Are you a genius?"
"How old are you?" (I tell them to guess) "Fourteen?" (another kid interjects) "No stupid, she's fifty!"
"Will you and Tony get married? When? Why can't you get married now?" (I responded that his job got in the way) "Tell him to quit his job and marry you!" (I said he can't do that. The world depends on it. Kate was dying laughing in a corner.)
"What's your favorite food that is NOT dog?"
"Have you ever seen someone die? Have you ever killed someone?"
"Do you think blood is gross?"
"Would you eat a worm for a dare?"
That last question ended the Q&A forum.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
The Day a Wal-Mart Stylist Almost Ruined My Life
This is my life. These are my stories displayed out candidly for all who want to see; written from my point of view and told with my own voice. I'm reborn to the blogging world--I used to have a Xanga, when they were fashionable--but Facebook doesn't seem the appropriate place to post regular updates that are more than 160 characters so I decided to come back to the long-entry style of social writing.
Today, I give you the story of The Day a Walmart Stylist Almost Ruined My Life. I'm Not Kidding, She Almost Drove Me To Suicide.
So, as those closest to me know, yesterday I got the chance to meet Junot Diaz, the Pulitzer-Prize winning author. I was excited beyond belief at this opportunity. I literally was so excited that I could have died just from the anticipation. I made arrangements to go with my friend Ian, who is a Spanish major as well, and hardly slept at all the night before the event.
In my mind, how good I looked directly corresponded with what kind of an experience I was going to have at this lecture/book signing. I wasn't planning on whoring myself out or anything, I just wanted to look so elegant, so put-together, that Junot Diaz would look at me and think "Now here's a young woman who's got it together! She's going to go far! Clearly, her work must be amazing!" This would be the start of my lifelong friendship with Junot Diaz, leading me to catch my first big break with the publishers, eventually creating my first masterpiece that would become an instant classic. El otro mano, however, was that if I showed up looking anything less than spectacular, I would be instantly forgotten and the greatest opportunity of my life would have passed me by faster than Junot Diaz could say "Will somebody call security on this hobo thrusting a book in my face?"
I could hardly wait. Lately, though, I've been having a lot of issues with my hair. The cold/drizzly weather has somehow caused my scalp to decide that my hair needs enough oil to cook french fries in, and thus my head has turned the knob all the way to maximum on the "produce oil" function. For days I looked like a greaser straight out of That Musical We All Know About High School Kids That Aren't Really Even High Schoolers In Real Life. I just couldn't allow my hair to look like this in front of Junot Diaz. My stylist I've used since I was born lives in Carrollton, and I've long since learned never to trust anybody but her with my hair, but I figured since I only wanted a shampoo and some soft curls, it would be safe to trust any old stylist out there. Because I mean, what kind of stylist doesn't know how to curl hair? Isn't that like the prerequisite for even getting into beauty school? (I wouldn't know, seeing as how I have never been to beauty school, but I thought it would be a pretty safe assumption.)
Was I ever wrong.
The plan was simple: I was going to leave my first class when it got out at 12 and go straight to Wal-Mart. I was going to stop by the salon, ask for a quick washing and curling of my hair, then I was going to grab a new pair of black hose and a cute umbrella and return home. There, I would change into my black dress (the black dress that does everything, there will probably be a story about this later) put on my bright red coat, and go to my last class, which started at 2:30. That class ended at 3:30, and Junot Diaz would be speaking at 4, so I would be in prime position to get a front row seat at the lecture and my life would just go straight on uphill from there. Easy enough, right?
Well, the day started out all right. I woke up, and went to my Spanish Linguistics class. All throughout the class, I scribbled down some poems and thought blissfully of the day I would make it as a famous author. I got two pretty good poems out of that daydreaming period, and I was content with myself as I left the class for Wal-Mart.
I should have known disaster was looming just from the sheer ominous air radiating from the creepily deserted Wal-Mart lobby. I should have turned around and marched straight back to my car the minute that queasy feeling rose in my stomach, but I did not. My obsession with looking like a non-hobo for once in my life--the time when it counted the most--spurred me to new heights of daredevilism my body had never experienced before. I held my head high and marched right into the salon.
The stylist was smacking some gum. "Yeah?" She drawled, looking me over.
"I would like my hair curled," I said, looking around for a poster on the wall I could use as a reference. "Nothing like Shirley Temple, of course. I've just got a very important lecture I have to go to tonight and I wanted to look elegant."
"Elegant," The stylist repeated as though it were a foreign word passing through her lips for the first time. "Okay. Yeah. You want a wash too?"
"Yes please," I said, running my fingers through my hair. "I've been having an oil problem lately with this weather."
"Oh, that could be fixed by coloring your hair!" The stylist said, her eyes lighting up in excitement. "We should color it! Do you want me to color it? How about a nice rich brown?"
"Um, no thank you," I said, the uneasy feeling in my stomach already resurfacing. I was beginning to regret my decision. "I just wanted some soft curls for today. You know, just some soft, pretty, elegant curls."
The stylist looked a little disappointed, but got to work brushing my hair, which was extremely slow work. She brushed my hair for twenty nine minutes. Twenty nine! I counted. Every second ticking by on my cellphone clock was another second I could be using to get ready. I had estimated this salon visit would take an hour at the very most.
Eventually, she washed my hair, and as soon as we were back in the styling chair, she massaged gobs and gobs of gel into my hair.
"Um, that's a lot of product..." I said nervously. "You did hear me say I had an oil problem, right? Isn't this just going to make it look more oily?"
"Nah," The stylist said, smacking her gum loudly. "You're gonna look hot." The way she spoke was almost as though she was texting to me--I could hear the emoticons and shortened words in her speech. Na gurl. Ur guna look HOTT!! ;-)
I was texting a few of my friends to keep my boredom in check as the stylist set to wrapping my hair around rollers at an excruciatingly slow pace, and I noticed with a jolt that the time was already 2:15. I was going to miss my last class! I texted a classmate and told her about my situation, and she said she would tell our professor, but I was still upset. I was pretty sure "She's stuck in a salon chair because she wanted to look good for Junot Diaz's reading, and the stylist is going so slow she's pretty sure she's being held as a hostage, so she won't be making it to class today" wouldn't win me an excused absence. But I could hope. Oh lord, I could hope. And hope was quickly becoming the only thing I desperately clutched to as time ticked on.
The stylist put me in a blow-drying-chair-obviously-recently-remodeled-from-Ol' Sparky-I-think-I-could-still-see-remnants-of-restraints and told me to wait while my curls set. I waited there 45 agonizing minutes. Finally, at 3, I started to panic. What was I going to do? I was supposed to be already dressed and on campus! I didn't have time to do anything! I started calculating the worst possible scenarios. I decided that as long as got the hell out of Wal-Mart by 3:10, I could be back at my apartment at 3:20, throw on my dress and leave my apartment at 3:30, and make it in time to still have a good seat for the lecture.
"Are we almost done?" I said, barely concealing the wail underneath my calm and collected voice. The stylist came over and pulled the rollers out. O yah, that looks gud gurl :) She tweeted as she ran her fingers over my scalp. Jus sit here under tha dryer a minute more, K? Make em gud and fluffy. <3
As I was impatiently-patiently waiting, my friend texts me and says "send me a picture of your hair!"
I held my phone out to take a picture. The resulting image was so horrifying that I literally cried out. There aren't even any words to describe the horror I felt, so here is the picture so you can judge for yourself. I specifically wanted something like THIS:
But somehow, I ended up with THIS:
I lost it. I panicked. I jumped up, threw some money at the stylist because I didn't have any time to argue with her on why I should not have to pay for this pathetic excuse of a hairstyle, and ran hysterically through Wal-Mart, grabbing the first pair of pantyhose and the first umbrella I saw. The time was now 3:15. I called Ian in a panic.
"IAN I'M LATE!!!" I shrieked into the phone, probably rupturing his eardrum. "YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW--MY HAIR--WHAT AM I GOING TO DO--I'M NOT DRESSED, I'M LATE, HELP ME, SAVE A SEAT, GO NOW GO!!!!!!!!!!"
then I hung up. Poor Ian was left to massage his bleeding ears I imagine, then he (probably out of fear of what the screaming monster would do to him if he didn't follow my instructions) left to go get a seat. Meanwhile, I was sobbing hysterically as I sped somewhere close to 120 mph down the freeway to get to my apartment and throw on my dress.
"It's not so bad," I reassured myself out loud, dimly aware that the first sign of madness is talking to your own head. "I'll just brush it. I'll just brush it out and it will look fantastic. It's just wet is all. I'll just blow dry it and brush it out."
I arrived at my apartment, hurled my things down on the bed, and grabbed my brush and my roommate's hairdryer. It was now 3:22. I brushed out my hair, tousled it with my hands, and turned the blowdryer on it. To my horror, however, I found out that my hair was not, in fact, wet, but so slathered in product that it looked like it was wet when it was actually quite dry. I let out a shriek of agony, ripped off all my clothes with fury, and jumped into the shower. I scrubbed my hair so much that clumps of it were coming out. "YOU WILL GET OUT!!!" I shrieked. "I WILL MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL!!!" I was beyond all control. I was a madwoman.
I got out of the shower, pulled my dress and hose on so quickly that I fell over, and I grabbed the hairdryer and started to dry my hair, still sobbing all the while. The time was 3:35, and I knew that I was late. I knew I was too late to make it to Junot Diaz's lecture. My life was over. This was it. This was the end of my life.
Ian was calling me. I answered the phone with a mixture of wails and hyperventilation. "Are you okay!?" He asked, sounding really concerned. "Listen, I've got us a seat. Just calm down and get here, okay?"
"I CAN NOT CALM DOWN!!!" I bellowed, breaking every glass in my apartment (most likely). "IAN MY HAIR IS--I CAN'T BREATHE--MY DRESS--MY HAIR--MY HAIR IS WET!"
Ian sounded like he wasn't entirely sure what to say. Finally he settled on "Okay can you just get here? It will be okay. You can tell me all about it when you get here. I'm sure you look just fine. Just come on, okay?"
"I WILL NOT LOOK LIKE A HOBO! I CAN'T DO IT! I WON'T DO IT!" I was now completely hysterical. Whoever I was before I stepped into Wal-Mart that morning was gone, and this crazy person had taken her place.
"Okay, okay!" Ian said, fully alarmed now. "You're not a hobo! Nobody said you were a hobo! I'm sure you look great. Just come on!"
"THIS IS MY ONLY CHANCE!!!!" I screamed into the phone, but Ian had already hung up. I looked at my tear-stained face in the mirror.
Something stirred inside of me when I saw my pitiful reflection. This was not me. I do not give up on things. I do not quit. and I was SURE AS HELL NOT GOING TO MEET JUNOT DIAZ LOOKING LIKE A HOBO, AND THAT WAS FINAL. It was as if a fire reignited inside my soul. I had meaning again. Purpose. Motivation. I picked up the hairdryer and I told the girl in the mirror, "This is our time!"
I dried my hair and put on my makeup again. I quickly snapped a picture in the mirror with the idea of sending it to Ian and getting him to confirm that I did not in fact look like a hobo, but I realized there wasn't really enough time and I was going the way I was and that was the only option. I'm glad I did, however, because now I have a photo of my victory, the moment that I spat in hysteria's face and stomped on its toes. Here it is:
My hair looked plain and straight, but it was grease-free and most importantly, not sprouting those medusa-snakes that stylist had given me, and I didn't have time to do anything else except grab my little black bag and my keys and my moleskin that I wanted Junot to sign and run out the door.
As I got on a bus, I realized in a panic that I didn't bring a pen or any cash. Every book signing I've been to, ever, the author has charged for signatures, so I texted Ian in a panic the following -- "Please for the love of god tell me you have a pen and some cash"
This got me another worried phone call. "Are you okay? Have you cracked? Have you gone over? No, I don't have a pen or cash on me..."
I let out a roar of anger. I hung up the phone and reevaluated my situation. Cash was obtainable. Whether I had to flash a rich man on the street or mug an innocent bystander on my way to the Chapel (where Junot Diaz was going to be lecturing), getting cash was possible. The madwoman in me was placated and I moved on to the issue of the pen.
This one proved more tricky. First, I scoured the bus with my eyes looking for an abandoned pen, but luck was not on my side. As I neared my stop, however, I saw a girl fumbling in her bag and I seized the only chance left to me.
"Do you have a pen!?" I asked as I cornered her in the back seat of the bus. She looked a little frightened.
"Sure, um, here's one..." She mumbled, handing me a pen.
"Can I keep it? I need this pen!" I said urgently. She looked terrified now.
"Yeah! It's yours! All yours!" She squeaked. I jumped off the bus and sprinted towards my destination. I could see the chapel up ahead. My goal was in my sight!
I rushed up to the doors to find people saying "No, no, we're at capacity. We're full. I'm sorry." The words hit me like a bullet in my heart. "No!" I objected, trying to push past them . "No, my friend is in there! He's saving me a seat! I have a seat!"
"I'm sorry." The attendant said. "We're at capacity."
"YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY, I AM GOING INSIDE! I DID NOT COME ALL THIS WAY TO BE STOPPED BY THE LIKES OF YOU!!" I shrieked like the true villain I had become. The madwoman was back. I literally shoved my way in and raced up the stairs before they could get a good look at me to describe me to security. I found Ian, shoved people out of the way, jumped over the seat and settled in nice and inconspicuously beside him as he looked at me incredulously.
"You've cracked." He said in awe.
"Shut the hell up." Was my snappy retort.
The attendants began coming to the people unlucky enough to be sitting on the stairs and telling them that they had to leave. I shrunk down a little more behind my chair, hoping they would pass me by. They did. I felt a swelling surge of relief. "See?" Ian said, "Your day hasn't been so bad. You made it! You didn't get kicked out!"
"Haha. Yeah..." I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure the attendants were really gone. A ray of hope was shining inside me. I really had made it. In spite of everything, I made it. I was there. And then Junot Diaz emerged, and took the stage. We all applauded, and I felt a sense of accomplishment. I did it. I made it happen.
Junot began to speak, and I was entranced. The man was a genius, a pure genius, and here I was sitting in an auditorium getting to hear his words to us for the first time, not through the internet or a recording of him, but through his real, live words. He inspired me. He had us on our feet, cheering and shouting. He told us that art was the only thing that was going to keep us human. That we had to rely on our art. That we had to find other humans through art. That art was living, and never be afraid to do more, to show more, to be more. He was a bright shining hero on that stage, filling me with a sense of purpose and empowerment. I was reminded, in that moment, of what I REALLY want to do with my life.
I want to be a writer.
When the lecture ended, and we all applauded, Junot sat at the front and signed everyone's books. To my delight, I found out that he was NOT charging for autographs, and I sighed with relief again (for probably the 5th or 6th time since I had arrived at the Chapel) knowing that I didn't have to go attack a poor civilian and take his cash. Ian and I chatted in line about my awful day, until we got to the part about my hair.
"It can't have been that bad." He said seriously. "You were just already having a bad day so you exaggerated it in your mind, that's all." Without a word, I pulled out my cellphone and showed him the picture. He yelped. "Okay," he conceded. "That's pretty bad."
I was happy again. My panicked morning had passed. I felt liberated and uplifted. Just as I was feeling that nothing could possibly go wrong, however, Junot Diaz's attendants announced to the crowd that time was over and Junot was going to have to go now. My heart plummeted.
"Ian, my book...!" I shrieked, feeling the familiar panic returning. "I wanted my book signed! What are we going to do!"
The ushers were scooting us all out of the door unceremoniously. "Don't panic." Ian said. "For the love of God please do not panic. We'll figure out something."
"He's leaving!" I wailed, clutching my moleskin to my chest. "He's leaving and I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO GET MY BOOK SIGNED!"
Behind us, we could hear some women talking. "There's a private banquet down at the Founder's House for him," one woman was saying. "Yes, I just hope we've prepared enough food for everyone that said they were coming," the other one said as they walked away.
Ian looked at me. "You want your book signed?" He asked.
A minute later we were walking into the Founder's House like we belonged there, like it was no big deal. There was delicious food everywhere. We could hardly believe our luck and our own daring. I snapped a few pictures to commemorate:
We were having a blast. After we ate our food and talked about how lucky we were , and how awesome our day had turned out at the end, we walked into another room and there was Junot Diaz just sitting there, chillin' out, like he wasn't a Pulitzer Prize winning author or anything.
"Go talk to him!" Ian nudged me. I stepped forward timidly. Junot looked up and saw me, and smiled.
"I'm Junot." He said. "What's your name?"
You know that scene in Cinderella, where the poor girl that was once almost a hobo dances with the perfect, elegant, famous prince? And it seems as though there's nobody else in the ballroom except for them? That was my life. That was my Cinderella moment. Talking to Junot Diaz, having him talk only to me, this poor girl that is barely anything more than a hobo but hides it really well in the same black dress she's worn since she was sixteen, was just beyond any description I could possibly give. It felt as though there wasn't even a whole world outside of just us two, right there. This one, famous, world-renowned, incredibly talented artist talking to this struggling-to-keep-up-college girl like they were equals, like for one moment they inhabited the same world. Just for one shining moment. I'll remember that moment for the rest of my life.
Right then, it didn't matter that I'd had a complete emotional breakdown over the state of my hair in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It didn't matter that I'd been feeling lonely for weeks, been struggling with things I couldn't quite get past. None of the hardships, trials, or tribulations, small or large, bothered me any longer. It was as though I had shed that skin and burst--blazing with a new one, ready to take on the world again fresh. I was revived. The girl sobbing and ripping out chunks of her hair in the shower might never have existed, because, in spite of everything, the hair, the disaster, and all the underlying problems that led me to that point, I had made it. My life was more amazing in that moment than I ever imagined it could have been before.
He signed my moleskin: For Stephanie, In Honor Of Your Art. Ian snapped a quick picture of us. Then, some other partygoers stole him away from me and he waved, and smiled, and Ian and I left the building, both still exploding with excitement about the craziness that we call our lives and how it all played out.
When I fell asleep that night, lying there alone in the blackness of my room, my mind was racing from my conversation with Junot and the words he had told me, just for me, not for a whole auditorium of people but just for me by myself. "We need more writers. Don't ever stop writing. I fully believe that you can make it."
I felt as though I had been reborn. There was a new burning determination inside of me that glowed brightly even in the secluded darkess of my aparment, and I knew what I had to do. I had to start writing again. "Art is really a metaphor for all that we consider human. Art will keep you human." So, here it goes.
Today, I give you the story of The Day a Walmart Stylist Almost Ruined My Life. I'm Not Kidding, She Almost Drove Me To Suicide.
So, as those closest to me know, yesterday I got the chance to meet Junot Diaz, the Pulitzer-Prize winning author. I was excited beyond belief at this opportunity. I literally was so excited that I could have died just from the anticipation. I made arrangements to go with my friend Ian, who is a Spanish major as well, and hardly slept at all the night before the event.
In my mind, how good I looked directly corresponded with what kind of an experience I was going to have at this lecture/book signing. I wasn't planning on whoring myself out or anything, I just wanted to look so elegant, so put-together, that Junot Diaz would look at me and think "Now here's a young woman who's got it together! She's going to go far! Clearly, her work must be amazing!" This would be the start of my lifelong friendship with Junot Diaz, leading me to catch my first big break with the publishers, eventually creating my first masterpiece that would become an instant classic. El otro mano, however, was that if I showed up looking anything less than spectacular, I would be instantly forgotten and the greatest opportunity of my life would have passed me by faster than Junot Diaz could say "Will somebody call security on this hobo thrusting a book in my face?"
I could hardly wait. Lately, though, I've been having a lot of issues with my hair. The cold/drizzly weather has somehow caused my scalp to decide that my hair needs enough oil to cook french fries in, and thus my head has turned the knob all the way to maximum on the "produce oil" function. For days I looked like a greaser straight out of That Musical We All Know About High School Kids That Aren't Really Even High Schoolers In Real Life. I just couldn't allow my hair to look like this in front of Junot Diaz. My stylist I've used since I was born lives in Carrollton, and I've long since learned never to trust anybody but her with my hair, but I figured since I only wanted a shampoo and some soft curls, it would be safe to trust any old stylist out there. Because I mean, what kind of stylist doesn't know how to curl hair? Isn't that like the prerequisite for even getting into beauty school? (I wouldn't know, seeing as how I have never been to beauty school, but I thought it would be a pretty safe assumption.)
Was I ever wrong.
The plan was simple: I was going to leave my first class when it got out at 12 and go straight to Wal-Mart. I was going to stop by the salon, ask for a quick washing and curling of my hair, then I was going to grab a new pair of black hose and a cute umbrella and return home. There, I would change into my black dress (the black dress that does everything, there will probably be a story about this later) put on my bright red coat, and go to my last class, which started at 2:30. That class ended at 3:30, and Junot Diaz would be speaking at 4, so I would be in prime position to get a front row seat at the lecture and my life would just go straight on uphill from there. Easy enough, right?
Well, the day started out all right. I woke up, and went to my Spanish Linguistics class. All throughout the class, I scribbled down some poems and thought blissfully of the day I would make it as a famous author. I got two pretty good poems out of that daydreaming period, and I was content with myself as I left the class for Wal-Mart.
I should have known disaster was looming just from the sheer ominous air radiating from the creepily deserted Wal-Mart lobby. I should have turned around and marched straight back to my car the minute that queasy feeling rose in my stomach, but I did not. My obsession with looking like a non-hobo for once in my life--the time when it counted the most--spurred me to new heights of daredevilism my body had never experienced before. I held my head high and marched right into the salon.
The stylist was smacking some gum. "Yeah?" She drawled, looking me over.
"I would like my hair curled," I said, looking around for a poster on the wall I could use as a reference. "Nothing like Shirley Temple, of course. I've just got a very important lecture I have to go to tonight and I wanted to look elegant."
"Elegant," The stylist repeated as though it were a foreign word passing through her lips for the first time. "Okay. Yeah. You want a wash too?"
"Yes please," I said, running my fingers through my hair. "I've been having an oil problem lately with this weather."
"Oh, that could be fixed by coloring your hair!" The stylist said, her eyes lighting up in excitement. "We should color it! Do you want me to color it? How about a nice rich brown?"
"Um, no thank you," I said, the uneasy feeling in my stomach already resurfacing. I was beginning to regret my decision. "I just wanted some soft curls for today. You know, just some soft, pretty, elegant curls."
The stylist looked a little disappointed, but got to work brushing my hair, which was extremely slow work. She brushed my hair for twenty nine minutes. Twenty nine! I counted. Every second ticking by on my cellphone clock was another second I could be using to get ready. I had estimated this salon visit would take an hour at the very most.
Eventually, she washed my hair, and as soon as we were back in the styling chair, she massaged gobs and gobs of gel into my hair.
"Um, that's a lot of product..." I said nervously. "You did hear me say I had an oil problem, right? Isn't this just going to make it look more oily?"
"Nah," The stylist said, smacking her gum loudly. "You're gonna look hot." The way she spoke was almost as though she was texting to me--I could hear the emoticons and shortened words in her speech. Na gurl. Ur guna look HOTT!! ;-)
I was texting a few of my friends to keep my boredom in check as the stylist set to wrapping my hair around rollers at an excruciatingly slow pace, and I noticed with a jolt that the time was already 2:15. I was going to miss my last class! I texted a classmate and told her about my situation, and she said she would tell our professor, but I was still upset. I was pretty sure "She's stuck in a salon chair because she wanted to look good for Junot Diaz's reading, and the stylist is going so slow she's pretty sure she's being held as a hostage, so she won't be making it to class today" wouldn't win me an excused absence. But I could hope. Oh lord, I could hope. And hope was quickly becoming the only thing I desperately clutched to as time ticked on.
The stylist put me in a blow-drying-chair-obviously-recently-remodeled-from-Ol' Sparky-I-think-I-could-still-see-remnants-of-restraints and told me to wait while my curls set. I waited there 45 agonizing minutes. Finally, at 3, I started to panic. What was I going to do? I was supposed to be already dressed and on campus! I didn't have time to do anything! I started calculating the worst possible scenarios. I decided that as long as got the hell out of Wal-Mart by 3:10, I could be back at my apartment at 3:20, throw on my dress and leave my apartment at 3:30, and make it in time to still have a good seat for the lecture.
"Are we almost done?" I said, barely concealing the wail underneath my calm and collected voice. The stylist came over and pulled the rollers out. O yah, that looks gud gurl :) She tweeted as she ran her fingers over my scalp. Jus sit here under tha dryer a minute more, K? Make em gud and fluffy. <3
As I was impatiently-patiently waiting, my friend texts me and says "send me a picture of your hair!"
I held my phone out to take a picture. The resulting image was so horrifying that I literally cried out. There aren't even any words to describe the horror I felt, so here is the picture so you can judge for yourself. I specifically wanted something like THIS:
But somehow, I ended up with THIS:
"IAN I'M LATE!!!" I shrieked into the phone, probably rupturing his eardrum. "YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW--MY HAIR--WHAT AM I GOING TO DO--I'M NOT DRESSED, I'M LATE, HELP ME, SAVE A SEAT, GO NOW GO!!!!!!!!!!"
then I hung up. Poor Ian was left to massage his bleeding ears I imagine, then he (probably out of fear of what the screaming monster would do to him if he didn't follow my instructions) left to go get a seat. Meanwhile, I was sobbing hysterically as I sped somewhere close to 120 mph down the freeway to get to my apartment and throw on my dress.
"It's not so bad," I reassured myself out loud, dimly aware that the first sign of madness is talking to your own head. "I'll just brush it. I'll just brush it out and it will look fantastic. It's just wet is all. I'll just blow dry it and brush it out."
I arrived at my apartment, hurled my things down on the bed, and grabbed my brush and my roommate's hairdryer. It was now 3:22. I brushed out my hair, tousled it with my hands, and turned the blowdryer on it. To my horror, however, I found out that my hair was not, in fact, wet, but so slathered in product that it looked like it was wet when it was actually quite dry. I let out a shriek of agony, ripped off all my clothes with fury, and jumped into the shower. I scrubbed my hair so much that clumps of it were coming out. "YOU WILL GET OUT!!!" I shrieked. "I WILL MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL!!!" I was beyond all control. I was a madwoman.
I got out of the shower, pulled my dress and hose on so quickly that I fell over, and I grabbed the hairdryer and started to dry my hair, still sobbing all the while. The time was 3:35, and I knew that I was late. I knew I was too late to make it to Junot Diaz's lecture. My life was over. This was it. This was the end of my life.
Ian was calling me. I answered the phone with a mixture of wails and hyperventilation. "Are you okay!?" He asked, sounding really concerned. "Listen, I've got us a seat. Just calm down and get here, okay?"
"I CAN NOT CALM DOWN!!!" I bellowed, breaking every glass in my apartment (most likely). "IAN MY HAIR IS--I CAN'T BREATHE--MY DRESS--MY HAIR--MY HAIR IS WET!"
Ian sounded like he wasn't entirely sure what to say. Finally he settled on "Okay can you just get here? It will be okay. You can tell me all about it when you get here. I'm sure you look just fine. Just come on, okay?"
"I WILL NOT LOOK LIKE A HOBO! I CAN'T DO IT! I WON'T DO IT!" I was now completely hysterical. Whoever I was before I stepped into Wal-Mart that morning was gone, and this crazy person had taken her place.
"Okay, okay!" Ian said, fully alarmed now. "You're not a hobo! Nobody said you were a hobo! I'm sure you look great. Just come on!"
"THIS IS MY ONLY CHANCE!!!!" I screamed into the phone, but Ian had already hung up. I looked at my tear-stained face in the mirror.
Something stirred inside of me when I saw my pitiful reflection. This was not me. I do not give up on things. I do not quit. and I was SURE AS HELL NOT GOING TO MEET JUNOT DIAZ LOOKING LIKE A HOBO, AND THAT WAS FINAL. It was as if a fire reignited inside my soul. I had meaning again. Purpose. Motivation. I picked up the hairdryer and I told the girl in the mirror, "This is our time!"
I dried my hair and put on my makeup again. I quickly snapped a picture in the mirror with the idea of sending it to Ian and getting him to confirm that I did not in fact look like a hobo, but I realized there wasn't really enough time and I was going the way I was and that was the only option. I'm glad I did, however, because now I have a photo of my victory, the moment that I spat in hysteria's face and stomped on its toes. Here it is:
As I got on a bus, I realized in a panic that I didn't bring a pen or any cash. Every book signing I've been to, ever, the author has charged for signatures, so I texted Ian in a panic the following -- "Please for the love of god tell me you have a pen and some cash"
This got me another worried phone call. "Are you okay? Have you cracked? Have you gone over? No, I don't have a pen or cash on me..."
I let out a roar of anger. I hung up the phone and reevaluated my situation. Cash was obtainable. Whether I had to flash a rich man on the street or mug an innocent bystander on my way to the Chapel (where Junot Diaz was going to be lecturing), getting cash was possible. The madwoman in me was placated and I moved on to the issue of the pen.
This one proved more tricky. First, I scoured the bus with my eyes looking for an abandoned pen, but luck was not on my side. As I neared my stop, however, I saw a girl fumbling in her bag and I seized the only chance left to me.
"Do you have a pen!?" I asked as I cornered her in the back seat of the bus. She looked a little frightened.
"Sure, um, here's one..." She mumbled, handing me a pen.
"Can I keep it? I need this pen!" I said urgently. She looked terrified now.
"Yeah! It's yours! All yours!" She squeaked. I jumped off the bus and sprinted towards my destination. I could see the chapel up ahead. My goal was in my sight!
I rushed up to the doors to find people saying "No, no, we're at capacity. We're full. I'm sorry." The words hit me like a bullet in my heart. "No!" I objected, trying to push past them . "No, my friend is in there! He's saving me a seat! I have a seat!"
"I'm sorry." The attendant said. "We're at capacity."
"YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY, I AM GOING INSIDE! I DID NOT COME ALL THIS WAY TO BE STOPPED BY THE LIKES OF YOU!!" I shrieked like the true villain I had become. The madwoman was back. I literally shoved my way in and raced up the stairs before they could get a good look at me to describe me to security. I found Ian, shoved people out of the way, jumped over the seat and settled in nice and inconspicuously beside him as he looked at me incredulously.
"You've cracked." He said in awe.
"Shut the hell up." Was my snappy retort.
The attendants began coming to the people unlucky enough to be sitting on the stairs and telling them that they had to leave. I shrunk down a little more behind my chair, hoping they would pass me by. They did. I felt a swelling surge of relief. "See?" Ian said, "Your day hasn't been so bad. You made it! You didn't get kicked out!"
"Haha. Yeah..." I said, looking over my shoulder to make sure the attendants were really gone. A ray of hope was shining inside me. I really had made it. In spite of everything, I made it. I was there. And then Junot Diaz emerged, and took the stage. We all applauded, and I felt a sense of accomplishment. I did it. I made it happen.
Junot began to speak, and I was entranced. The man was a genius, a pure genius, and here I was sitting in an auditorium getting to hear his words to us for the first time, not through the internet or a recording of him, but through his real, live words. He inspired me. He had us on our feet, cheering and shouting. He told us that art was the only thing that was going to keep us human. That we had to rely on our art. That we had to find other humans through art. That art was living, and never be afraid to do more, to show more, to be more. He was a bright shining hero on that stage, filling me with a sense of purpose and empowerment. I was reminded, in that moment, of what I REALLY want to do with my life.
I want to be a writer.
When the lecture ended, and we all applauded, Junot sat at the front and signed everyone's books. To my delight, I found out that he was NOT charging for autographs, and I sighed with relief again (for probably the 5th or 6th time since I had arrived at the Chapel) knowing that I didn't have to go attack a poor civilian and take his cash. Ian and I chatted in line about my awful day, until we got to the part about my hair.
"It can't have been that bad." He said seriously. "You were just already having a bad day so you exaggerated it in your mind, that's all." Without a word, I pulled out my cellphone and showed him the picture. He yelped. "Okay," he conceded. "That's pretty bad."
I was happy again. My panicked morning had passed. I felt liberated and uplifted. Just as I was feeling that nothing could possibly go wrong, however, Junot Diaz's attendants announced to the crowd that time was over and Junot was going to have to go now. My heart plummeted.
"Ian, my book...!" I shrieked, feeling the familiar panic returning. "I wanted my book signed! What are we going to do!"
The ushers were scooting us all out of the door unceremoniously. "Don't panic." Ian said. "For the love of God please do not panic. We'll figure out something."
"He's leaving!" I wailed, clutching my moleskin to my chest. "He's leaving and I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO GET MY BOOK SIGNED!"
Behind us, we could hear some women talking. "There's a private banquet down at the Founder's House for him," one woman was saying. "Yes, I just hope we've prepared enough food for everyone that said they were coming," the other one said as they walked away.
Ian looked at me. "You want your book signed?" He asked.
A minute later we were walking into the Founder's House like we belonged there, like it was no big deal. There was delicious food everywhere. We could hardly believe our luck and our own daring. I snapped a few pictures to commemorate:
"Go talk to him!" Ian nudged me. I stepped forward timidly. Junot looked up and saw me, and smiled.
"I'm Junot." He said. "What's your name?"
You know that scene in Cinderella, where the poor girl that was once almost a hobo dances with the perfect, elegant, famous prince? And it seems as though there's nobody else in the ballroom except for them? That was my life. That was my Cinderella moment. Talking to Junot Diaz, having him talk only to me, this poor girl that is barely anything more than a hobo but hides it really well in the same black dress she's worn since she was sixteen, was just beyond any description I could possibly give. It felt as though there wasn't even a whole world outside of just us two, right there. This one, famous, world-renowned, incredibly talented artist talking to this struggling-to-keep-up-college girl like they were equals, like for one moment they inhabited the same world. Just for one shining moment. I'll remember that moment for the rest of my life.
Right then, it didn't matter that I'd had a complete emotional breakdown over the state of my hair in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It didn't matter that I'd been feeling lonely for weeks, been struggling with things I couldn't quite get past. None of the hardships, trials, or tribulations, small or large, bothered me any longer. It was as though I had shed that skin and burst--blazing with a new one, ready to take on the world again fresh. I was revived. The girl sobbing and ripping out chunks of her hair in the shower might never have existed, because, in spite of everything, the hair, the disaster, and all the underlying problems that led me to that point, I had made it. My life was more amazing in that moment than I ever imagined it could have been before.
He signed my moleskin: For Stephanie, In Honor Of Your Art. Ian snapped a quick picture of us. Then, some other partygoers stole him away from me and he waved, and smiled, and Ian and I left the building, both still exploding with excitement about the craziness that we call our lives and how it all played out.
When I fell asleep that night, lying there alone in the blackness of my room, my mind was racing from my conversation with Junot and the words he had told me, just for me, not for a whole auditorium of people but just for me by myself. "We need more writers. Don't ever stop writing. I fully believe that you can make it."
I felt as though I had been reborn. There was a new burning determination inside of me that glowed brightly even in the secluded darkess of my aparment, and I knew what I had to do. I had to start writing again. "Art is really a metaphor for all that we consider human. Art will keep you human." So, here it goes.
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