But it is not about him.
I have spent two years mourning the loss of almost a decade - a decade of stories that I feel I must bury along with him. I have said before I struggle to detach myself from him, to unravel the twisted thorny vines that he rooted in my tender, developing heart, to edit out his dark narration of these years of my life.
I have thought about throwing all that sweet soil of ages 12-20 out with the weeds.
But I refuse.
He is in it, but it is not about him.]
I.
I do not recall what kind of underwear I wore when I was twelve.
But I do remember with great detail my choices when it came to my socks.
They were plaid, and they had to be knee-high. I owned three pairs in different colors and I cherished them.
Knee-high plaid socks were a no-brainer. I was a private school girl now, after all these years. But, I didn't like my knees and thighs. They looked strange and bulky, poking up out of all that argyle. My solution was tights, worn strategically under the socks, to give my legs what I perceived to be a flattering "airbrushed" effect. Then, it was shoes. Ballet flats, of course - something cheap, and very bad for arch support. Unless it was PE day, and then it was sneakers, yes, right on top of all that plaid and those tights which were all on top of me: Sarah Kane, age 12.
I never doubted that these fashion choices were right for me. Were they ideal? Of course not. In an ideal world, I wouldn't be wearing a starchy pleated skirt and a white polo shirt - and I certainly would have had better legs - but, even at 12, I knew what I had to do, and that was to focus on my strengths.
I knew my strengths had something to do with the fact that I was half British, could play the piano, and was very good at reading. And, newsflash, none of those things had anything to do with the way I looked. So my plan was to distract from my mediocre appearance by covering up as much of it as I could - and hence, we find 12-year-old Sarah layered in tights and socks, no matter the time, and no matter the place.
There exists somewhere on the internet a relic from the past. A photo of me and a few of my classmates loitering outside a gas station in Washington D.C. on our eighth-grade trip. It was sweltering, we were miserable. The baby hairs at the nape of my neck were curling in protest, my palms were damp, a sunburn was creeping across my forehead, and my socks were still over my tights.
"Why do you do that?" One of the girls in my class asked, snarling her upper lip and looking down at my legs.
"Do what?" I asked.
"Wear your socks over your tights."
"I don't know what you mean." I was completely thrown. Was this girl crazy? What kind of a question is that?
"It's just, normally, you pick one or the other, it's just... oh, never mind." She gave up, wandering away to purchase a soda.
II.
I am grateful not so many people bothered me about these things. The comments I do remember still sting today. When I suggested in my video production class that we do makeup on the boys for one of our projects, one of them raised his hand and said mockingly, "yeah, well too bad YOU'RE the one who really needs it!"
"Adam, that's enough," our teacher said.
He silenced my foes, he stood up for me. He was a good teacher.
A few weeks later when I came into class wearing a little bit of eyeliner and mascara, our teacher peered at me curiously. "When did you start wearing makeup?" He asked.
"Today," I blurted out. Crap. I had meant to say "oh, I always have" or something less monumental than the truth.
"Well, you don't need it," our teacher said, "but you look very pretty."
My cheeks felt hot. I had never been told that in that exact way, that exact tone. There was no shock, no surprise, it almost as if it was a fact and not just something to say. Fact: I look very pretty.
I rose from my seat and walked to the door where I paused. I knew that socially it was required of me to provide some kind of reply. I turned to my teacher. "Yes, it was very kind of my parents to let me start wearing makeup. They knew I wanted to look pretty for my last few weeks of life."
"Are you dying?" He asked, a brow raised.
I shrugged. "Only of boredom. Boredom, boredom, boredom." With these words and a flush still warming my cheeks, I dramatically exited the classroom. End scene.
III.
Drama class was shockingly boring. I had expected something much more stimulating than what I remember taking place.
What I remember is being handed sheet after sheet of white printer paper and being asked to draw set designs for this scene and that scene. But we couldn't even draw the sets so they looked pretty. If it was a chair, it was just a circle with the word chair inside it. If there were steps, we just put lines with the word steps on them. No shading whatsoever! It was a disgrace, really.
But one day, when I was done early, I crept over to the grand piano that sat solemnly in the corner. I never, ever recall that piano being played by anyone other than me.
I gingerly touched the keys, hoping that the chatter of eighth graders would swallow any noise I was making. I played. As I let myself wash over the keys I felt the excitement of creativity buzzing in my veins. I was making it up as I went along. It was a thrill.
And then, my drama teacher was behind me, her swaying bosom right beside my ear. "Oh, that is delightful!" she swooned. "What are you playing?"
"I wrote it," I said.
"Oh!" She squealed. "Incredible! You must write for the senior play!"
She needed some lines from The Tempest set to music. Eight or nine lines, to be exact. I worked on it for days. I wasn't used to my creativity being commissioned. It was painstaking to carve out a melody. The problem was that the lyrics were so short, it was almost impossible to create a complete piece of music with them. But I did it. And I played it for Mrs. Stone and she clapped her hands with glee and shoved a cheerful senior in my direction. "Teach her," she said.
I wish I could say I remember this senior's name, but I do not. I remember she was so tiny, tiny as a bird, I thought. And her hair was dark and she had bangs that swooshed across her beautifully crystal clear forehead that housed crystal clear eyeballs which were surrounded by thick, overwhelming shards of mascara. She was perfect.
I taught her the song, and I gave the pianist for the play my notes for what to play.
The day came to go see The Tempest. I considered this not only my virgin expedition but my magnum opus, my pièce de résistance. My supportive parents peered over my shoulder at the program. I hope my name was in there. At this current moment, I can't be sure it was, although I do feel a distant memory of myself looking at my name in striking black ink against the cheap yellow paper and thinking, "that little name right there, is me?"
The time finally came, it was my song. I smiled as the pianist began. And then, the senior opened her mouth, and out came a vile, off-key rendition of my masterpiece. She was squawking out the iambic pentameter like a sick, sad parrot and I wanted to sink into my chair and die, die die!
"She was just nervous," A well-meaning grown-up soothed me later. But I had lost faith in seniors, utterly and absolutely. However, I now had something absolutely despicable to ruminate on during drama class for the rest of the semester. I watched my drama teacher pace the room while I scratched away at printer paper. Chair, chair. Table. Curtain. I was relishing my first real taste of humiliation, of failure.
I was a true artist now. And even better, a martyr. I was suffering, and I was very, very good at that. I added it to my list of strengths.
-Half British, can play the piano, good at reading and writing, with an aptitude for suffering.
[to be cont.]
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