Tag Archives: childhood

Tattoo #3: Fievel Mousekewitz

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Fievel, right after Sean finished him

Fievel, right after Sean finished him

My good friend Sean has been apprenticing at The Beauty Mark for a while, and just recently started tattooing. He’s still technically an apprentice, so he’s been trying to do one piece each day. I’ve been dying to get Fievel done, so when I saw Sean drawing this cute little grey mouse the other night when we were hanging out, I said I should have him do it. He said he could do it the next day, so we did!

An American Tail was one of my favorite movies growing up. I am surprised that the original VHS still works, because I watched it so often. Noni put it on whenever I came over, and most of the time we watched it together. Popi watched it with us, too, if he wasn’t at work.

Even now, as an adult, I still love this movie. Fievel is not only a symbol of one of my favorite movies, though; he’s also a symbol of my childhood, the days I spent at my grandparents’ house while Mom and Dad worked. Every time I look at him, I think of those days and I smile. (I also smile because he’s really freaking cute.)

Yesterday; all bruised and healing

Yesterday; all bruised and healing

I have to admit, that spot was a bitch to get tattooed. I used to roll my eyes when people said different spots hurt more, but now I am a believer. I am not afraid to admit that my forearm hurt more than my other tattoos (#1, #2), and that I had to bite down on my tongue half the time to distract myself. It also bruised up quite a bit, which Sean said is normal for that spot. Today it’s a lot more tender. I see cold compresses in my future!

Grownup pride

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Ugh. The depression is hitting again. Maybe I’m just nervous about tomorrow. I feel like my pride is hanging by a thread.

I remember when I was twelve and I went to public middle school. Many of the other girls were these violence-crazed creatures high on hormones and too much hairspray. They liked to torture me, sometimes on the bus by throwing things — pencils, soda bottles, and other small and random objects — at me. One girl — whose name might have been Stephanie — liked to yell random things at me in Spanish, and tried to get my attention over and over. I did what my parents had taught me to do: ignored her so that she would go away. I sat on the shitty brown bus seat and stared straight ahead.

Well, she didn’t go away; she decided to bop me on the head a couple of times, like in that children’s song. It didn’t hurt — not really, anyway — but for some reason, I cried anyway. I cried when I got home and told my parents, too.

“Did she hurt you?” my dad asked gently.

“No,” I said. “She just…”

“…hurt your pride,” he finished, knowing the words I couldn’t find at twelve.

That’s how I feel right now. My pride is wounded. I’ve been bopped on the head one too many times. I’d like to buy some grownup milk and cookies* to take it all away, but I have no money. Hell, I can’t even buy the things I need.

So yes, I’m nervous about tomorrow. This time, it isn’t just about having extra money. I am now twenty-two, and have some grownup bills, and some grownup pride to go along with it all.

I was just managing to keep my depression at bay before last Monday; now I can barely keep it off of me. If tomorrow goes well, it would sure cheer me up.

-

*”Grownup milk and cookies” are what Lorelai calls booze in the Gilmore Girls episode where Christopher’s father dies.

Being bad

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In middle school, I decided I was going to be BAD, like George Thorogood. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but when I think about those days, that is the theme music that plays.

Ba-ba-ba-ba-baaad

Up until that moment, I’d been a shy, quiet kid who (usually) did everything I was told. I don’t know if it was the change of schools or what, but my main agenda became rule breaking. I made friends with a girl who I think had just come from Albania. Besa was sweet, told you like it was, and loyal. More importantly, she too wanted to be BAD.

For some reason, my school had banned chewing gum. It might have been the incessant gum snapping of girls just hitting puberty, or it might have been the wads of either stone solid or freshly sticky stuff under the desks, but someone decided the penalty for snapping gum would be a WRITE-UP. Besa and I decided that the baddest way to be bad was to chew gum. We didn’t pop it — I still don’t even know how to do it on purpose — and we didn’t stick it to anything, but we did swallow it the second a teacher asked if we were chewing.

Skipping class was also worth a write-up — or a detention, depending on who you were dealing with and how pissed off they were. Besa and I were skipping professionals. We would ask for a bathroom pass, wander the halls for a whole ten minutes, and then return to class; skipping professionals.

When I think of middle school, I have very few good memories. Being bad with Besa is one of the good ones. We ended up losing touch, probably because I switched schools. (When I said, “very few good memories,” I should have said, “big black spots covering the bad memories and the spaces between them and the good ones.”) I’ll never forget her, though.

Besa, if you’re reading this, I hope your “bad” self is doing really, really well.

How could I forget that I did something so horrible?

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I have a confession to make — and it’s not an easy one.

I’ve written about how I was bullied as a child… but I’ve never told you about the times I joined in with a couple of kids and made fun of someone.

I was laying awake in bed last night, thinking about the girl I ran into recently. This girl made fun of me in middle school. She made fun of my nose, and talked shit about me constantly. I don’t know whether she knew I heard her or not, but she did it anyway… from just a few feet away. I ran into her recently and didn’t say a word to her. She didn’t say anything to me, either. I hope she didn’t recognize me, but since I recognized her, she probably knew who I was.

Anyway, as I was thinking about her, I realized that I’m just as guilty. No, I was never the ringleader, but I did join in. I laughed when other kids cracked jokes. I even agreed when someone said something mean about someone. I repeated things that other people said about these kids, things that probably hurt if they heard me. And all of this time, I’ve been saying, “Bullying is wrong, it fucked me up for years.” I bullied someone, too! I did it without even knowing what I was doing. I can hope that today, none of the kids I made fun of or laughed at think, “Wow, that girl Liz really hurt me,” but maybe they do.

That makes me no better than the girl I ran into, when I really think about it.

I don’t think I’m a bad person, but this really bothers me. What bothers me even more is that I forgot that I did it.

I’m telling you not because I want you to feel bad for me, or to reassure me that I’m a good person. I’m telling you because I want you to know how easy it is to join in, and how little we think of what we are doing. Sure, my ten-year-old self knew it was wrong to laugh at the girl with Down’s Syndrome. I knew better. I even had a friend outside of school with Down’s Syndrome, and I never laughed at her. I played hide and seek with her. But, in the midst of these other kids at school, I changed. I’m not blaming them, because I know I could have said, “Stop,” or left myself out of it. (I did eventually befriend her and stand up for her when the other kids laughed, but still. I was originally one of the kids who laughed.)

I’m so ashamed. I’m probably not the only one who found themselves acting that way, though. As Casey said, we need to take better care of each other. We really, really do.

Proof that my inner eleven-year-old is still alive

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Behold... My Future
  I will marry Kurt Russell.  
  After a wild honeymoon, We will settle down in Florida in our fabulous House.  
  We will have 3 kid(s) together.  
  Our family will zoom around in a black boat.
  I will spend my days as a Stonehouse taste-tester, and live happily ever after.  
 
whats your future
 

I feel a little bad that Mike got cut, but at least I get to taste test pizza at my (second) favorite pizza place — and a wild* honeymoon with Kurt Russell.

I can’t remember how to do MASH myself, but it’s a skill every kid should have.

Please do your own MASH and post your results in the comments, so I don’t feel so lame. :D

Update! I Googled “mash game” and found a description of how to play. It’s all coming back to me now!

*Hello, wet dream.