late nights and loud fights
it's all just a blur

10:13 a.m. | 2004-01-30
A Short Jaunt Goes Strangely Awry

Word of the Day for Friday January 30, 2004

opprobrium uh-PRO-bree-uhm, noun:
1. Disgrace; infamy; reproach mingled with contempt.
2. A cause or object of reproach or disgrace.

You always want people to care. To know what you're doing. Sometimes you even prod people to ask you about it. I don't want to be asked. I'm afraid I might give people that idea some days. I'm going to try to stop that.

In other news: I found quite a few pages of chicken scratch, which again, reveal thoughts on paper. Sociological perspectives (of which I made the mistake of attaching to my homework, 'cause I had used the same distinct pen...he was confused to say the least, but this was the second time I've had to read something to the class). Side note on that actually...

Last week in class they were handing back these things called "Reading Responses" to our reading in this pretty cool text by Henslin. So, they're handing them back, and since they're our first he needs to "discuss" what he wants improved. Understandable. So he continues on to talk about what he wants (grammar, spelling, the really hard stuff). Then after this he looks my direction, and he says, "Lauren, would you mind coming up here for a second." Now the best part is I had just fallen asleep, so when he says Lauren...and come here...I'm convinced he saw me and I'm in DEEP shit. He asks me to bring my response, which I think odd, and then tells me to stand at the podium and read. *Insert best humble face here* I read:

"Upon reading this week�s selections I found myself fascinated by a certain section of Henslin�s writing. It wasn�t a particular point that he made, but rather one that I noticed on my own. Upon perusing the pages that discussed �Socialization through the Life Course� (pages 90-92) I found myself wrapped up in the categories and wondering how they applied.

Firstly, he mentions 5 major categories to the life course: Childhood, Adolescence, Young Adulthood, The Middle Years, and The Older Years. Some of these had subcategories, but what I focused on more was the first three categories.

In our society that we live in and are raised in I find that those lines are being blurred more and more in the way that we raise our children, but are being more and more pronounced in the ways that we talk about raising out children. In this I mean that our parents differentiate between us being 13 (Adolescents) and 18 (Young Adults) and yet frequently people are referred to as young adults as they turn 16, gain more responsibilities like driver�s licenses and the like.

On the same token, though, as our children today turn 18 it�s much more frequent that we refer to them as �adults� because legally they are�but the situation that they have lived in for the past few years does not support that. They have been brought up in a system that offered them no coming of age rituals or anything to support any kind of �growing up� except that you get �teen� added on to your name at 13, and you get a license at 16, and then you�re plausibly �free� at 18. When we all know it�s far from the case.

Henslin discusses more of the sociological factors that keep people in these categories of age, and does not touch too much on our certain cultures, in this case the American one, deal with their children actually growing up within these categories."

This is where is gets creepy. I'm standing here at this podium just kinda like...ok? Am I done yet? He comes up behind me, tells me I can go sit down, pauses in this HUGE silence and says: "kids, this is the kind of analysis I want. Notice how she didn't actually discuss something that Henslin stated like 'the symbolic interaction between...blah blah blah'--she actually took a stand. Put observations and more than anything, used examples. And yet it's simple, like a page right? That's what I'm looking for--in depth thought. That's the only paper I got that satisfied that." *Cue Lauren shrinking in her chair for fear everyone is staring at her.*

Off of the bragging topic...back to humility. I found chicken scratch, right, that's where we were. Here's what I found:

Forgotten
No one remembered
They didn't even realize she wasn't there until she had arrived
All too late,
She had gotten there, sent home with a tear
No one cared,
She had been given all the challenges to overcome,
and yet even though she knew the others would have theirs
she was the one who recieved the most.
No one tried,
They overlooked her as she picked herself off the ground.
She was ignored, except when they needed her.

After they used her she was discarded, like trash
No one ever took the time,
to look at what they were doing.
She realized it, of course,
but didn't have the courage to tell.
She just carried on because
no one remembers,
no one cares,
and no one tries.

That was in 9th grade I think...I don't know where I hid it, or why...I just found it. Pretty hurt I guess. Next:

Ugly
I'm equally as ugly as you
in these dark days

I start my look at the world
in those same ways

My theories on life erased,
my view of things changed
Once loving of the little in life
now bored with the inane

I'm not as sweet as I thought,
never as pretty as I hoped
Forgot to make the choices
now I'm left to cope

My own decisions have brought me here,
my own thoughts keep hold
And I'M the only one that can release myself
or who can change this mold

Like a man held captive,
head hung low (and pulling),
both arms restrained,
pushing with anger
unfounded in name

So I hold my key,
my way out,
my destiny
But the same thoughts keep it,
won't let me hold it,
restrict me from my fame

I've fucked myself over
way from the start
And now I'm left standing
In more than one part

An attempt at rhyming apparantly. This one's more current. Somewhere around October I figure. I debate most times whether or not I should date these things...but then again they're fleeting, bad, and represent singular moments. I've never actually ever been published for them...writing yes...poetry no. Honestly I think it's bad stuff. Though I still wish I could find some of the older stuff...father reaction stuff. I think I hid that from myself, though, so I could forget what he did.

Speaking of...who has managed to turn into one of the coolest dads ever? Whoa...mine?! How did this happen. No, it's not me moving away to college, blah blah blah, it's real. Ever since he's gone "native" and especially started taking his "brain meds" (which has been the last year, almost two now) he's been an amazingly cool guy. We drove 10 days together people, I don't think you comprehend that. I never wanted to hurt him--not even once!

What brought this on, though...was a phone call I got last night at 2 am my time. Just as I was heading to bed, and I was listening to my messages (in bed) he called. I didn't want to interrupt the roomies sleeping or really talk, 'cause I was tired, but I figured he'd leave a message. This morning I woke up and listened to the message. I almost cried. It was a recording of me, I would say about 8 ('cause we had the piano at that point and I was playing in the background), and I was singing. I heard those clear notes and even now I get teary eyed. Those were the days my dad used to take me to opera practice and I'd sing with them.

I wonder where John is. He was the director of La Boheme in Denver...he said I had the prettiest little voice. "Like an angel" he often said. It was some silly song, but you could hear my dad smiling in the recording, and me reacting to it, belting out these great notes. I can't even hit those today. (Now I'm fighting to beat back the tears) After Mr. Johnson left, and I refused to sing after's grandma's funeral (still can't listen to ave maria without sobbing), and then finally after pneumonia...I gave up. I realized it the other day--how bad it has gotten.

My family was all music as a kid--black spirituals mostly--but I was pushed into that kind of stuff and I LOVED it. Every second of it. I honestly think that I could...oh god it's hard to say this, and I hope you can trust me in this, but I honestly think I had serious talent. But I gave it up. I was scared because people would mock me; teachers praised, junior high kids mocked. I didn't know what to do. So in 7th grade I gave it up. Then came grandma's funeral. I wasn't particularly attached to the lady--but I was still in the stage of feeling like all family (just because related) loves you to death. She thought my name was Steven because I looked so much like my father (alzheimers does that to ya). And in the middle of my father and I singing Ave Maria my dad lost it. I freaked out. I honestly didn't sing anything for 2 years. Honestly. Not even in the car. Not to the radio. Not to Mariah Carey, or any CD I owned. I stopped.

The rest is pretty obvious, pneumonia took away an E and a D (my two lower notes that make my voice distinctive) and now I'm left with two fragmented octaves. And I hate singing. It hurts my heart. I had a fucking talent, and I fucking let go.

I asked Colin the other day why he gave things up like that, why he'd let passions go--and he said they had faded. You could see in his eyes they hadn't completely. It was more that they hurt him for some reason to do, and he didn't want that pain.

It made me start thinking about my own life...had I done the same thing? Writing--yes. Painting--hell yes. Singing--yes. Performing--yes. And now who am I? I miss ALL of those things. I never would have given them up had I know how much I loved them. Now I'm scared to do things like paint--so my paintings are timid and bad. I'm afraid to audition for choirs. I'm afraid to act again. I never realized this--why? I don't understand--and honestly, I don't think I want to. Not right now at least.

When did I change? Why did I change? How did that tow-headed little child become so jaded?

Signing Off--Lauren

ante / comment / post