This is the project to which I attempt to coat half my bag in a wall of buttons I got from my grandma.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The Cult.
A few years ago, I moved with my family to a new town. I won't give any names, for privacy reasons. When we got there, my mom started church hunting. We tried the Lutheran church. We tried the Catholic church. We tried all of the churches until finally, on a friends reference, we tried the non-denominational church. It was all great and fine. My mom loved it. My brothers loved it. I, didn't so much, but that's because no one really talked to me. There were a few though, and I'm still good friends with them after everything that happened, happened.
So, what happened? Well, as the years went on I started to hear rumors in school. People were talking about the local cult. People told me I was a cult follower. Then they'd apologize. "Just kidding."
They weren't. But, I thought they were so I'd laugh along.
I remember taking a trip one summer to visit family down south. I had needed the trip, because the past school year had been unusually rough on me, and I wasn't handling it the best. During the trip, I was texting back and forth with a good friend of mine. Let's call him Jon. I was texting back and forth with Jon. We were setting up a day that we would draw together when I got back. On Facebook we were linking each other videos to watch, and swapping what little advice we had to give one another about the arts. As much as I was enjoying my southern stay, I was excited to get home. I was excited to see him. I was excited to spend time with him. But, when I got back, and ran into the church sanctuary looking everywhere for him, he wasn't there. And in the years to come, I'd only see him two or three more times.
But let's backtrack. When we had first joined, I had no friends. I sat alone during sermons, youth group, and any activities. The youth pastors overlooked me when I first arrived, because they thought I was just a visitor. As I came more and more often, their behaviors toward me wouldn't change. And as time would go on, I would change, and they never fully knew how to handle me. Or talk to me. Or treat me. So they ignored me. And, as is to be expected, so did everyone else in Youth, who were only following their example. But, there were those few, as I mentioned earlier, who I friended.
Let's call them Jane and David.
A married couple who helped run the Youth group. Jane was fun and energetic while David was calm and collected. They were a great match and had three kids that I really got along with. At first though, I only knew Jane and David, mainly because they wouldn't leave me alone. Unlike the pastors, they spent time with me even if that meant sitting and saying nothing at all while I drew things. Their presence is what they spoke with, and then when they did speak, it was only of good things. I connected with them really well, and through them I was able to act in a drama we presented for the church. I actually wound up doing two of them.
For their birthdays, and their children's birthdays, we would punk their house. That basically means that we'd confetti their house, tape signs to the garage, and tack up balloons everywhere in the yard while they were away. In return, they did not punk us. But they always gave us a wonderful reaction to us doing it to them!
Jane and David were good people. And one day, even though I didn't fully realize it had happened until much much later, they were gone.
But before they were gone, we had met some of their friends who also went to church with us. Tanya and Sean. For the longest time I had thought that Sean was Jane's brother, because they not only looked similar but acted similar. I remember the first time I had met him, nothing spectacular was happening. It was a Sunday morning and I was simply walking down the aisle to an open seat, and planned on just sitting there until the service began. (After all, I had no one to talk to.) I was a little over halfway down the aisle when I passed him sitting on the end of one of the rows.
"Hey hey! Look!" He had said, snatching out at my shirt. I remember being startled because someone was speaking to me. Before I had a chance to respond he had jerked up his pant leg. "Look at my socks! They're RED!" Lo and behold. He had socks on, and they were bright bright red. And that was the actual moment I decided he and Jane were related, because no one could get that excited over a pair of socks unless they were a part of her family. Sean and Tanya had-to my memory-close to six kids.
Hayley and Dylan were another couple that were friends with Jane and David. They had, maybe five kids. Their oldest daughter had the biggest crush on my brother and it was adorable because she was, 5, and he was 16. Jane and David's 3 kids would play with Hayley and Dylan's kids all the time. They grew up together.
I remember going to their garage sale, where they were partnering up with Tanya and Sean to sell things. I remember messing around with Cray-Pas in their driveway and admiring their house. It was so beautiful.
Long story short, Hayley, Dylan, Sean, and Tanya all left, taking their 11 kids with them. When they left, I actually remember it because it was so much more empty. The childrens services were seemingly void of children. Not just because of them, but because 3 other families disappeared too.
All of this happened over the span of five to six years. And by the time it was over, every single person I was able to hold a conversation with for more than 30 seconds, was gone. And then, so were we.
And, when we left, we found them. Everyone who had vanished before, we found again. At the time that it was happening, everyone was calling it a church split. And, I guess in a way that it was. But being so young, I never really questioned it. Until, after leaving, we learned why some of the people who left, left.
One of my moms friends left-or rather, was removed-because her son was having an affair with one of the ladies in church who was married to a man who was a 'big tither'. The more you gave, the more protection you had from the leaders. The leaders had kicked Sandra out because they decided that she plotted the whole thing, and was a homewrecker. Which, she isn't. It destroyed her. It hurt her. To be betrayed by your Pastors is something you never really expect. Other people in the church-sure. But your Pastor? Never. Sandra hasn't been to church since.
Jane and David were called into the office one day. Pastor's office. They wanted to speak to Jane alone. David wouldn't leave her. They agreed to speak to them both.
Jane had been called in, because of Annet. Jacob's wife. Jacob was the Youth pastor, and son of leaders. The thing with Jane is this: she isn't girly. She's feminine in a masculine way, and damn proud of it. She wears cargo pants under dresses, in ballet shoes and doesn't give a rip. Annet however, did give a rip because Jane was confronted on it. They didn't like how she was saying to the girls in the youth, that they didn't have to be girly. Annet wanted conformity, Jane was independent. There were many other things that happened as well, but it began with that, and ended with their banishment. They now lead Youth group at a different church, and are the main leaders.
Manda, one I haven't mentioned before, had a bit of a twisted story that I won't go into extreme details about. But, she was used. She's an amazing singer. On multiple occasions though, mainly when a church CD was being produced, she was pushed out of the way. The leader's wife and daughter wanted the spotlight. Manda was pushed out of pictures, but included in vocals. Obviously. Because she's amazing. When the leaders were in court, trying to win their daughters children from her ex-husband, they ordered Manda to lie in testimony, like they did, about things Nick did. Say he was a stalker, creeper, pedophile. She didn't. And slowly, started to realize how twisted things were. And when she was invited down south by a guest speaker/singer who was helping produce the CD, he was the first person-after having seen a few things-to actually say the word cult.
Now, this man is not weak. He is a strong man of God, and so for him to say that, means quite a number. It means a lot. It says a lot.
Manda has just started returning to church, after having had been blacklisted by them. The guest speaker was also told not to come back. He didn't want to anyways.
We were not led by Charles Manson. There were no Satanic rituals. There were leaders. And they were controlling. If you tried to leave, and they knew it, they would do anything they could to make you stay. More responsibilities, promises, compliments, anything to keep you there, and to keep you tithing. Money is all they really wanted. I can see that now. Money and popularity among their people. Because believe me, when they stood on that stage-emphasis on STAGE-and preached the 'gospel', they weren't doing it for God. They did it for themselves.
Once you're in, you feel like you can never leave. You feel like an addict, needing your drug. Once you're in, you feel like you're a part of a secret that no one else will or could ever understand. So you never talk to people about it, and when you do, you have to defend the leaders because deep down, you know they're wrong.
And once you're out, and I mean really out, you wonder what ever made you stay.
By the way, Nick won the kids. They're his. Thank God.
So, what happened? Well, as the years went on I started to hear rumors in school. People were talking about the local cult. People told me I was a cult follower. Then they'd apologize. "Just kidding."
They weren't. But, I thought they were so I'd laugh along.
I remember taking a trip one summer to visit family down south. I had needed the trip, because the past school year had been unusually rough on me, and I wasn't handling it the best. During the trip, I was texting back and forth with a good friend of mine. Let's call him Jon. I was texting back and forth with Jon. We were setting up a day that we would draw together when I got back. On Facebook we were linking each other videos to watch, and swapping what little advice we had to give one another about the arts. As much as I was enjoying my southern stay, I was excited to get home. I was excited to see him. I was excited to spend time with him. But, when I got back, and ran into the church sanctuary looking everywhere for him, he wasn't there. And in the years to come, I'd only see him two or three more times.
But let's backtrack. When we had first joined, I had no friends. I sat alone during sermons, youth group, and any activities. The youth pastors overlooked me when I first arrived, because they thought I was just a visitor. As I came more and more often, their behaviors toward me wouldn't change. And as time would go on, I would change, and they never fully knew how to handle me. Or talk to me. Or treat me. So they ignored me. And, as is to be expected, so did everyone else in Youth, who were only following their example. But, there were those few, as I mentioned earlier, who I friended.
Let's call them Jane and David.
A married couple who helped run the Youth group. Jane was fun and energetic while David was calm and collected. They were a great match and had three kids that I really got along with. At first though, I only knew Jane and David, mainly because they wouldn't leave me alone. Unlike the pastors, they spent time with me even if that meant sitting and saying nothing at all while I drew things. Their presence is what they spoke with, and then when they did speak, it was only of good things. I connected with them really well, and through them I was able to act in a drama we presented for the church. I actually wound up doing two of them.
For their birthdays, and their children's birthdays, we would punk their house. That basically means that we'd confetti their house, tape signs to the garage, and tack up balloons everywhere in the yard while they were away. In return, they did not punk us. But they always gave us a wonderful reaction to us doing it to them!
Jane and David were good people. And one day, even though I didn't fully realize it had happened until much much later, they were gone.
But before they were gone, we had met some of their friends who also went to church with us. Tanya and Sean. For the longest time I had thought that Sean was Jane's brother, because they not only looked similar but acted similar. I remember the first time I had met him, nothing spectacular was happening. It was a Sunday morning and I was simply walking down the aisle to an open seat, and planned on just sitting there until the service began. (After all, I had no one to talk to.) I was a little over halfway down the aisle when I passed him sitting on the end of one of the rows.
"Hey hey! Look!" He had said, snatching out at my shirt. I remember being startled because someone was speaking to me. Before I had a chance to respond he had jerked up his pant leg. "Look at my socks! They're RED!" Lo and behold. He had socks on, and they were bright bright red. And that was the actual moment I decided he and Jane were related, because no one could get that excited over a pair of socks unless they were a part of her family. Sean and Tanya had-to my memory-close to six kids.
Hayley and Dylan were another couple that were friends with Jane and David. They had, maybe five kids. Their oldest daughter had the biggest crush on my brother and it was adorable because she was, 5, and he was 16. Jane and David's 3 kids would play with Hayley and Dylan's kids all the time. They grew up together.
I remember going to their garage sale, where they were partnering up with Tanya and Sean to sell things. I remember messing around with Cray-Pas in their driveway and admiring their house. It was so beautiful.
Long story short, Hayley, Dylan, Sean, and Tanya all left, taking their 11 kids with them. When they left, I actually remember it because it was so much more empty. The childrens services were seemingly void of children. Not just because of them, but because 3 other families disappeared too.
All of this happened over the span of five to six years. And by the time it was over, every single person I was able to hold a conversation with for more than 30 seconds, was gone. And then, so were we.
And, when we left, we found them. Everyone who had vanished before, we found again. At the time that it was happening, everyone was calling it a church split. And, I guess in a way that it was. But being so young, I never really questioned it. Until, after leaving, we learned why some of the people who left, left.
One of my moms friends left-or rather, was removed-because her son was having an affair with one of the ladies in church who was married to a man who was a 'big tither'. The more you gave, the more protection you had from the leaders. The leaders had kicked Sandra out because they decided that she plotted the whole thing, and was a homewrecker. Which, she isn't. It destroyed her. It hurt her. To be betrayed by your Pastors is something you never really expect. Other people in the church-sure. But your Pastor? Never. Sandra hasn't been to church since.
Jane and David were called into the office one day. Pastor's office. They wanted to speak to Jane alone. David wouldn't leave her. They agreed to speak to them both.
Jane had been called in, because of Annet. Jacob's wife. Jacob was the Youth pastor, and son of leaders. The thing with Jane is this: she isn't girly. She's feminine in a masculine way, and damn proud of it. She wears cargo pants under dresses, in ballet shoes and doesn't give a rip. Annet however, did give a rip because Jane was confronted on it. They didn't like how she was saying to the girls in the youth, that they didn't have to be girly. Annet wanted conformity, Jane was independent. There were many other things that happened as well, but it began with that, and ended with their banishment. They now lead Youth group at a different church, and are the main leaders.
Manda, one I haven't mentioned before, had a bit of a twisted story that I won't go into extreme details about. But, she was used. She's an amazing singer. On multiple occasions though, mainly when a church CD was being produced, she was pushed out of the way. The leader's wife and daughter wanted the spotlight. Manda was pushed out of pictures, but included in vocals. Obviously. Because she's amazing. When the leaders were in court, trying to win their daughters children from her ex-husband, they ordered Manda to lie in testimony, like they did, about things Nick did. Say he was a stalker, creeper, pedophile. She didn't. And slowly, started to realize how twisted things were. And when she was invited down south by a guest speaker/singer who was helping produce the CD, he was the first person-after having seen a few things-to actually say the word cult.
Now, this man is not weak. He is a strong man of God, and so for him to say that, means quite a number. It means a lot. It says a lot.
Manda has just started returning to church, after having had been blacklisted by them. The guest speaker was also told not to come back. He didn't want to anyways.
We were not led by Charles Manson. There were no Satanic rituals. There were leaders. And they were controlling. If you tried to leave, and they knew it, they would do anything they could to make you stay. More responsibilities, promises, compliments, anything to keep you there, and to keep you tithing. Money is all they really wanted. I can see that now. Money and popularity among their people. Because believe me, when they stood on that stage-emphasis on STAGE-and preached the 'gospel', they weren't doing it for God. They did it for themselves.
Once you're in, you feel like you can never leave. You feel like an addict, needing your drug. Once you're in, you feel like you're a part of a secret that no one else will or could ever understand. So you never talk to people about it, and when you do, you have to defend the leaders because deep down, you know they're wrong.
And once you're out, and I mean really out, you wonder what ever made you stay.
By the way, Nick won the kids. They're his. Thank God.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Snow.
Mother Nature, for real here, are you PMS-ing? Because this:
Should not be happening in April.
What I feel Mother Nature has to say in return, "Sucksucksucksucksucksucksuck, Suuuuuuck it. And suck it hard."
Monday, April 1, 2013
Easter!
So as you know, yesterday was Easter. Most people on Easter would, you know, eat. Dye eggs. Hide eggs. Find eggs. Eat eggs. Eat candy. My family didn't do all of that. My family just ate.
No candy. No eggs. Ham.
But it was the amazing ham that my uncle makes, so all was well. My family however, is made up of anti-socials, hermits, and the occasional extrovert. It's rare, but it does happen. Some of us actually go outside. And, like it. --gasp-- I know.
But, me not being one of those extroverts, I enjoyed the silence of my family's company. And, instead of swapping silly stories or actually doing something worthy of Easter that held high moral standards, I did this:
This is a suitcase to which I have converted into a backpack. I use it because I have to commute to school everyday, and quite frankly don't like dragging everything back and forth so much. So instead of dragging I converted to rolling. What you see here is a WIP. In the square section, you have the Trespassing stripes. It's pretty much the only way I know how to do fandom for Adam*. The strip above it is a portion of the fourth Doctors scarf. The picture really doesn't do it justice, so you know. It's much more colorful in real life.
But with that said, I must comment on the thought I know that all of my imaginary readers are having, and the answer is yes:
Yes I am actually knitting the scarf.
I've been working on it for a number of months now, knitting on and off. This isn't because I'm not a hugely addicted fan or anything, it's just that I started knitting the scarf MONTHS before I watched a single episode. This is because I wasn't ready to start another series, but knew from what I'd been told that I'd be a huge fan of the doctor anyways. So, I started knitting early in preparation for my fandom.
The colors I used are more vibrant, so to say, than the original ones. I know, but to get the perfect colors, I needed to buy it in its original yarn type and I don't like wool. I wanted my scarf to be comfortable and was willing to sacrifice color exactness for it.
Back to Easter.
So, I have this bird. She's a parakeet named Wyatt and, like the rest of the family, is a hermit. Except, unlike the family (and shockingly like me), she hates people. If you get too close, she'll start flapping around her cage until all of her fallen feathers are in a puff cloud floating to the ground. The feathers on her body will be all in a fluff, and she'll look like she's gained a ton of weight. After that, since she's officially pissed at you, she glares. Right at you. Like, people say that cats plot to kill their owners, but I think this bird is out to get me.
This, is Wyatt:
In a blissful moment to which I caught her off guard, I got a decent picture of her. But don't be fooled. Those beady little eyes can turn on you in a beat.
She's vicious.
*Lambert
Friday, March 29, 2013
Dammit Photoshop
So whether or not you're into drawing or painting, I'm pretty sure you have that one friend who loves it. And if not, you know of someone who does. And, among those who love it, you probably know a few who've created their own characters.
I am among them.
I have a few characters that I've created in my life and I must say that I really do love them. I know that it may sound odd to someone who's never been through the character making process, but when you spend an ungodly amount of time invested into the creation of someone's personality, history, life, hobbies, likes, dislikes, and so on, you begin to fall in love with them simply because they are perfect in your eyes. You've made them perfect.
Now with my characters, I always try to give them either a piece of me, or a piece I wished I had. What I mean is, for example: Emily, one of my lady characters, loves art. So do I. Adam, another character, loves gadgets and chemical mixtures. While I do enjoy mixing chemicals, I wish I had a thing for technology and gadgets. When I add a piece of myself to them, they feel more real.
The character I'm talking about today though, is Rudy. But I'm not talking about him specifically, moreover an experience I had two days ago that involved him.
Let's backtrack for a moment.
I struggle to draw my characters. They either don't come out like I want them to, or come out so perfect that I can't redraw it. It's been a struggle of mine that I've been fighting for a number of years now. Anyways, I finally drew Rudy. It took going through a meme-thing on DeviantArt and carefully sorting him out, but I did it. I actually did it!
And in my pride of drawing him, I decided to draw him overandoverandoverandover again. But, seeing as he's 1800+ years old, I decided to theme the drawing and illustrate him once for ever century of his life. Togas, tunics, and knighthoods were all coming into play very nicely. I had drawn a cute picture of he and his daughter Romelia, and a not so cute one where he was on the ground passed out from an attack. There were arrows sticking in him and bruises speckling his body. But it was a wonderful illustration. They were all so perfect. And then of course, something had to go wrong.
My computer has a tendency to overheat sometimes. When it does, it shuts off on itself. Needless to say, I keep it propped between two chairs at all times, with a fan blowing up from beneath it. At school though, I don't have a fan. This causes me to have to save my work a lot, and frequently rest my laptop so that it can cool down by itself and not fry its insides.
Wednesday however, while I was putting it in hibernation mode to cool itself as I went to class, it shut off. Having just put it down, I didn't notice that this had happened. When I went back to work on the drawing during a downtime in class, I tried to open it and instead of the picture, got this message:
My heart nearly stopped.
I tried to open it again. Maybe it was a mistake.
I tried to open it through the control panel.
I googled it. Apparently, it cannot be recovered. I lost it. My first attempt at drawing my character, and he was gone.
Dammit, freaking, Photoshop.
I am among them.
I have a few characters that I've created in my life and I must say that I really do love them. I know that it may sound odd to someone who's never been through the character making process, but when you spend an ungodly amount of time invested into the creation of someone's personality, history, life, hobbies, likes, dislikes, and so on, you begin to fall in love with them simply because they are perfect in your eyes. You've made them perfect.
Now with my characters, I always try to give them either a piece of me, or a piece I wished I had. What I mean is, for example: Emily, one of my lady characters, loves art. So do I. Adam, another character, loves gadgets and chemical mixtures. While I do enjoy mixing chemicals, I wish I had a thing for technology and gadgets. When I add a piece of myself to them, they feel more real.
The character I'm talking about today though, is Rudy. But I'm not talking about him specifically, moreover an experience I had two days ago that involved him.
Let's backtrack for a moment.
I struggle to draw my characters. They either don't come out like I want them to, or come out so perfect that I can't redraw it. It's been a struggle of mine that I've been fighting for a number of years now. Anyways, I finally drew Rudy. It took going through a meme-thing on DeviantArt and carefully sorting him out, but I did it. I actually did it!
And in my pride of drawing him, I decided to draw him overandoverandoverandover again. But, seeing as he's 1800+ years old, I decided to theme the drawing and illustrate him once for ever century of his life. Togas, tunics, and knighthoods were all coming into play very nicely. I had drawn a cute picture of he and his daughter Romelia, and a not so cute one where he was on the ground passed out from an attack. There were arrows sticking in him and bruises speckling his body. But it was a wonderful illustration. They were all so perfect. And then of course, something had to go wrong.
My computer has a tendency to overheat sometimes. When it does, it shuts off on itself. Needless to say, I keep it propped between two chairs at all times, with a fan blowing up from beneath it. At school though, I don't have a fan. This causes me to have to save my work a lot, and frequently rest my laptop so that it can cool down by itself and not fry its insides.
Wednesday however, while I was putting it in hibernation mode to cool itself as I went to class, it shut off. Having just put it down, I didn't notice that this had happened. When I went back to work on the drawing during a downtime in class, I tried to open it and instead of the picture, got this message:
My heart nearly stopped.
I tried to open it again. Maybe it was a mistake.
I tried to open it through the control panel.
I googled it. Apparently, it cannot be recovered. I lost it. My first attempt at drawing my character, and he was gone.
Dammit, freaking, Photoshop.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Yummy Cake
I am Asexual.
I do not know who is reading this, if anyone, but I do know that this is the first time I am openly admitting it. My sexuality that is.
Asexuality in society is a fairly new concept as far as I know. I also know that many people think I am a freak for it, even without having ever met me. They confuse me for someone who has decided to live in celibacy, which I am not. Asexuality, like all orientations, is not a choice. I have never been raped, molested, or sexually assaulted in any way that could traumatize me against sex. I do not need 'a good lay'. I do not want one. I did not ever have a bad sex experience, because I have never had a sexual moment with someone. Which, does not mean that I would like it any more after having it. Does a sexual person need to have sex to know they're sexual, or is it something that they figure out alone the puberty train?
Whenever I hear people talk about Asexuality, it is typically in a negative light. And, that actually confuses me quite a bit. Who cares if I don't have sex? It's not like it's a requirement in order to live and love through a happy life. Even sexual people will say that sex doesn't directly equal love, so I don't see what all the hype is about.
I feel like I'm ranting. I am ranting. This is a rant. It has been decided.
The other thing I don't like when people talk about Asexuality, is when they disregard it as a sexuality, and demand that it is only for Biology.
That's not what it is. This is what it is:
I got the both of these from Tumblr, and I CAN'T FIND THE BLOG WITH THE ORIGINAL COMIC THAT I USED. I can't find it and I feel terrible because I feel like I'm stealing from them and want to credit them and stuff but can't because I can't find them. That last sentence needs punctuation.
Back to the point. It's not that I-as the above picture shows-reproduce by myself. I simply have no desire for sex.
At all.
I do not know who is reading this, if anyone, but I do know that this is the first time I am openly admitting it. My sexuality that is.
Asexuality in society is a fairly new concept as far as I know. I also know that many people think I am a freak for it, even without having ever met me. They confuse me for someone who has decided to live in celibacy, which I am not. Asexuality, like all orientations, is not a choice. I have never been raped, molested, or sexually assaulted in any way that could traumatize me against sex. I do not need 'a good lay'. I do not want one. I did not ever have a bad sex experience, because I have never had a sexual moment with someone. Which, does not mean that I would like it any more after having it. Does a sexual person need to have sex to know they're sexual, or is it something that they figure out alone the puberty train?
Whenever I hear people talk about Asexuality, it is typically in a negative light. And, that actually confuses me quite a bit. Who cares if I don't have sex? It's not like it's a requirement in order to live and love through a happy life. Even sexual people will say that sex doesn't directly equal love, so I don't see what all the hype is about.
I feel like I'm ranting. I am ranting. This is a rant. It has been decided.
The other thing I don't like when people talk about Asexuality, is when they disregard it as a sexuality, and demand that it is only for Biology.
That's not what it is. This is what it is:
I got the both of these from Tumblr, and I CAN'T FIND THE BLOG WITH THE ORIGINAL COMIC THAT I USED. I can't find it and I feel terrible because I feel like I'm stealing from them and want to credit them and stuff but can't because I can't find them. That last sentence needs punctuation.
Back to the point. It's not that I-as the above picture shows-reproduce by myself. I simply have no desire for sex.
At all.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Monday Morning Part.1
So yesterday was the first day of school since Spring Break. I can't say that I was the most excited, but nonetheless, I had to go. So that morning I got dressed, grabbed a cup of coffee and packed up the school bag with pencils and binders and knitting needles. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed something. My side braid and eye glasses made me look a little like a hipster. Grab the slouchy hat. So I grabbed the slouchy hat. After that, I was out the door and in the car where my mom was waiting. I jumped in the passenger seat and as she rolled out of the driveway, I picked a song to play.
The 45 minute commute to my school had begun.
We were jumping through Michael Buble songs as we neared the first of two roundabouts. I had been trying to find a new artist to play but, with a sudden addictive love for Michael, decided to leave it alone for a while and focus my attention instead, to the driver in front of us.
"Why aren't they going?" I asked my mom. In a roundabout, if someone is 1/4 of the circle away from you, you have the time and space to go and take your turn. Whomever was in front of us was clearly not acclimated to this knowledge, and was hesitating instead of driving. "Must be a new driver." I assumed immediately.
"You never know, they could have gotten into an accident." My ever-wise mother suggested. I wrote off her words.
"New driver." I said in a matter-of-fact way. After that, they drove on and I went back to song selecting. The conversation between us changed, and the woman driving in front of us was never mentioned again.
As we were driving the highway between the roundabouts I think I remember asking my mom to look at a picture for a moment. It only took a second, and we laughed, but when she looked back up I heard her cry out. I looked up right away and saw an SUV spinning at us from the opposing lane. We were hit nearly head on before I had the time for a single thought, let alone to register what was happening. There was a moment where I had blacked out, and when I came to the window was shattered and resembling a torn piece of paper. The airbags were deflated from use. I remember reaching out to touch them, but can't recall what it felt like.
Next to me I heard my mom say "Oh, Jesus", but not in the swearing way. Doors slammed shut and I looked over my shoulder, through a broken back window and saw five, maybe six men jump out of a truck. They ran over to the car and began tugging on all of the doors, but only one of them opened. They were shouting to each other in Russian, trying to figure out what to do. They decided to get my seat reclined, and I crawled out. As soon as I was out, my place was taken by one of the Russians. They were all over that car trying to help my mom who was stuck. Her feet were pinned from the dash and a few times she said it felt like they were burning. There was no fire though.
My mom was going to be okay. Knowing that, I decided to walk over to the other car and make sure that whoever was in there was okay too. Before I did though, I made eye contact with one of the Russians He seemed to be the younger of the group and had an odd facial expression on his face when we looked at each other. Not sure why, I decided to the other car. By this point, other people including an off duty EMT had stopped. A man was already at the SUV, and told me that she was okay. So I went back to the car. Two of the Russians were cleaning up the car shards and glass from the road with an industrial sized broom that came from somewhere. I don't think I'll ever know for sure where its origin was.
Surrounded by new people, I watched as traffic backed up. All of these people were going to be late from work because of one small sheet of ice. I thought about them while the fire truck and police cars and ambulances drove up after one another. By now the Russians had done anything they could, gave their reports as witnesses, and drove off like they did that kind of thing everyday. My mom was moved to the passenger seat, and none of the new people at the scene even knew that I had been in the car. They thought I was a bystander because of how easily I was standing.
No one talked to me while I watched.
The 45 minute commute to my school had begun.
We were jumping through Michael Buble songs as we neared the first of two roundabouts. I had been trying to find a new artist to play but, with a sudden addictive love for Michael, decided to leave it alone for a while and focus my attention instead, to the driver in front of us.
"Why aren't they going?" I asked my mom. In a roundabout, if someone is 1/4 of the circle away from you, you have the time and space to go and take your turn. Whomever was in front of us was clearly not acclimated to this knowledge, and was hesitating instead of driving. "Must be a new driver." I assumed immediately.
"You never know, they could have gotten into an accident." My ever-wise mother suggested. I wrote off her words.
"New driver." I said in a matter-of-fact way. After that, they drove on and I went back to song selecting. The conversation between us changed, and the woman driving in front of us was never mentioned again.
As we were driving the highway between the roundabouts I think I remember asking my mom to look at a picture for a moment. It only took a second, and we laughed, but when she looked back up I heard her cry out. I looked up right away and saw an SUV spinning at us from the opposing lane. We were hit nearly head on before I had the time for a single thought, let alone to register what was happening. There was a moment where I had blacked out, and when I came to the window was shattered and resembling a torn piece of paper. The airbags were deflated from use. I remember reaching out to touch them, but can't recall what it felt like.
Next to me I heard my mom say "Oh, Jesus", but not in the swearing way. Doors slammed shut and I looked over my shoulder, through a broken back window and saw five, maybe six men jump out of a truck. They ran over to the car and began tugging on all of the doors, but only one of them opened. They were shouting to each other in Russian, trying to figure out what to do. They decided to get my seat reclined, and I crawled out. As soon as I was out, my place was taken by one of the Russians. They were all over that car trying to help my mom who was stuck. Her feet were pinned from the dash and a few times she said it felt like they were burning. There was no fire though.
My mom was going to be okay. Knowing that, I decided to walk over to the other car and make sure that whoever was in there was okay too. Before I did though, I made eye contact with one of the Russians He seemed to be the younger of the group and had an odd facial expression on his face when we looked at each other. Not sure why, I decided to the other car. By this point, other people including an off duty EMT had stopped. A man was already at the SUV, and told me that she was okay. So I went back to the car. Two of the Russians were cleaning up the car shards and glass from the road with an industrial sized broom that came from somewhere. I don't think I'll ever know for sure where its origin was.
Surrounded by new people, I watched as traffic backed up. All of these people were going to be late from work because of one small sheet of ice. I thought about them while the fire truck and police cars and ambulances drove up after one another. By now the Russians had done anything they could, gave their reports as witnesses, and drove off like they did that kind of thing everyday. My mom was moved to the passenger seat, and none of the new people at the scene even knew that I had been in the car. They thought I was a bystander because of how easily I was standing.
No one talked to me while I watched.
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