Student in Ms. Godoy's English 1D class (grade nine) *Note: All works under the "Created Works" page are original works produced solely by Teeyen. If you would like to use any of my works please credit me*
[ A monologue response to a found informational/media work ]
Sick, yes sick, that’s how I feel. Everyone’s dragging everyone around, and for what? Getting wasted at bars, speeding to tease death…. You know, we moved up here to escape the plainness and dull things back home in the subs… And you know what, it worked for a while, and I didn’t feel so squished and suffocated. All the lights, the parties, everything was so… New and exciting. I felt alive, I felt like I could do anything and everyone else felt the same so why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I indulge in this city, this illusion? But now everything makes me feel like I wanna throw up, to get off of this roller coaster headed for derailing. ‘Cause you know what? It’s still dull. I don’t feel like myself anymore, and I’ve ignored myself for far too long, getting down in the cracked up basements because I thought that was the real me. That I thought that the girl sitting around and laughing and with a bottle in her hand and tats down her back is the real me. But it’s not man, it’s just not. Everything here’s just all illusions and glitter, which is like taking a rock and painting it gold. Well if every single rock in this entire freaking world was gold then the rock that was grey would be the special one right? I hurled myself in gold paint, following everyone else, and now I can’t scrub it off. I can’t scrub it off anymore.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day,” I murmur as I dab at a scarlet cut on Song’s forehead.
Rolling her eyes even as she clenched her teeth against the stinging, she replied indignantly, “It’s not like I always trip over my own feet!”
Sighing, I crouch down so that I can look directly into her wide brown eyes, blazing with stubbornness, “That’s not what I meant and you know that…”
Instantly the spark died down and her shoulders slumped a little while she scuffed her feet at the tile floor, “I just don’t understand why I can’t just be myself.”
A pang shot through my chest followed by a small flash of anger, so quick and fleeting I couldn’t have nurtured that desire to see the morons pay. Pay for every single time they tied her shoelaces together and made her trip, every single time they whispered and gossiped about her, every single time they taped things on her back and her locker. But it’s not possible. Song loved comparing things, and once she had compared me to a boulder. I’m not exactly certain whether it’s a compliment or an insult, but knowing her it was meant to be a compliment. And yet a boulder seems to shrink down to a pebble in the face of an ocean. I can’t stop them anymore than she can, and any attempts would result in something worse.
Of course, her coming out as bi to the entire school didn’t exactly help things either. The only way the situation could have been even more inflamed was if she actually had a girlfriend. As it stands, the next worst thing was if her boyfriend was the second oddball after her. So, yeah, me. At least I mainly kept my oddness to myself.
That’s not even counting up all the other weird things she does. Laughing and dancing in the rain, using the cafeteria’s unused kitchen to literally make her lunch in school, saying hello to the trees and flowers she passes on her way to and from school… The list goes on and on. Some of the things are kinda sweet, like how she would buy ice cream for all the little kids at the park if the ice cream truck’s iconic jingle accompanied by the truck itself arrived by the park lake. But still odd enough to label her an outsider. Especially since she’s Asian, like me.
“Song? Hey… Come back to me…” Gently I shook her shoulders, and the glassy look vanished from her eyes with a small shudder rocking her entire body. That’s probably the queerest thing about her. She didn’t just daydream. She would literally space out for hours on end, and talk to things that weren’t there. There were times when she would raise her hand to answer and when the teacher called on her, her voice came to a stop halfway through her answer as her eyes glazed over, staring at something only she can see. That’s what got her teased the most.
“S-sorry…” She blinked rapidly before puffing out her cheeks adorably. “Ne, what kind of Band-Aid did you put?” Another thing—she has a tendency to add a verbal tick at the beginning of sentences sometimes.
“Uh, just a plain one? What else is there—hey!” I mock glared at her as she stood on her tiptoes to whack me on the head.
“I had a whole box of Winnie the Pooh Band-Aids in my backpack you could have used, idiot!” she whined, headbutting me in the shoulder. “But noooo, you choose the most boring design, which is no design at all!”
“Well too bad, it’s already on,” I said, ducking away as she reached up to poke my cheek in annoyance.
“But Kaaaaaaaai…”
Laughing, I tugged lightly on one of her pigtails before leaning down to peck her cheek, smiling in amusement at the spread of pink across her face. Personally I always thought she looked adorable in twin-tails even though most people grow out of it by age nine.
“What’s going on here?” The nurse had finally got back from whatever break she was on.
“Hi Ms. Webster… Song just cut her forehead, nothing serious…”
“Oh my, poor dear…” Yes, she’s a poor dear indeed, Ms. Webster, I thought wryly as she fussed over Song. “Is it deep?”
“No, I thought a Band-Aid should be fine.”
“Well thank you for taking care of her Kai… Do you two need a note?”
“No thanks, we’re on prep period.”
“Alright. Well if you need anything else I’ll be right here,” she said reassuringly, and Song smiled brightly and thanked her and we were out the door. Walking down the hallway, I reached down to gently take her cold hand in mine, and her lips twitched upwards in a shy smile towards the ground as we made our way back to the library. Despite her acts of kindness and how boldly she twirled as raindrops drenched her hair, she quakes at the thought of entering a room full of strangers. And when I say quake I mean it quite literally; you can see her shoulders tremble and her eyes widen like a doe caught in headlights.
“Thanks idiot,” she whispers, so quiet you wouldn’t hear her light voice if you weren’t listening for it.
“No problem,” I whisper back, and she giggles a little before we enter the library, our fingers springing apart. PDA in the library gives you a FastPass to the principal’s office, since Mrs. Wilson always checks on everyone.
Sitting down in our spot in a dusty corner, my eyes swept in mild curiosity over the titles upon the shelves in front of my face as Song starts doodling in her notebook which was resting in her lap. It’s a mystery to me how she keeps so calm about this. If I were in her position I would have gone straight to the principal or counsellor. Not that they ever notice what’s going on but at least that would be doing something.
“People don’t like things they don’t understand,” she had said once, when I asked her why she didn’t just tell someone what was happening. “And they don’t understand me so then they hate me. Nothing to it, besides, if one person stays by my side I’ll be okay.” That was before I realized she just didn’t have the heart to take action. In a way I guess it would make things worse, like poking a beehive even after you knocked it to the ground, but it’s maddening to see her still go around school in the mornings carrying daisy and oak leaf garlands for the very people tormenting her.
“Hey Kai?”
“Yeah?” Turning my head, I glance down at her, the way she’s huddled up and hugging her knees tightly to her chest.
“You like me right? You don’t hate me… Right?” Oh not this again.
“Of course I don’t hate you…” I risk a small hug around the waist. “What makes you think that? I love you Song, really.” And I meant it. Not like so many others in this screwed up school, who think that ‘love’ is just a word and something so carelessly promised.
“Well it’s just…” Resting her chin on her knees, all I can see are her almond shaped eyes over the top of her bony arms. “You always tell me to not dance with the sky when it’s crying. And you look at me funny when I give people their birthday crowns.”
Something was squeezing my chest, I’m sure of it. Scooting forward so I’m facing her, I say slowly, “Song, the only reason I tell you not to go out in the rain is because I don’t want you to catch a cold. And I still don’t understand why you would be so kind to the morons that bully you around-“
“It’s not their fault they aren’t used to different people,” she cut in, her voice so earnestly believing the lies coming out of her mouth I have the urge to shake her again, to make her see reality as it is, but her eyes are clear, not glassy. “And I don’t want to be like them. So I’m not gonna do things back.”
Exhaling slowly, I say quietly, “But you still hate them.”
Lowering her head, she nods quickly once, like she’s ashamed that she hates them. Frustration threatens to choke me; why is she like this? Why would she feel shame for disliking people who would probably all too gladly burn her alive?
Before I could try and reason with her, a shrill bell pierces the tranquil air of the library, forcing a wince out of both of us. They should really replace the bell with something that doesn’t rupture people’s eardrums.
Wordlessly we pack up our things, and the wall of tension remains wedged between us as we leave the bookshelves to head to our lockers. Normally silence is comfortable, but now it’s strained elastic, a rubber band that’s stretching farther and farther until it snaps and someone gets hurt. Or both parties.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” There, I said it. Might as well keep going. “I love you for who you are, but… Everyone else doesn’t, and that makes everyone else dangerous.”
“I’m fine idiot, seriously…” She flashes a quick smile at me. “It’ll pass over, next year when there’s another new person to observe and pick on and I’m just another student, not the ‘lez new girl’ anymore.”
I cringe visibly away from the title, my heart racing. So she does know what they say.
“Song-“
“No.” Her locker door slams shut. “Let’s just drop it okay? It doesn’t bother me too much, so you shouldn’t worry about it.” Except it does bother her, it bothers her a lot. I can see it in the slightly puffy eye bags, the spine straining not to hunch over in defeat, the times when she lapses out of this world. The Band-Aid on her forehead. It shouldn’t be there. None of this should be happening, none of this would happen if she just played it safe like I did.
My lips stay shut as I nod and walk beside her outside to the bicycle stand, so close that her shoulder is brushing my upper arm. Partly because I want to be close, but also this way I can shield her from projectiles. Like pencils. Or rubber bands.
“Ne, I need to go use the restroom, can you watch my bag?”
“I’ll go with you—“
“No it’s okay, you don’t have to follow me everywhere you know…” Hefting her beige canvas bag off her shoulder, her hands let it fall to the ground near my navy blue sneakers and before I could open my mouth to protest, she was already jogging back to the school building. Staring at a ladybug crawling leisurely upon a blade of grass, I restrain myself from thinking, from letting the protective thoughts creep in. She’s right, I shouldn’t always be hovering over her 24/7. Still, the idea of her going back into the school alone... Forcefully I tore myself away from the uneasiness, but after a few minutes the voice piped up again.
You should go after her.
She can take care of herself.
Something is going to happen.
No she’ll be fine… Almost everyone left or they’re out here.
Almost isn’t certain.
That did it. Picking up her backpack—remarkably heavy—and swinging it upon my other shoulder, my legs pumped in a fast walk towards the glass side door where she had disappeared into. Striding as quickly as possible, my eyes strained for any sign of movement in the hallways. My head turns sharply towards the barely audible sound of shoes squeaking in a run emitting from further down the hall. Dark clouds over my head as the seconds ticked by, fogging up my mind with dread; something happened. And those storm clouds struck lightning in my heart when I rounded the corner.
“Song!” I yelled, abandoning our backpacks and sprinting towards the little heap on the speckled linoleum floor. I was watching myself from somewhere outside my body, just watching as I fell down on my knees and shook her and cried and brushed away the scraps of paper that used to be her artwork thrown across her like flower petals. I watched myself scream and shake and I’m too numb to even have the sense to take out my phone and call 9-1-1. I watched myself take every bruise, every cut, every glint of maroon blood upon her and I turned it into something poisonous, reflecting every wound on her skin into pain I never thought I could ever experience. And suddenly I was back in my body and agony and my heart being stabbed over and over again as hot wet tears poured. It’s not happening. Too real that it’s not real anymore.
“Why… are you… crying… idiot?”
Her eyes crack open and her face twists into a grimace as I stare at her in disbelief. She shouldn’t be talking. Moving her jaw will hurt her even more.
“Actually don’t… answer that…”
“Shh don’t talk…” I rasp, my throat raw from crying and screaming. Pain and numb at the same time, is that even possible? “You’ll be okay…” And she will be. She has to be okay, and only then did my twitching fingers finally wrestle out my phone and punch in the numbers for help. Help.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a girl who needs urgent medical attention.”
She was so bright. Like a blazing star burning a path through all the hate and discrimination, making her own road, different from the well-worn track everyone follows. I followed her light hoping to remind myself of myself, and I didn’t care at all if her fire scorched me, made me lie upon my pillow with thoughts full of her, because as long as she keeps glowing in the face of darkness everything is alright.
But all fires eventually burn out and I long for the days where her dark chocolate coloured hair would bounce as she walked, tied with mismatched scrunchies in twin tails. When she’d layer miniskirts over baggy “men’s” jeans or tie colourful scarves around her waist even in the summer. When she’d drag me around the hallways singing songs in different languages and trying to convince me to sing along.
Her hair hangs straight down her back, or up in a classic ponytail with a black hairband. Her clothes consist of plain jeans without iron-on patches and shirts that were only from the “female” section. Her voice is quiet but not too quiet, no longer producing melodies. And she told everyone to just call her Sylvia. A normal sounding name, an English name and not a weird Chinese name.
Of course when the reporters and police and ambulance came everyone wanted to chip in for five seconds of fame, saying how nice and kind and lovely Song is. The investigation afterwards hyped up the drama even though Song already disclosed to the police who broke her ribs and nearly fractured her jaw and broke her nose and stomped and kicked her arms and legs and torso. They were taken away. Safer now right? But Song’s gone, replaced by “Sylvia,” a girl who I barely recognize, a girl with lips shining with lip-gloss and wearing form fitting clothes that were ‘in style’. After eight months since coming here, she burned herself up.
So now everyone treats her alright, even making a few acquaintances here and there. Because she changed, changed to fit their mould and turn her feet to the crowd upon the single road.
But when the final bell rings and we’re pedalling away back home upon our bicycles, she makes a detour (with me trailing behind) to the park to buy ice cream for the delighted kids. And every so often when the clouds unleash tears while we’re still at the park, her arms lift above her head and her sneakers are left abandoned on the sidewalk and her bare feet twirl over the grass in a spontaneous dance, tongue sticking out to catch the raindrops. And on my birthday we spent hours by the lake, lying side by side as she weaves flower crown after flower crown to place on my head.
Under Sylvia, Song is still there. Her name I speak with almost reverence, for her name is now more than ever her identity. Sylvia is the normal one in school, the one that pays attention in class instead of watching blue jays build their nest. Outside of school, she’s still Song, still as clumsy and queer and odd in the best way possible, occasionally lost in her own little Wonderland and sipping tea with her Mad Hatter while I wait beside her for her return back to reality.
We both hold our fires within ourselves, dim coals, but still burning on. I can feel her fire in every smile, every touch, every kiss. And one day, when the ice of conformity melts, fire will dance eternally. Until that day, Song and I and anyone else who conceals their flame under ice will wait, zip up a plain costume to disguise ourselves from a frozen society.
Many regard this French play as being completely absurd at the beginning, but digging deeper will find that this production, while seemingly simple at first, holds a deep message about conformity in addition to other controversial themes. On the surface, the play is a story about a French town where people are turning into rhinoceroses, all except one. Crazy, right? But by digging a little deeper, the play is actually focusing on conformity along with ‘mob mentality’. In the story, as more people become rhinoceroses, the terror fades, replaced by a kind of admiration for the animals, and therefore even more people turn into rhinoceroses. And so no matter how messed up and twisted something seems, if everyone is doing it, then it must be alright and even desirable. After uncovering the true message of the play, words cannot express the sheer wittiness of the production.
Out of all the books I’ve had to read for literature circles, The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton was probably the most memorable to me. Although the novel takes place in 1967, the theme of conformity still applies heavily to today’s generation as well. The story presents the consequences of conformity and non-conformity in a remarkably realistic fashion, and while reading this book I had been on the edge of my seat. Not only does the story address the subject of conformity, but it shows how stereotypes shape people into something they don’t necessarily want to be. Taken out of the cliche high school setting with cliques and into the rough streets, the novel truly shows the reverberating effects of conformity from gang violence, family dysfunction, to suicide.
While “Subdivisions” isn’t exactly a style of music I would enjoy, I selected this song because the message portrayed in the lyrics is, in my opinion, a situation so many people can relate to. The type of conformity here isn’t something people would realize until it’s too late because the city offers up so many ‘shiny’ opportunities that glaze over the warnings in your head. And once you get a taste of the glittery city life, you either get happily consumed by it, living in ignorance, or want to remove yourself from the scene only to find that once you do, people will view you in a negative light. The concept of “cool” is especially prominent in teenagers, and if engaging in dangerous and sometimes illicit activities is the only way to stay “cool”, then they will gladly sacrifice their own morals and health to avoid being “cast out” by their peers. “Subdivisions”, I regret to say, is not a song I would listen to on replay, but the message of this song is powerful and painfully relatable on the subject of conformity
I refuse to follow a trail where everyone else has
Crushed their individuality
firmly into the ground,
Silenced their hopes and dreams
so they no longer make a sound.
You do what you please,
but darling I'll blaze a trail so bright
it'll dull the suns light
And bring the trees to their knees.
“the enormity of conformity” was the poem I eventually chose as my “found work” for the poetic category because of the strong imagery and metaphorical comparison symbolizing conformity as a well worn trail. In particular, I find the first verse quite meaningful because a lot of people force themselves to conform because they feel as if they have no other choice, and also because society crushes down hopes and dreams while herding people towards the “only” path available. However, the character of this poem creates a path of their own in defiance of conformity, and declares that their own path will be brighter than the path of conformity, which I strongly agree with.
