CHAPTER 1
ITALIAN SODA FOR
BREAKFAST
Into the frothy mix i plunge.
Its bubbles scratch past my tongue.
Its thick milk leaves a film on the roof of my mouth.
Pink fluffy cloud of sweet,
more sweet than the lemonade down south,
more sweet than a sugar beet,
the cherry syrup swirls and drips.
i slurp it up with my straw.
Then i beg my mom,
"Can i have another?"
MI MUNDO pequeño PARA TI
i began writing my forward half way through the writing of this book (if itcan be called a book). That way i could remember my focus.
i hope that the following structured words (which i will refer to as abook) will be a psychedelic journey through how i have perceived my life.
i have refrained from using any proper names because perhaps some ofit pertains to You. Perhaps one of my characters will remind You of someoneYou know, and You can put their name in place of the descriptive nicknamethat i've given.
Why do i wait to begin writing? Because my flashes of inspiration areinfatuated and ephemeral. When i write, it is usually only a sentence or two.i have many journals, all of which i know by heart. When i feel inspiredby something, i'll turn to a page in one of my journals where i've writtenabout that current topic of inspiration. Then i'll insert my new sentences ofstimuli, which are screaming inside of my brain.
Putting this book together has been a matter of juggling all of myjournal entries back into order. Into an order of my life, not necessarilychronological, but into the best order for it to make sense to me. In doingso, i've noticed how many spaces need to be filled. This has taken some timeand creativity. And i have just as long of a road ahead of me. i also have acollection of complete poems. This book includes segments of these poemsinserted to where i believe they fit best to turn this creation into a story.
What a drug writing is! i love the euphoric high when i'm sure thati'm writing something that no one else has expressed so perfectly yet. Theway it takes me back in time so severely that i can smell something i've onlysmelled one other time, 8 years ago. And this isn't always a good thing. iget lost in the way writing makes me feel sometimes like i'm mentally ill,because my words aren't fitting together, like they're part of a jigsaw puzzlethat i'm struggling to complete.
What i go through. i just want 1 person to know. Just like i'm sure a lotof other 1 persons just want 1 person to know. So i'm going to keep tryinguntil i can be that just 1 person for someone. And with this book, i inviteYou to read about some of what i've gone through.
It's important that everyone writes. Not for documentation, but formedication. Writing helps me to creep out of the sage and to turn to a newpage of my life. My advice is simply this: write it down, it'll sound cool.
My thoughts, i love all of them. Exactly how i think them. Exactlyhow i put them into words, onto paper. And exactly how they offendwhom-the-fuck-ever. But sometimes i like the pages to be folded. Thoughts,pasts and mistakes hidden.
i've been told i can manipulate and intrigue minds, excite bodies andmonopolize designs. Let's hope that i do that for You as You read my words.
Please understand that, at times, this book will not make completesense. i'm trying to design it into a surreal manuscript of a girl's life, turninginto a woman, trying to turn into a professional: a professional writer, aprofessional care-giver, a professional wife, a professional woman. Andsometimes the transformations do not make sense.
Writing is not a skill that someone can teach. i wish that there were acomputer program that i could attach to my brain so that it could recordmy thoughts. Because i think too fast to write it all down. i read somewherethat thoughts travel to the brain at a speed of 224 miles per hour. Maybe iwrote it down wrong, but that sounds too slow to me. What about to You?
Please excuse any changes in tense. But i do not feel that life is parallel. ifeel it is more circular than parallel, moving backward from present to past,then jumping forward to future and in the meantime traveling everywherein between. Such as with the aboriginal english term, "Dreaming", referringto the mythic time that is the base of aboriginal culture, i feel that there isno such thing as linear order. All that is is now. Aborigines are not reallyconcerned with time. Time, culture and nature are viewed as cyclical andchangeless. Everything that was will come again. And as the wheel of mylife turns, i notice this concept of cyclical time to be true for myself, a halfItalian girl growing up in the predominantly Mormon state of Utah, whilebeing raised by an atheist father and an agnostic mother.
i read somewhere that one of the main factors differentiating humansfrom other animals is the awareness of self. As You read this book Youwill notice that my awareness of self fluctuates from confidence toinsecurity. This is an exemplification of the ebbs and flows of my mind'sneuropathways. And although i may lack consistency, i hope to make mystory rhyme and cry and laugh and get disgusted and get exhausted and getrelieved all at the same time.
i'm a person. A real one. A real & flesh & blood & freak-out &imperfect & obsessive & competitive & half Italian & boring & unqualified& lame & tuna fish & full of shit person. That is how i validate myself.Growing up half Italian has presented, for me, many attempts at trying tomake focacia, and just fucking the focacia up every time i try. i representjust a modicum of all that i have been exposed. Many of these modicumsare here in just that, particle form, to attempt to create me as a whole. Theindividual as a whole is what i fall in love with. Not with just characteristics,be it brown hair or blue hair, not with any particular skin tone, leg shape ortoe nail length, not with certain idealisms, priorities or preferences. But allof it put together in each person equals a different whole sum than how itsums up in a different person. And the sums are what i fall in love with. Andi am going to attempt to give You my bits and pieces, "Mi mundo pequeñopara Ti". And i invite You to sum it up how You want.
SEX, DRUGS AND THERIDICULOUS RULES WEMAKE FOR OURSELVES
When i was 10 years old i decided i was going to be perfect. i constructeda perfect being: good posture, no nose picking, no farting in public, nowrinkles in the clothes, no stains on the front of the t-shirt, a sweet andsteady and methodical voice while saying the perfect response to anyquestion, while never asking questions myself.
I do not intend this as a book of advice. It is simply my story. And,please, take note that my story does not always go so well.
When i was 13 years old i decided to make some rules: never tofake-bake, never to smoke or drink alcohol or do drugs, never to drink softdrinks with phosphoric acid, and never to get pregnant.
When i was 16 years old i decided to plan on marrying my high schoolsweetheart right when we graduated, which seemed like the perfect plan,especially in the state of Utah.
When i was 19 years old.... i learned better.
My high school sweetheart gave me herpes simplex one. My collegedorm neighbor gave me all the info on how to consciously obtain an eatingdisorder. Running naked through sprinklers gave me the giggles. A bong ripgave my arms the floaties. And nobody gave me an orgasm.
PROBLEMS OFCONFORMITY
He told me i had kitty cat eyes. i lost my virginity wearing his mother'sdress, brown polyester with little fluorescent pink and yellow flowers. Itwas after church. And after losing my virginity, he went out into the TVroom and fell asleep. It lasted 30 seconds. Did it really take that much outof him? Of course, we had been going out for 6 years. And we had waitedall that time to have sex. i didn't want to get pregnant. i was afraid to ask mymom to help me get on the pill. He and i didn't put our two heads togetherand think to buy a box of condoms, and our school didn't pass them out inhealth class. And Utah boys aren't allowed to jerk off. They get called intotheir bishop's office specifically to talk about how wrong it is.
So, during those 6 years, we found another way to get him off.
i felt dirty. as shit. it could have smelled of shit. the air. it's not that hemade me. i hope that's not the point. i allowed him. sometimes i invited it. ihope that's not the point.
i willingly allowed him to violate me in every way, shape, form. Analsex, fingering and eating me, even while i was bleeding. Anything. As longas i bled every month. Fresh blood swept down, my exchange for new life.We violate our loved ones. We allow our loved ones to violate. i have beeninvitingly violated. It's part of love.
i read somewhere that a hippopotamus will sometimes emit an oily redfluid from its gray flesh, making it look like it is sweating blood. Everydayafter i showered, i'd rub cotton swabs drenched in rubbing alcohol over myentire body, every inch of skin, even down there. It stung. But i learnedhow to clean myself until i bled of cleanness. Like a hippopotamus sweatingblood.
i was so confused and disgusted with myself. i developed a nasty habit.Digging my fingernails into my scalp. Creating little scabs on the skin of myhead. Hidden under my hair. And i'd pick these wounds open. If my lipswere chapped i'd tear the dead skin off. Creating little scabs on my lips. Andi'd pick these wounds open. i needed this as a way to release my internalhumiliation. This still wasn't enough.
So i joined the track team and ran as fast as i could everyday to let mymind run away from the mistakes that i let myself make with him. i ran somuch that i stopped bleeding. i lost my monthly reassurance of who i was.
i once asked my mother if she knew who she was. She said she was stillsearching. And that made me feel better. But not completely.
Who am i? Am i pretty? Am i strong? Am i smart? Physically? Mentally?Am i admirable?
Am i Mormon? It's a frequently asked question where i come from.There are 2 categories: Yes or no. Mormon or non mormon. Majority orminority. Good or bad. Pure or dirty. Mormonism is the cosmogony andcosmology with which i grew up. Utah is circumscribed by an organizedderangement of rules. Follow them and you are among the celestial. Nohot beverages, but cocoa is ok, but iced tea is not. Because no caffeine, butif you need a healthy vice, choose mountain dew to be addicted to. Andobviously drugs and cigarettes and alcohol are out of the question.
i got punched in the stomach by one of my girlfriends when i was 9years old. i had just taken The Lord's name in vain. Before that sinfulmoment she had asked, "Will you need to wear your new glasses all of thetime?" i thought i'd only need to wear them for reading. So i answered herwith, "No. Thank God." And she punched me in the stomach. i didn'tunderstand what i had said wrong. i mean, i was thanking him. Throughinfluencing experiences such as this, i have become an iconoclastic figure tothe vast world which surrounds me.
However overflowing i was with deference, every time i accompanied afriend to church i always felt guilty, not worthy of being there. i could notbring myself to venerate the traditions of the parents of my friends.
Thank God for my family, a social cultural model, expecting andrewarding behaviors that outsiders might view as abnormal. i'd come homefrom church and they'd help me make fun of what was taught, making funof the majority.
My father is an atheist, biologist, environmentalist, realist, and not thehealthiest individual. Maybe growing up with an atheist as a father wouldleave a lot of room for a free mind. But i lack a lot of knowledge on thesubject of religion. Plus, all fathers have opinions: "Find something you loveto do and focus on succeeding in that field." It's simple. He did it just fine.His offspring should be able to do the same. "Human beings are populatingplanet earth too quickly and earth's resources are being depleted. Nobodyhas the right to reproduce more offspring than to replace themselves." Justone person for each one person. Just two kids for each happily marriedcouple.
Garments are silky jumper-like long underwear that the Mormons wear.Under flowered full-length skirts. Flowered full-length skirts. Floweredfull-length skirts. And no jerking off. Ever. And no sex till marriage. And nodivorce. No divorce. No divorce.
My boyfriend's father built an entire new section to the home in whichthey lived. Just so that he could seclude himself from his wife and son.He had his home. They had their home. But no divorce. No divorce. Nodivorce. One time, the only time, my boyfriend's father came to their sideof the home. To tell his son to go to church. His son was on top of my back.He opened the door without knocking. i don't know how much he saw. idon't know how much he could smell. But it terrified me. And i've neverdone it since.
And more Mormon rules. Sex only in the missionary position. And nooral sex. And they don't mention this one: i'm sure no anal sex. No anal sex.No anal sex. And no abortions. No abortions. No abortions.
Being nice, shutting up and pretending to conform is an acquiredsurvival skill throughout the trials and errors of trying to begin friendshipsor intimate, long-lasting relationships in a predominately Mormon society.
One of the most derogatory and discriminatory things ever said tome was, "You're such a good, nice person." i wanted to be flattered. Butconsidering the words "I was surprised to find out you aren't Mormon"proceeded the compliment, this receded the flattery and it was hard for meto believe that anything the person had to say was valid.
i rock back and forth. i abhor them, i learn that they're just imperfectpeople too, just like me. Then i remember to abhor them, then i rememberthat they're just imperfect people too, just like me. And i want to changethem as badly as they try to change me.
The missionaries. The temple recommends. The holier than thou. It isa Tartuffe: because Mormon is good and nice, but nice shouldn't exclude.Building separate buildings into which only "sacred" and "clean" peoplemay enter will never be incorporated into any dogma i choose. i endure themajority with which i grew up, grow up. i just wish they had room in theirmind's eye to accept that which i consider "me" as imperfectly as i am. Asthey are.
She was my only non mormon friend: the first time i successfullyinserted a tampon was in her family's bathroom. i wanted to pull it out. Itstough cotton walls were pushing against my little sweet's flesh. And the pinkprecious walls never absorb shock too well. Sending waves of pain up ....my body! Its blood is infectious. And i wanted to pull it out of me. But theblood needs to stay up there, until it is flushed down the toilet. And thankGod i had a friend with which to share the pain.
She was my only non mormon friend: we'd paint our fingernails blueand then dip them into a cup full of frosting. We pricked our fingers witha needle, bled together, touched fingers, blood to blood. Then dipped ourfingers in hot candle wax to mold the union.
She was my only non mormon friend: she called that boy to ask himif he thought i was cute. Then he put his sweaty palm on my coochie andmoved his clumsy fingers around down there. Then he asked me to give hima blow job. i told him to wait. i left him there, dick hanging out. And went2 steps to the next room where his friends were. And i asked them how. Andthey taught me well. So i took 2 steps back to the room which contained thehorny boy. And i performed the step by steps that i had just learned fromthe horny boy's friends. And the boy hugged me afterward and said, "Thankyou for doing that."
She was my only non mormon friend: her father had an affair with hermom's best friend. Then he and that "best friend" bought an RV and tookoff to tour the west.
My only non mormon friend shared a bedroom with her mom. She wasmy only non mormon friend's mom: she had silver hair, and she had notime to spend dying those gray strands from gray roots to gray split ends.She had little lips. And big soft cheeks. Any extra money from her 2 fulltime jobs went to her kids. Money to make her kids "cool". With specificexpensive fashion labels. The Gap. ESPRIT. Calvin Klein. Guess. Because,sometimes, all that matters, is being "cool".
My only non mormon friend and i didn't have the proper fundingto purchase all of that "cool" shit. So we turned shopping sprees intoshoplifting sprees, drifting from puberty to maturity. Until that day whenthe department store clerk followed us out of the 'buy 10 pairs of earringsfor 15 dollars' store. All the way to the parking lot. Each of us with a pair ofgaudy gold hoop earrings in our pockets. We tried to stay composed as theirposts poked through the skin of our thighs. When we crossed the parkinglot we took off running. Thank God for the track team.
