She’s a slasher girl with long cut marks on the inside of her arm
where they are less visible. The cutting is about the only thing
telling her she is still really alive. Her forearm often covered with
multi-coloured pen graphically portraying her demons and devils
sometimes her only friends. “Penis” and “God Sucks” (maybe
because she attends a Catholic School). Her brow is pierced, 6
more piercing in her right ear, nowhere near her lobe and where
else,…I really don’t care to know.
She comes to class with her well worn- “Whatever-Fuck You”
attitude and look sending out vibes on all frequencies of confrontation
and defiance. The only days she regularly attends or even wears her
uniform completely and properly was on the days she was suspended
and needed to “blend in” to be with her friends in the caf. I talked to
and then e-mailed her mom who nervously apologized for being a
mother, or at least the mother of this particular creature.
She hung out with like lost souls. They always know just where to go.
Managing to find each other with their oblique social signals no others
could pretend to comprehend. They form their cliques and can be just
as snobby, cruel and condemning as the snobs they recoil against. In the
end it’s about rebellion, the ultimate art form at this stage and age.
Rebellion and in the process of finding remnants of self and worth, and
acceptance…somehow and somewhere.
Some of her friends share her black and deathly “Goth-Appeal” with
black make-up (even on some of the boys) achieving that sad eye felt art,
street urchin, pathetic look. Fluffy has gender issues and some don’t really
know which way they flow and often act like a character from the
Vagina Monologues.
In class I often marvel at her ingenuity as she somehow manages-Hudini-like
to put on her gym T-shirt while still wearing her blouse. She dyes her hair
in checker board squares and at first, perhaps to make a connection- I wanted
to tell her I thought it looked cool until by the end of the year, with checker
boards still in place…she rarely washes or grooms. The poster girl for the
“cry-out-for-help-and-get-away-from-me” look.
From my distant desk I watch and know that at 15 she reads and writes like
Grade 4, as a matter of pride will never engage to ask the reason why.
Her fortress is secure, her mechanisms in place, she stays safe behind her walls
Just a little girl
who got lost.
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