Different colored minds

Ripped up and out

PAMELA POV

I can hear the secadas, the blare of their voices through the trees. Outside of the window to the left the trees glisten in the sun. Their rubbery cartoon like leaves littered with long fruit that look like large green sticks. In the distance I can even make out a spider monkey trailing through their branches, his coffee brown coat weaving through the stick looking fruit. He looks so freely glistening In the Sun. Here I am trapped in math class.
the teacher stands by the old whiteboard, his hand wrapped around a calculator. He's trying to illustrate a math concept. The three other students stare in blank astonishment at him.

Marigold always wears the coolest outfits. She has family from the states that bring her new clothes.The two others in the class are the boys our age. Randy has been wearing the same kind of shoes since I met him and the other kid Presley is wearing his favorite faded Pringles shirt. it always makes me wish we had Pringles here.the best part about the states is the food—

Between my conscious and unconscious mind slips the sound of my alarm blaring. I open my eyes slowly and look up at the ceiling. Where am I?
This happens every time I wake up somewhere new.  My heart will start panicking because it doesn't recognize the place And then burn when it realizes I'm somewhere new. I'm not there anymore, the somewheres from my past. people assume that one day ill move past all of the places, but my brain doesn't. My brain seems to die stuck in the limbo between present and past. It feels like glue stuck to the bottom of my feet. As much as I try to ignore it and run away it keeps pulling me back. The last sentence in the great Gatsby says it best, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." F Scott Fitzgerald couldn't move on either. I am only left with dim memories of what those places used to be—not what they are at present.

an old teacher of mine once took the time to explain the differences in the physical landscape around the school we were attending. He told us how, over the past 50 years, it had changed. He would rant about how odd it was, or how different it is. And now I understand why he cared so much. I know my mind will never be able to look at the world the way that other people do, but I don't think I'm meant to. I think I am supposed to carry these memories. That there's something more important at stake here. No matter of blaming Other people takes away the trauma of leaving a home forever. Maybe the homes and the people scar so hard so we can't forget them. Maybe this is nature's way of calling out to me, calling me to remember them as they were in decades past. Remember the trees and the fruits and the people, that one day too will pass away. I have to remember because Who else will?
My alarm is still going off irritatingly.

The school day is an odd concoction of drama and ignorance. It's so weird how different everyone looks
At the world. It's isolating. Today they're all going to a football game. In America, this isn't referring to soccer like we do, it's a game where they throw a ball at eachother. Ive heard afterward there's a party. I'm not invited of course but the seniors that sit in groups at the lunch tables were talking about it as I walked by.
I haven't made any friends yet, and to be honest I don't know how to. I'm scared to join clubs, or after school programs because all of the people here talk about things that I don't. They talk about television and food they like. I don't even know half the shows they talk about and my family can't afford to get Netflix. they won't stop talking about food places and coffee shops. We always had to make food from scratch or drive three hours away if we wanted to go get packaged things. We shipped our coffee from the United States. They talk about places they want to go shopping at places for clothes when all I've been exposed to are garage sales and shops with poorly made clothing. Not only that, I wouldn't even know what to look for when it comes to brand names. We don't have them down there, and even if we did, we never were with the people that could afford to buy new clothes. I keep telling myself I just have to keep trying. Eventually I'll catch on. I never tell them I don't understand though. Most of them consider ignorance as weakness. And I'm not weak.

And then there's him. He's so cold and judgmental yet he sits and listens. He's breathtaking when he doesn't try. And I hope he never knows.

Never catches me catching this bug.

"You're staring at me again," he states and then looks up at the board. I clench my fist. He's making fun of me. Like always. And I'm not like all the other girls. I don't have all of the cultural experience. I've never been in American culture. I don't know what people need from me, so how
Could
I
Give
In a way that someone will understand. I'm a fish out of water. I don't breathe the air they do.
I'm a needle in the heigh stack. No one can find me.
And I'm cold in the middle of the summer. I'm a broken bowl.
And there's no wanting that.
There's no knowing that.
There's no me to love.
There's the shattered remnants of places left behind.
Maybe I like it this way. Alone. With myself. With no one to rely on. I can't be disappointed if I never let them in. They can't leave me if I never let them in.

That's what I tell myself when I want hope for the future.

I wanted to be alone anyway, so what's the point in adding someone else to this mess? And maybe I can protect myself from the hurt of losing them when I don't measure up to
Their demands.
Alone is where I belong.

The jungle has my heart and I don't want it back. It's cold here and no one can know me.