Borderline

memorable

i didnt understand why the other kids were laughing. "what do you mean your dad's a garbage man? mines a doctor" "mines a lawyer!" "my mom works at a hotel!"

i didnt understand what was so funny? why everyone was laughing, making fun, because of what my dad did for work. this was his fifth different job within a year. he never had any of those fancy jobs, but at least it was money. i didn't understand what was so funny about somebody working and providing for a family, even if he was abusive.

it angered me. why were they allowed to make fun of his job?

"okay guys, quiet down. there is nothing wrong with what he does for work, a job is a job. and teaching isn't the most glorious position either." the teacher was trying to get everybody to settle down and to change the subject. i knew she could tell i felt embarrassed, or confused because everybody was making fun of my family and i.

i didn't realize what was so wrong about what he did for work. when he wasn't working, he was asleep. or him and my mother would be whispering behind closed doors, getting mad at us for interrupting. i learned to keep to myself and never speak to them unless they spoke to me first. which is quite sad when you think about it.

i went home that night and continued to sit and think about the interaction in class. why were they laughing, i just quite didn't understand. my dad opened the door to the room my sisters and i were playing in, he brought us home gifts. i knew his job was to sort through recycled materials and his boss always allowed him to take home the things that he liked and were still intact. this time he brought us home some barbie dolls, and a donald duck sign for my bedroom wall. i was really excited about this. whenever he brought stuff home i was always overjoyed because it was the one time wed get gifts from our parents, not even christmas. every christmas gift we got for years on end were donations from child protective services. i was always okay with whatever we were donated or whatever we got.

when i was 10 and we lived in a motel room, i remember getting this journal for christmas. the entire front of it was a collage of different photos of various things. models, bikes, cherry cola, polaroid cameras, sunglasses, things like that. to this day, i still have that journal. it's filled with stories and drawings from that year. no matter what i lost throughout my life, i always made sure i had that with me, i refused to let child services take it from me. whenever i moved, or was thrown into foster homes, i made sure i had that book with me. and i still do.

i remember my 11th birthday, i got a shitty laptop from a pawn shop. it didn't connect to the internet, was slightly bigger than a Nintendo DS, and you couldn't do anything on it but use the word documents to write. and i loved that with every part of me. i was nonstop writing, no matter where i was or what i was doing, i would write in that thing every single second that i was able to. fictional stories about fairies, non fictional stories about my life, suicide notes, lists and lists of things i wanted or needed that i swore to myself i'd get later in life. i still have that shitty little writing laptop, but it doesn't work anymore. the battery exploded, but maybe one day i can get it replaced and be able to see everything i wrote on it. i still remember the password.