You know, I combed my mind over and over to try and remember specifics when writing this piece. But it was decades ago. I can still see the page (or the way my mind has created the memory of it anyway). It was white lined paper, torn from a notebook. The ink was blue and blotchy as if the pen had been pressed hard. But the words are fuzzy. I'm sure it was an accusation of some mistreatment of her. I think she may have accused me of racism. It probably challenged me to a fight. That was a thing being done back then. I was probably "terribly offended" by such "lies"--far from beginning to develop an understanding of systemic racism and microagressions, from knowing the importance of seeing my own biases, from a grasp of empathy when threatened.
I've looked for her online. But I'm only 50 percent sure I have her name correctly. And if I'm right, it's a fairly generic name. At any rate, no luck.
Thanks for reading! Looking forward to checking out Memories of a Post Grunge Drifter. ;)
Thank you! And yes, I absolutely love Irasha’s doll project. Those dolls and their scenes are, for me, a great example of the power of subtlety and playfulness and showing over telling--all aspirations for my writing ;). I appreciated her sharing the photo.
Great story! It's too familiar to me. A boy named Dante and I had a fistfight. For a couple of decades I thought of myself as the hero of the story, but gradually had to admit that I was the jerk. It took so long for me to realize that.
Thanks and thanks for sharing! It’s such an interesting phenomenon--the way we paint our stories in various lights for all kinds of reasons. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad my understanding evolved toward greater accuracy. And I’m glad to explore my own complicity in a complex system that requires no premeditation to perpetuate but lots to tear down.
Love your writing Holly. The story hit home for me.
Thank you! I’m really glad to hear that.
What was the note all about???
You know, I combed my mind over and over to try and remember specifics when writing this piece. But it was decades ago. I can still see the page (or the way my mind has created the memory of it anyway). It was white lined paper, torn from a notebook. The ink was blue and blotchy as if the pen had been pressed hard. But the words are fuzzy. I'm sure it was an accusation of some mistreatment of her. I think she may have accused me of racism. It probably challenged me to a fight. That was a thing being done back then. I was probably "terribly offended" by such "lies"--far from beginning to develop an understanding of systemic racism and microagressions, from knowing the importance of seeing my own biases, from a grasp of empathy when threatened.
I've looked for her online. But I'm only 50 percent sure I have her name correctly. And if I'm right, it's a fairly generic name. At any rate, no luck.
Thanks for reading! Looking forward to checking out Memories of a Post Grunge Drifter. ;)
Nice :) Great to get more of the story :) :)
Enjoyed reading your stories, and was delighted to see Irasha's dolls photographed..
Thank you! And yes, I absolutely love Irasha’s doll project. Those dolls and their scenes are, for me, a great example of the power of subtlety and playfulness and showing over telling--all aspirations for my writing ;). I appreciated her sharing the photo.
Great story! It's too familiar to me. A boy named Dante and I had a fistfight. For a couple of decades I thought of myself as the hero of the story, but gradually had to admit that I was the jerk. It took so long for me to realize that.
Thanks and thanks for sharing! It’s such an interesting phenomenon--the way we paint our stories in various lights for all kinds of reasons. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad my understanding evolved toward greater accuracy. And I’m glad to explore my own complicity in a complex system that requires no premeditation to perpetuate but lots to tear down.