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The String "Can you put that away, please?" asked my first period teacher.
"No, I can't", I replied, my eyes had not drifted from my working hands.
"And why not?" she asked, a bit more impatient this time.
My hands ceased to move, frozen, intertwined in string. I stared directly into the teacher's oh-so-annoyed eyes. "Because," I said slowly, "because this is exactly what I was doing as my mother screamed at me last night." I paused.
The room had gotten silent, and all the snickering, smirking, and giggling had turned to looks of horror.
"Screaming at me about my clothes, my attitude, my hair. Screaming at me about how lucky I am that I don't live in North Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq. Screaming at me about her childhood, her life, her sorrows. Screaming at me about her embarassment, her shame, me."
My eyes returned to my lap. My fingers had begun working again. Jacob's Ladder. Cracking, raw, and dry, my fingers worked unceasingly.
DrasBrisingr · Sun Apr 03, 2005 @ 08:03pm · 2 Comments |
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