Valley Girl Intelligentsia: Quiet Girl Edition

I read again at another Untidy Secrets event in downtown Tempe this previous Friday evening. First of all, if you've never been to a Final Friday in Tempe, you're missing out! There is usually a ton of awesome things happening. And I was clearly missing out until several months ago when I finally became cognizant of my surroundings (derp derp).

This month's reading was focused on the idea of "Valley Girl Intelligentsia," based off a Julie Ruin song (see below). I went through a riot grrrrrrrrl phase in high school (holla Bikini Kill), but never really listened to Julie Ruin that much. Kathleen Hanna remains someone I completely respect and admire, though. One day, when I have fully grown into a respectable adult and have a backyard and few neuroses, I hope to be a little like her.

I have been pretty busy lately with work/boxing/family visiting, so I don't think I was able to polish this as much as I would have liked. But it ended up being a fantastic evening all around. All the other readers were phenomenal - like, seriously. If you live in Phoenix and appreciate spoken word, I'd highly recommend checking out the next one, which will be on the final Friday of May at the Ash Avenue Comics & Books at 8 PM.

So without further ado, here was my take on this month's theme. Several of my friends and my Mom showed up, so that was all pretty awesome. My Mom has never heard me read, so that meant a lot to me.

Remember - this is autobiographical creative writing. That's simply what it is - I wrote it  in an afternoon after ingesting too much coffee (so it goes). 



After a lifetime of being written off because of my shyness and awkwardness, I’m here with a message for everyone who silently judges us neurotic folks:

Don’t underestimate us, motherfuckers.

My personal story starts a long, long time ago. Every report card I received growing up carried the same complaint. In that little area off to the side where teachers could leave feedback on things you needed to improve and areas you already exceled at, the comment was identical year after year after year.

“Brittany really needs to participate more,” they all said.

I remember reading that feedback and thinking, well, NO. With all the indignation a small girl can muster. Imagine – crossed arms and grimaced lips. A regular cross between Shirley Temple, Veruca Salt, and Gollum. I refused to speak more than I had to.

“Britt, I don’t remember you ever speaking more than two words in elementary school,” my friend recollected once. She stopped and thought about what she had said. “Maybe not even two words.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t like people or didn’t want to communicate with people. But I had been shut down by others so many times in my first few years of school that I learned to stop trying. The pre-determined popular kids were already dictating the social order, and I quickly fell to the bottom.

“YOU CAN’T JUMPROPE WITH US!” some little girl in pigtails squealed at me after I royally jacked up swinging the nylon rope back and forth.

“You’re really weird,” my best friend, Jamie, told me.
“Oh, COOL!” I replied at the time. Jamie was not a good friend in retrospect, but she was the first person to ever break my heart. She left in second grade and didn’t say goodbye; my parents told me she moved to the exotic and faraway land of South Carolina. I cried a lot; I sat up at night, gazing out my window, and hoping she would return. She didn’t.

I was learning to shut other people out. I wanted nothing more to connect with my peers, but they didn’t want to connect with me.

My guidance counselor invited me to be a part of a group of “special friends” when I was in elementary school. I didn’t realize until I was well into adulthood what the implications of my thrown-together clique were.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I said, somewhere in my early 20s and reflecting on the said situation. “Shit.”

It was nice though – during those “special friends” sessions, I was given the feeling I belonged. No matter how ephemeral it was. I felt like, even though I was quiet and shy and sometimes nervous, I had people.

In middle school, I had no “special friends.” But I did I have a lunch table to myself, which wasn’t as VIP as it sounds. I also had a collection of Hawaiian shirts meant for middle-aged men while the other kids were draping themselves in those puffy Old Navy vests that looked like relics left behind by Marty McFly. The cherry on top was that I was loyally wearing my brother’s hair gel and sweatpants as if they were jeans.

A group of boys set out to make my life a living hell then, and they succeeded. You see, at this point I was so used to being castigated for simply trying to be myself that I refused to speak to anyone unless I was absolutely forced to. The boy I remember the most vividly is Nick Alport, a face I won’t forget until I’m rotting on my deathbed.

“WHY DON’T YOU TALK BRITT!” he would spit, poking me in seventh grade social studies. I looked downward and shook my head. I refused to utter so much as an uncertain “meep” in reply.

Poke.

Poke poke poke.

Poke.

Poke, poke.

He was always poking me, and I mean that in an earnest way without any innuendo. And he thought it was the most hilarious stunt of all time. Constantly laughing with his beaver face, which is one thing I can still recall about him. He looked like an all-too-content, suspiciously content beaver.

There were other boys, too. They took their turns finding ways to ostracize the quiet, bookish, chubby girl who thought the other kids were still listening to Van Halen on cassette tapes.

At that time though, I began making friends. Slowly but surely, I found a real social group of other girls. Girls who appreciated the undeniable musical genius of Linkin Park. They sat with me at lunch and, shock of shocks, made a genuine effort to get to know me.

“You’re actually really smart and funny,” my friend Nicole told me one day. I was completely stunned by her admission.

 “DEAR DIARY, I MIGHT BE FUNNY. AND SMART. I DON’T KNOW.” One journal entry dated 2001 reads.

By the end of the era of middle school, people were treating me more like a person. And I was amazed by how my confidence began to lift as a result. I feel like this is a good opportunity for an Oprah moment – you shouldn’t really base your confidence off how other people treat you. It’s probably best to give no fucks in life, unless you truly lack a moral compass. But I am not the best person to provide such advice. Thus, food for thought.

High school, though, was around the bend. And come ninth grade, I was back to being the quiet, scared girl who people seemed to immediately write off. I ended up authoring a collection of stories for my creative writing class called “Silent All These Years,” which is itself a nod at Tori Amos. If that gives you any context whatsoever to what those four years were like.

College was, for the most part, an experiment in purposefully isolating myself from other people. I wasn’t all too happy about where I ended up academically, and I wasn’t too happy about the people I shared classes with.

“Dude, this water bottle is full of vodka. I’m gonna be fucked up by the time class is over!”

I became a hermit, more or less. I wasn’t trying to make a point – I was thoroughly uninterested in my surroundings, and constantly dreaming of a better time and place with a pit of hope in my stomach. And then, I reached that critical turning point once again. I became a newspaper editor, and I really had to talk to people. All kinds of people.

I started as the arts and entertainment editor. My aspiring music blogger self was tickled pink by this prospect. Holy shit! A grand venue to impose my taste on everyone!

Instead, no.

The school where I earned my undergraduate degree, is known for its visual art programs. So that meant I interviewed a lot of art students. More often than not did I see a glimmer of doubt in their eyes when I arrived at various openings and receptions, flimsy 50-cent notebook in hand, ready to pick their brains. I knew they thought I wasn’t “one of them” and the fact I was more on the reserved side made this conception all the more prominent.

“So, what was the impetus for this painting? What was your original inspiration?” I would fire off my questions. “And where exactly did you find the blood to make this red?”

We would begin having a conversation then, and the doubt would soften. They learned I was kind of like them. Sort of.

I moved up from my position of arts and entertainment editor and found myself (bewilderingly) editor in chief. During that time, I had little interaction with the art student crowd, but I was interrogated by the student council for choosing to publish an article about Patrick Swayze’s death (RIP).

As adulthood dragged on, I’ve worked hard on cracking through my shell and showing people that I am not actually an idiot. It’s been a continuation of the same cycle that plagued my earlier years. From Erie to Brooklyn to Erie again and then here in Phoenix.

Several months ago, I went out with a friend. We went to several art galleries in downtown Phoenix together. I had never really been much for the Phoenix art scene, mostly because for my past four years of living here, I’ve been so preoccupied with work and relationships and trying to, like, not die without a car that I never paid it that much attention. But I took it in that November afternoon, and I was bemused as to why I was living in a bubble for so long. I took it in hungrily and realized I had genuinely been missing out.

There was one painting that caught my attention. I stood and lingered in front of it for a while as my friend caught up with old acquaintances. I knew no one but her, so I shut my mouth and looked straight in front of me at the canvas. Sometimes with art, I walk myself through the motions. Okay. This is art. How do I feel? Do I feel anything? Am I even doing this right? Did I pee recently? Wait. This piece, though, struck a chord with me. Inside the painting was a quote I had read many years ago, but couldn’t place. Immediately, my mind leapt from how I needed to pee to where that quote had originated from and how I felt it sinking inside of me.

“You have to look at this painting!” a girl behind me shouted. I jumped a little bit as the girl ran up right by me, my friend in tow. It was like I wasn’t even there – the girl pointed at the quote. “That quote! It’s beautiful!”

My friend said nothing, and I was going to say nothing, but. But.

But.

“That’s Shakespeare," I heard myself saying. The girl immediately acknowledged me for the first time, rapidly nodding her head.

“Oh. Okay,” she responded, somewhat surprised. I smiled as the two walked away and left me to my thoughts again.

Maybe I should speak up more often. Yes. That sounds like it could be the start of something good. I thought as I went off to find the nearest bathroom to relieve myself.