Memory 1
Marilu was our live-in nanny. She lived in the maid’s room downstairs for a while, until my sister was born, then she lived upstairs in the baby’s room. She was a frog of a woman. I’ve read that description many times, but it wasn’t until I remembered Marilu that I could put an image to the phrase. She wore tacky floral-print dresses that slid right over her head and clung lightly over her marshmellow-like body. Out of the short sleeves hung the fatty, flabby skin of her under arms, I made my personal silly putty on long car rides –she didn’t seem to mind. Her hair was cut short, masculine and black –she was by no means an attractive woman. She always favored my older brother and was later referred to as 'grandma' by my younger sister. We used to tease my sister and the nanny because somehow, my sister looked more like Marilu than she did us.
They all loved her; my brother because she played Super Nintendo with us (and always beat me); my sister who fell asleep each night and awoke every morning in her crib that would eventually become a full mattress matching her nanny’s; and my parents because now they could go out to dinner occasionally without a worry. But I never did like her. She used to chew on a single uncooked grain of rice, making the most disgusting smacking sound. Smack -as her tongue tried to force out the grain from between her teeth to suck on its disgusting shell again, and again –for hours.
She never took me seriously, constantly mocking my eight-year-old intelligence. Sometimes before she left to run errands I’d innocently ask her,
“Where are you going?”
And sure enough, every time she’d reply,
“I’m going to get old”.
Every time, no matter how many times I asked, no matter how frustrated I became –I might even have cried once.
One night I woke up to the sound of her screaming “Mickey! Mickey!” and thought that because her voice was naturally loud and obnoxious, she was just having a laugh with my brother Mike. She yelled my name twice and I too got up to see what was so funny. I find Marilu hysterical in the hall way and she orders Mike and I to get in her room immediately. Frantically she phones the police, then my parents. No sooner, the cops arrive, and my parents just behind them. A few weeks later, I was still hearing the story.
Apparently, Marilu was going downstairs with the baby for a warm bottle of milk, to find a man using the round end of a broom to try and unhook the keys from the wall, through the opened sliding glass window above the kitchen counter –to climb in would have made too much noise on account of all the appliances. He dropped the broom and raised his gun, demanding Marilu give him the keys. She begged him to let her put the baby in the other room first –because that's where the corresponding keys are anyway, she told him. Somehow she managed to sneak away with the keys on the wall in the kitchen and upstairs to call for help –they never caught the guy.
Marilu was our live-in for almost seven years. When we moved to the States she continued to share a room with my sister, and I shared the bathroom in their room with them –I didn’t like this. The older I got, the less I liked her, and the more I avoided her. One day while we were at school, she packed up all her tablecloth dresses, cheap toothpaste and worn out brush, and left. A few days later she returned to embrace my sister, begging my father for her job back. I did not care for her presence any longer, but they all loved her and she stayed, until the second time –that time, she never came back.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Current Events -Are beginning to bore me
A Highlight of CNN's Latest News Tuesday, July 7, 2009
- Jackson memorial draws crowds online
- Fans proved 'I'll be there' for memorial
- L.A. wants help paying for Jackson memorial
- Time: A strange, gaudy and moving farewell
- iReport.com: How are you honoring MJ today?
- AC360°: Jackson kids' lives get more complex
- CNNMoney: Recession fears slam stocks
- Police find more to link suspect to S.C. killings 15 min
- Spy chief's wife blows cover on Facebook
- Former comedian takes oath in U.S. Senate
- Ticker: 7 in 10 Republicans would vote for Palin
- Feehery: Time to move past Palin distraction
- Begala: Palin an impediment to rebuilding GOP
- Figure skating ex-champ charged in drug probe
- Deploying dad begs to see missing girl
- Senate tackles college football's BCS 12 min
- SI: American signs for superpower AC Milan
- Teddy bears conceal millions in heroin
Can Anything really be said here?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Current Events -What Really Matters
Breaking News -Important News?
CNN's top story today is "Jackson's will answers questions, raises more". Fox news wasn't far behind, with two articles on Afghan villages and the North Korean missiles, and third -"Jacko hid drugs, secret love". That's much more interesting and not nearly as hard to understand!
Yes, we all agree Michael Jackson was an untimely icon world wide. He was a musical pioneer, one of a kind, and kept audience interested well after Thriller with scandal after scandal -fading skin color, child molestation and the Neverland Ranch. Michael Jackson, you will certainly never be forgotten.
But in a time when the state of California alone is sinking faster than the rest of the country -a country that even President Obama himself will admit is "out of money". In a time when we are still at war, when thousands of people are being killed every day; when we have missiles being tested and fired, and nuclear weapons parked but ready. In a time when people should be reading and educating themselves on what is really going on with not just our economic failure, but the rest of the world, instead the media puts out complete coverage on the death of a celebrity.
There is an entire page with links to questions about his life, his death, his will, the legacy, and reaction of others on CNN's home page. Why isn't there a page with answers to REAL questions?
How can we fix our financial debt? What are we doing to end the war?
But then again, the media will probably do a "complete coverage" of Farrah Fawcett's death (that no one seems to care about because Michael Jackson's sudden death was far more exciting and scandalous than a Charlie's Angel slowly dying of cancer) before they bore readers with the important stuff.
CNN's top story today is "Jackson's will answers questions, raises more". Fox news wasn't far behind, with two articles on Afghan villages and the North Korean missiles, and third -"Jacko hid drugs, secret love". That's much more interesting and not nearly as hard to understand!
Yes, we all agree Michael Jackson was an untimely icon world wide. He was a musical pioneer, one of a kind, and kept audience interested well after Thriller with scandal after scandal -fading skin color, child molestation and the Neverland Ranch. Michael Jackson, you will certainly never be forgotten.
But in a time when the state of California alone is sinking faster than the rest of the country -a country that even President Obama himself will admit is "out of money". In a time when we are still at war, when thousands of people are being killed every day; when we have missiles being tested and fired, and nuclear weapons parked but ready. In a time when people should be reading and educating themselves on what is really going on with not just our economic failure, but the rest of the world, instead the media puts out complete coverage on the death of a celebrity.
There is an entire page with links to questions about his life, his death, his will, the legacy, and reaction of others on CNN's home page. Why isn't there a page with answers to REAL questions?
How can we fix our financial debt? What are we doing to end the war?
But then again, the media will probably do a "complete coverage" of Farrah Fawcett's death (that no one seems to care about because Michael Jackson's sudden death was far more exciting and scandalous than a Charlie's Angel slowly dying of cancer) before they bore readers with the important stuff.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Current Events Thread (prototype)
I've never really written periodicals.
An attemp.
"Don't Ask and Don't Tell, Because Who Cares?"
If you're gay -just be gay.
When asked to fill standard application forms for a job, one fills out the prevalent information -name, DOB, gender, ethnicity, etc.
It is unusual to question sexual preference.
So why do gay rights activist insist on homosexuals be granted their right to be open about their sexuality?
Like any other company, the United States military is a job -a duty, where sexuality is not relevant to the soldier. Heterosexuals do not go around parading their sexual preference, why must the gay community be so persistent to be known as "different" in trying to not be different at all?
The article on the FOX news site regarding this "Don't ask, don't tell law" originally instated during the Clinton years (1993)states that the law "was intended as a compromise to get around a full ban on gay military service. Gay right leaders, however, have said it is an insult."
Is it? Or is it fair?
Homosexuals are not being discriminated against nor persecuted. They are just limited to the kind of information they can disclose.
Like an employee of Area 51 -they are not allowed to release any information about what goes on at work, homosexuals are not allowed to discuss what goes on out of work.
But more importantly, why is this one of CNN's top stories? Why are we dealing with "can homosexuals be open about their sexuality in the military" over "what the $^@% is going on with our military"?
An attemp.
"Don't Ask and Don't Tell, Because Who Cares?"
If you're gay -just be gay.
When asked to fill standard application forms for a job, one fills out the prevalent information -name, DOB, gender, ethnicity, etc.
It is unusual to question sexual preference.
So why do gay rights activist insist on homosexuals be granted their right to be open about their sexuality?
Like any other company, the United States military is a job -a duty, where sexuality is not relevant to the soldier. Heterosexuals do not go around parading their sexual preference, why must the gay community be so persistent to be known as "different" in trying to not be different at all?
The article on the FOX news site regarding this "Don't ask, don't tell law" originally instated during the Clinton years (1993)states that the law "was intended as a compromise to get around a full ban on gay military service. Gay right leaders, however, have said it is an insult."
Is it? Or is it fair?
Homosexuals are not being discriminated against nor persecuted. They are just limited to the kind of information they can disclose.
Like an employee of Area 51 -they are not allowed to release any information about what goes on at work, homosexuals are not allowed to discuss what goes on out of work.
But more importantly, why is this one of CNN's top stories? Why are we dealing with "can homosexuals be open about their sexuality in the military" over "what the $^@% is going on with our military"?
Monday, June 29, 2009
To California
In pursue of a Malibu Dream House.
A tribute.
Still Plastic and Perfect
It was a perfect society built out of plastic houses and hot pink convertibles you stubbed your toe on countless of times while creeping back from the bathroom late at night. I sat pleasantly alone for hours most days, manipulating their fictional world. Laying in bed every night staring at the dark shadow that was their Malibu dream house.
They were perfect.
Barbie’s long blonde hair falling gracefully on her curving back, big, blue sparkling eyes, pouty lips, perfectly constructed, ideally sculpted –a body only Pam Anderson would ever replicate in Baywatch. And no matter the similarity between each doll, they were always unique in their own way.
The ones my grandmother brought me from Europe and Asia were foreign and exotic. They spoke with an accent and had a pompous glamour. Outdoor Barbie was tough and cool in her red flannel and rubber boots. Teacher Barbie was smart and soft-spoken (but the kids that came in her set were spoiled rotten).
I walked exclusively down the doll isle at toy stores. First admiring the collectables – Lucille Ball Barbie, Marilyn Monroe Barbie. I paced back and forth obsessing over their tiny pleather jackets, frilly fabric and Velcro everything. Their mini rubber boots and plastic shoes that slid right on but never seemed to actually stay on.
Though I was mainly interested in dressing, undressing and redressing the dolls, they often interacted. Barbie with Ken, Barbie with another Barbie –whose name would clearly have to be different because there could only be one Barbie. Ken always perfectly groomed and Barbie never under-dressed, they laid in their plastic bed with a plastic hump at the head for a pillow. Fully dressed in their bed with their feet hanging off the end because somehow they never got the measurements right; laying still, plastic and perfect staring at the dark shadow that was my bed.
A tribute.
Still Plastic and Perfect
It was a perfect society built out of plastic houses and hot pink convertibles you stubbed your toe on countless of times while creeping back from the bathroom late at night. I sat pleasantly alone for hours most days, manipulating their fictional world. Laying in bed every night staring at the dark shadow that was their Malibu dream house.
They were perfect.
Barbie’s long blonde hair falling gracefully on her curving back, big, blue sparkling eyes, pouty lips, perfectly constructed, ideally sculpted –a body only Pam Anderson would ever replicate in Baywatch. And no matter the similarity between each doll, they were always unique in their own way.
The ones my grandmother brought me from Europe and Asia were foreign and exotic. They spoke with an accent and had a pompous glamour. Outdoor Barbie was tough and cool in her red flannel and rubber boots. Teacher Barbie was smart and soft-spoken (but the kids that came in her set were spoiled rotten).
I walked exclusively down the doll isle at toy stores. First admiring the collectables – Lucille Ball Barbie, Marilyn Monroe Barbie. I paced back and forth obsessing over their tiny pleather jackets, frilly fabric and Velcro everything. Their mini rubber boots and plastic shoes that slid right on but never seemed to actually stay on.
Though I was mainly interested in dressing, undressing and redressing the dolls, they often interacted. Barbie with Ken, Barbie with another Barbie –whose name would clearly have to be different because there could only be one Barbie. Ken always perfectly groomed and Barbie never under-dressed, they laid in their plastic bed with a plastic hump at the head for a pillow. Fully dressed in their bed with their feet hanging off the end because somehow they never got the measurements right; laying still, plastic and perfect staring at the dark shadow that was my bed.
Field Trips to Road Trips
I'm moving to California soon. August/September-ish.
I'm scared and nervous, but I sure do love adventures with you.This is a poem I wrote about our first expedition.
Field Trips
Welcomed by the smell
of death and
rotting deer,
flies and ants and
whatever has been feeding on its
decomposing body since
last
we found ourselves here.
The sun is warm.
There's the factory and
the tractor, its
all there,
still there-
as I imagine it will be for quite some time.
The mammal smells worse than before,
the tail more decomposed,
and the bones more exposed.
I had to say
"No, Lucy!"
Or she'd might have played
with them.
Must’a been a mile or two of blues and whites in the sky,
the reds and yellows,
greens and oranges of the trees,
the flying grasshoppers and
busy butterflies on a purple hunt,
then finally,
cheese and wine,
crackers and apples and
cheesy remarks and fruity attempts at something there,
too timid to express.
And then arm in arm.
She hopped along, splashed around.
He filmed, I laughed,
she's cute, I'm happy,
he's intriguing.
And then over the bridge back to reality.
of death and
rotting deer,
flies and ants and
whatever has been feeding on its
decomposing body since
last
we found ourselves here.
The sun is warm.
There's the factory and
the tractor, its
all there,
still there-
as I imagine it will be for quite some time.
The mammal smells worse than before,
the tail more decomposed,
and the bones more exposed.
I had to say
"No, Lucy!"
Or she'd might have played
with them.
Must’a been a mile or two of blues and whites in the sky,
the reds and yellows,
greens and oranges of the trees,
the flying grasshoppers and
busy butterflies on a purple hunt,
then finally,
cheese and wine,
crackers and apples and
cheesy remarks and fruity attempts at something there,
too timid to express.
And then arm in arm.
She hopped along, splashed around.
He filmed, I laughed,
she's cute, I'm happy,
he's intriguing.
And then over the bridge back to reality.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Trip Down Memory Lane
A few years ago, I was very emotional(crazy).
A poem from 2006ish:
Down the toilet:
literally
Upon inspecting what I'd thrown up
last night
I found,
along with the piece of tilapia I had for dinner,
my bloody,
shattered heart,
what was left of my tear ducts,
and the remains of my very first love
I'd ever known.
I paused for a moment contemplating
the contents in the water,
and then I flushed.
TWICE.
Ha.
A poem from 2006ish:
Down the toilet:
literally
Upon inspecting what I'd thrown up
last night
I found,
along with the piece of tilapia I had for dinner,
my bloody,
shattered heart,
what was left of my tear ducts,
and the remains of my very first love
I'd ever known.
I paused for a moment contemplating
the contents in the water,
and then I flushed.
TWICE.
Ha.
Hello. My name is Minna Betancourt and this is a Memoir
Roses Are Red and My Parents Are Blue
I am like a red, red rose and the thorns hide beautifully beneath my petals. Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed. I cry only because it feels good to drain sadness from my eyes, but the pain remains in my fingertips –it makes for good writing. I am a "bitch" they say, heartless and cold. But this arctic soul has one weakness, one beautifully drawn out insecurity forever engraved on my right wrist.
It began sophomore year of high school. I am part of a typical, traditional Hispanic family. My father (stern about table manners and clean presentation) wore Louis Vouitton, my football playing, baseball batting, wrestling jock of a brother liked Lacoste, and my patient, passive, PTA-involved mother settled for Liz Claiborne.
I am in a pair of paint splattered Converse, faded ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that smells of the Goodwill at Flamingo Plaza- the preferred shopping center of "hipsters" and "scenesters" of my kind. Occasionally, and reluctantly, I was in my cheerleading uniform promoting the game of the week. The navy blue polyester skirt and matching shirt stuck itchy and stiff on my body. Big white letters spelling PHS and corresponding white stripes strategically printed on selective parts of the uniform made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. I did not belong in such a thing, but how proud my mother stood when I was out on that field pretending to cheer for the football team I couldn’t have cared any less about, while thinking “get me the fuck out of here!” It was late September of my sophomore year in high school –the end of my cheerleading career, and the start of my decay.
In order to understand my evolution, I must confess the failures and disappointments that came before the final catastrophe. I was suspended from school that infamous sophomore year and kicked off the cheerleading team for smoking pot on a trip to competition –disappointment number one. My mother was devastated, my father (a former hippie turned conservative father) understood, but I was still grounded for what felt like eternity.
No longer having the responsibility of cheerleading practice after school, I was left with too much free time on my hands, and those hands quickly found new hobbies and new friends. I attended local bands' shows more often, along with every other Converse-wearing kid; kids with tattoos to their ears, piercings on their arms and necks and every strange place one can find to penetrate with jewelry; kids with squinty, blood red eyes from smoking too much weed and drug addicted high school drop outs. Slowly, I adapted.
It was around my 17th birthday early April when I decided I needed a piercing –an eyebrow ring –disappointment number two. I thought I was the badest, coolest looking girl around –my parents disagreed and if I didn't take it out before my birthday, I wouldn't be celebrating one. "What's next? Tattoos? Are you going to come home pregnant tomorrow?" they asked. What does sex have anything to do with it? I thought. Sex, drugs and rock and roll right? I mocked them. They forbade me from going anywhere until I took the ring out; they wouldn't even let me go to school. Two days after getting pierced, I took it out. We didn't celebrate my birthday that year.
I let some time pass before my next surprise. It was early June when I became friends with Lauren after landing my first real job at Hollister (a "hip" clothing store). She was three years older, cool and confident. I looked up to her. She new about music and art and fashion, and anyone who was someone in the city.
We spent most afternoons at Tattoo Circus getting high with the artists, admiring their fully painted bodies, wishing for some of our own. Vinny and Eric Thrice were there almost every day working, and every day that I spent with them at the shop, the itch for ink grew stronger. They each had a different version of the logo for Turbonegro (a popular hardcore band, and their favorite). Vinny’s was on his shin. Gordy’s (a common regular who loitered around the shop as much as we did) had it on his calf. And Eric Thrice, having no room left for new work, had it on his left hand. Though Vinny wasn't as experienced as Eric Thrice, I let him design my tattoo.
"I don't know what I want. I want stars, or flowers; something pretty on my wrist. Something that can easily be covered by bracelets" I told him. I knew I wanted it on my wrist. I figure, what is the point of art on your body if you can't even see it? My parents don't have to find out, I'll wear a bracelet around them for the rest of my life I reasoned.
Foolish girl.
It was mid June when Vinny showed me what he had drawn. A simple traditional rose the size of an egg; I couldn't resist. "How much?" I asked him, assuming I would have to come back another time with more money. "Thirty bucks" he said.
Thirty little dollars. I paid thirty dollars to stab my parents in the back.
I don't really remember how I felt after the two and a half hours of painful needles drilling color through thick layers of my skin; I must admit, I was stoned numb and kind of drunk. I slept at Lauren's house that night after making an appearance at a local show to parade around the new addition.
The next morning I went home with an awkwardly big piece of fabric I cut from an old band t-shirt loosely wrapped around my wrist -loosely because it hurt like hell. My brother asked me why I was wearing such a thing and I could not come up with a good enough excuse. When he reached for my arm, I screeched and pulled away. He dragged me outside, and as we stood on the front lawn of my one-story, brick red house I peeled back the blue fabric to reveal the bloody swollen rose that broke my father's heart.
"Tell me it's not real" he prayed.
"It is very real Mike". I got in my car and drove away.
Within fifteen minutes, my mother let out three angry monotone words through her clenched teeth and into my cell phone.
"Come home now".
When I got home she made me undress down to my skin. I stood completely naked, utterly humiliated as she checked for more tattoos. There weren't any more. There would never be anymore. I pulled up my pants, buttoned my shirt, and my parents sat their three children down for a "family conference" in the living room. My dad cried, my mom smoked, my sister stared blankly at the walls too young to understand the damage I had caused, and my brother hung his head low in utter disappointment -he didn't look at me once. My mother cried, my father smoked and I have never been more ashamed in my life.
It's been four years since that miserable day in June and this wilted rose has slowly recovered.
"At least it's pretty", my mom tried to convince herself a few years ago, and just recently she began to justify my untraditional appearance with my enrollment at a prestigious art university. "You look like the ideal artist Minna –ripped jeans, paint stained t-shirt, dirty sneakers and tattooed," she laughs.
Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed, but that day in June I did; and the blood came as tears and those tears I shared with my parents. I am still a red, red rose because the thorns that hide beautifully beneath my petals, will forever prick my parent's hearts.
Roses are red, my parents were blue, now they're indifferent and I still love my tattoo.
I am like a red, red rose and the thorns hide beautifully beneath my petals. Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed. I cry only because it feels good to drain sadness from my eyes, but the pain remains in my fingertips –it makes for good writing. I am a "bitch" they say, heartless and cold. But this arctic soul has one weakness, one beautifully drawn out insecurity forever engraved on my right wrist.
It began sophomore year of high school. I am part of a typical, traditional Hispanic family. My father (stern about table manners and clean presentation) wore Louis Vouitton, my football playing, baseball batting, wrestling jock of a brother liked Lacoste, and my patient, passive, PTA-involved mother settled for Liz Claiborne.
I am in a pair of paint splattered Converse, faded ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that smells of the Goodwill at Flamingo Plaza- the preferred shopping center of "hipsters" and "scenesters" of my kind. Occasionally, and reluctantly, I was in my cheerleading uniform promoting the game of the week. The navy blue polyester skirt and matching shirt stuck itchy and stiff on my body. Big white letters spelling PHS and corresponding white stripes strategically printed on selective parts of the uniform made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. I did not belong in such a thing, but how proud my mother stood when I was out on that field pretending to cheer for the football team I couldn’t have cared any less about, while thinking “get me the fuck out of here!” It was late September of my sophomore year in high school –the end of my cheerleading career, and the start of my decay.
In order to understand my evolution, I must confess the failures and disappointments that came before the final catastrophe. I was suspended from school that infamous sophomore year and kicked off the cheerleading team for smoking pot on a trip to competition –disappointment number one. My mother was devastated, my father (a former hippie turned conservative father) understood, but I was still grounded for what felt like eternity.
No longer having the responsibility of cheerleading practice after school, I was left with too much free time on my hands, and those hands quickly found new hobbies and new friends. I attended local bands' shows more often, along with every other Converse-wearing kid; kids with tattoos to their ears, piercings on their arms and necks and every strange place one can find to penetrate with jewelry; kids with squinty, blood red eyes from smoking too much weed and drug addicted high school drop outs. Slowly, I adapted.
It was around my 17th birthday early April when I decided I needed a piercing –an eyebrow ring –disappointment number two. I thought I was the badest, coolest looking girl around –my parents disagreed and if I didn't take it out before my birthday, I wouldn't be celebrating one. "What's next? Tattoos? Are you going to come home pregnant tomorrow?" they asked. What does sex have anything to do with it? I thought. Sex, drugs and rock and roll right? I mocked them. They forbade me from going anywhere until I took the ring out; they wouldn't even let me go to school. Two days after getting pierced, I took it out. We didn't celebrate my birthday that year.
I let some time pass before my next surprise. It was early June when I became friends with Lauren after landing my first real job at Hollister (a "hip" clothing store). She was three years older, cool and confident. I looked up to her. She new about music and art and fashion, and anyone who was someone in the city.
We spent most afternoons at Tattoo Circus getting high with the artists, admiring their fully painted bodies, wishing for some of our own. Vinny and Eric Thrice were there almost every day working, and every day that I spent with them at the shop, the itch for ink grew stronger. They each had a different version of the logo for Turbonegro (a popular hardcore band, and their favorite). Vinny’s was on his shin. Gordy’s (a common regular who loitered around the shop as much as we did) had it on his calf. And Eric Thrice, having no room left for new work, had it on his left hand. Though Vinny wasn't as experienced as Eric Thrice, I let him design my tattoo.
"I don't know what I want. I want stars, or flowers; something pretty on my wrist. Something that can easily be covered by bracelets" I told him. I knew I wanted it on my wrist. I figure, what is the point of art on your body if you can't even see it? My parents don't have to find out, I'll wear a bracelet around them for the rest of my life I reasoned.
Foolish girl.
It was mid June when Vinny showed me what he had drawn. A simple traditional rose the size of an egg; I couldn't resist. "How much?" I asked him, assuming I would have to come back another time with more money. "Thirty bucks" he said.
Thirty little dollars. I paid thirty dollars to stab my parents in the back.
I don't really remember how I felt after the two and a half hours of painful needles drilling color through thick layers of my skin; I must admit, I was stoned numb and kind of drunk. I slept at Lauren's house that night after making an appearance at a local show to parade around the new addition.
The next morning I went home with an awkwardly big piece of fabric I cut from an old band t-shirt loosely wrapped around my wrist -loosely because it hurt like hell. My brother asked me why I was wearing such a thing and I could not come up with a good enough excuse. When he reached for my arm, I screeched and pulled away. He dragged me outside, and as we stood on the front lawn of my one-story, brick red house I peeled back the blue fabric to reveal the bloody swollen rose that broke my father's heart.
"Tell me it's not real" he prayed.
"It is very real Mike". I got in my car and drove away.
Within fifteen minutes, my mother let out three angry monotone words through her clenched teeth and into my cell phone.
"Come home now".
When I got home she made me undress down to my skin. I stood completely naked, utterly humiliated as she checked for more tattoos. There weren't any more. There would never be anymore. I pulled up my pants, buttoned my shirt, and my parents sat their three children down for a "family conference" in the living room. My dad cried, my mom smoked, my sister stared blankly at the walls too young to understand the damage I had caused, and my brother hung his head low in utter disappointment -he didn't look at me once. My mother cried, my father smoked and I have never been more ashamed in my life.
It's been four years since that miserable day in June and this wilted rose has slowly recovered.
"At least it's pretty", my mom tried to convince herself a few years ago, and just recently she began to justify my untraditional appearance with my enrollment at a prestigious art university. "You look like the ideal artist Minna –ripped jeans, paint stained t-shirt, dirty sneakers and tattooed," she laughs.
Though I bruise easily due to my borderline anemia, I do not bleed, but that day in June I did; and the blood came as tears and those tears I shared with my parents. I am still a red, red rose because the thorns that hide beautifully beneath my petals, will forever prick my parent's hearts.
Roses are red, my parents were blue, now they're indifferent and I still love my tattoo.
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