2005-01-27 - 11:29 a.m.
Being that I don’t get to stay updated on people’s journals like I used to, when I finally do catch up on what is happening to other diaryland folks’ lives is always a shock to me. Maybe I’m more sensitive to change since coming here, but so many diaryland people that I love are having enormous changes in their lives. People have moved, changed jobs, changed relationship status, taken up with more people, and just in general, been turned upside down the past six months. And what’s astonishing to me is how well everyone seems to be taking it all; God knows that my sudden change of 10 time zones over here has jolted my system. However, I have nothing but admiration for all of these people being blunted by change and keeping on, keeping on; I worry about all of these people I’ve never met, and it’s good to know that we all keep on marching.
Anyway, the other day I was talking to my 15 year old host brother, Serdar, who is the copy of every 15-year old boy who loves rap music and thinks all the girls love him and all the boys want to be him; basically, I hate it. Needless to say, I was trying to explain to him that he shouldn’t make fun or people who dress differently or don’t do things that aren’t popular. It was basically an after-school special, “The Only Person You Can Guarantee Will Be Happy With the Things You Do is YOU!” starring Mary-Lou Retton as Me and Jack Lemmon as Serdar.
However, at one point, Serdar argued, “But Steve, you don’t understand what it’s like. In Turkmenistan, if you don’t wear the cool clothes, people will make fun of you.” Dear Serdar, it’s the same exact way in the United States. To illustrate my point, I would like to recall to you particular outfits during high school that despite their obvious non-coolness, I wore almost two or three times a week, resulting in my being made fun of even more than the regular “Hey Faggot!”:
Freshmen Year: XL size “Kermit Klein” white t-shirt worn with completely whitewashed, boot-cut jeans. I wore Airwalks to make me look “skater.” On off days, I would wear the gigantic black PJ Harvey t-shirt I bought.
Sophomore Year: Same whitewashed, boot-cut jeans and Airwalks. However, now an oversized XL purple fleece jacket covers whatever “Virginia National Parks 1996!” shirt my Dad just bought me; at the bottom of the fleece jacket is one of those elastic pulls that makes the jacket tight at the bottom if you want to. I, of course, made the jacket at tight as possible against my hips, accentuating the ridiculous thinness of my bottom half, my top half like a marshmallow.
Junior Year: My thrift store year. My absolutely favorite outfit was a short-sleeved white button-up shirt with lime-green polka-dots that I wore with dark brown corduroys; this time the Airwalks were purple. I also wore three Children’s watches up my left arm: a Rugrats flip-top watch, a Toy Story one, and a Kermit one.
Senior Year: This is when my first boyfriend told me that “I had no sense of how to dress at all.” I ameliorated the problem by wearing gigantic Old Navy cargo khakis, chunky soled black shoes, and the tiniest t-shirts possible. My favorite t-shirt was a purple one that showed a cartoon little girl with a big heart stabbed into her head, with little heart-shaped blood drops dripping down. In big, red, bubbly letters it said, “Ouchy, Love Hurts!” This was also the year when I decided that dyeing my hair bleach-blond was a good move; on some venturous days, I would wear eye-liner, an idea I gained from watching that glam rock movie with Ewan MacGregor. A pair of silvery pleather pants made their appearance about 10 times throughout the school year.
So, Serdar, as the evidence clearly shows, the defendant was not part of the well-dressed masses. Instead, he showed gross misjudgment of how to dress and in the process, gave more material for other people to tease him than any other child at Kenston High School. However, he was an innocent party, too privy to watching Tori Amos videos and listening to Fiona Apple to pay attention to what the average, attractive, and popular teenager might do; let him be, let him live. Thank you to the jury, to your honor, and hereby, I rest my case.
