Stories

I tell myself the little boy’s story so that he seems more human to me.

He is the child of divorce and now only comes in with one parent at a time. It is obvious they overindulge him over the guilt of it. He rules the two of them, against each other too, it seems, or if nothing else he is totally capable of it.

His mother is soft spoken and easily controlled, a lesson he learned from his father, the epitome of entitlement and privilege (there are few combinations more pervasive or frustrating). He does, however, have a soft spot for his son. So when they move through the world together he sees everyone bow to his father, who bows to him, which makes him king.

Because of this imaginary position he places himself above the other kids at school, too, cutting them off when they speak in class and taking their toys, calling them dumb, and belittling them constantly; he is generally hated. He seems not to mind but he has to, because he can’t be over the age of 10 and kids that age need friends. Instead, he has parents, or subjects rather, that he commands around when he is unhappy, which is often.

This is why he doesn’t answer me when I greet him cheerfully, and ignores my attempts to engage with him and per my job description, which seems less and less possible with each minute I spend with him.

I still don’t like him.

But now I blame his parents.

My guy friend talks like he knows the story of the girl walking in front of us, evident by the finality and judgment in his tone, “I really hate when big girls wear shit that doesn’t fit. I don’t wanna look at that.”

Partially because I know him, and partially because I used to be him I know the story he is telling me.

She’s a lazy and greedy girl, jeopardizing her own health in lieu of taste because she is carnal and myopic. She doesn’t care what she looks like, what she comes off as, or where her life is going because her upbringing was as careless as her fashion. Her mother is living her inevitable future; bitterly working a dead end job she doesn’t have the ambition to leave, complaining about everything and contributing nothing (because let’s be honest, my friend does not consider whatever job she is working to be a worthy contribution). Because she is so negative she did not mind her hapless daughter.

And so her daughter, swaying in front of us, is loud and rude like other classless women, and they are the ones with the least worth. She dates men that are dirty and sleazy, the kind that also don’t care that she is not dressing “for her size”, or might even encourage it. They smoke and don’t shower. They are poor and stupid. They can do better but they refuse to, because on top of being poor and exposed, these people are often thought of as intentional too. So she meant to walk to close to us when we got off of the crowded train, meant to bump into the overloaded bag lady who passed very close, meant to offend us with the baring of her skin. She should put some more clothes on, except that she doesn’t have the decency to be embarrassed.

And since we feel like we know this woman we have never talked to, we scowl as she exists in front of us.

I find that the closer I am to someone, the more their story changes for me. My college roommate, the hilarious and smart pharmaceutical student that has a perfect life and nothing but opportunities has actually struggled with low self-esteem ever since she was molested as a kid. That bitch from 6th grade, the one who just seemed to get off on gossiping about me? Deep in the closet and being tortured for it by his father, while fielding threats of being outed by his cousins who went to the same school.

The pretty light-skinned girl with a complex about it, who wishes she were darker so that she could feel more connected.

The guy with the great body and an eating disorder.

The kid who dresses like the ultimate hipster because they has finally found style that fits them, but is ridiculed for being trendy.

An old boss who had the perfect family, who was enduring verbal abuse from them nearly daily.

The girl who looks sloppy and unkempt who is a budding and talented artist.

The big girl who is more body positive and confident then most other people I’ve had contact with.

And me. My story changes on the daily.

Today I am a brilliant writer with and even brighter future.

And sometimes I’m a powerful female warrior who owns the gotdamn sidewalk.

Sometimes I’m too muscular and plain.

Sometimes I’m the sexiest woman I know.

Sometimes I have an amazing support system, sometimes I’m all alone, sometimes I like it that way, and sometimes I want nothing more than for everything to change.

Sometimes I’m extremely brave, and other times, too impulsive.

There have been times when I can feel my story being told, and there is nothing I can do about it. Like my coworker who blames my tardiness on laziness and bad time management, ignorant to the fact that I have to take 3 buses to get to a job she is a 15 drive away from.

Or the friend of a friend who thinks I’m ghetto and slutty because he met me at a dance party where I danced my butt off, my only escape sometimes.

The old classmate who thinks I’m so brave and smart, even though I am wholly insecure about my life decisions from time to time, with hardly enough space in between.

A hundred stories that are only part of me, or none of me.

There are times when the story is completely true. Sometimes it’s only half true. Sometimes it’s a complete lie.

Always, the closer you get, the more it splits, shifts, changes and twists. There is never just one. They only follow the law of continuation.

There are always thousands of stories, a single person is a whole library that would make you laugh and cry and wince and sigh in one sitting, if you have the luxury.

A single person, a whole library of stories.

Impossible to read in one sitting.