12.6b

[Catherine (this will be how I introduce these from now on)]
Chronologically:
When I was born, my parents had planned on a girl. This was not uncommon for them, as they had wished for a girl as each of my four brothers was born. Thus (though I was a disappointment), it came as no surprise that they would have to ready a boy's name for me. After ten minutes of arguing, my father won out. I'm quite glad of this, because my mother wanted to name me Andre, and that name does not suit me.
If I had been a girl, I would have been Rose and called Rosalita. I know this because "Rosalita" was painted above my bed for the first ten years of my life.



Shortly after my entrance into kindergarten, the teacher discovered my complete disregard for all forms of education. I built pyramids in math class, ate play-doh in art, doodled in phonics, and practiced writing my name during science. So she did the best thing any teacher has ever done for me. She left me alone.
This may come as a shock to the school board of my elementary, but I was not formally taught from November until April of my first year of school. After Mrs. Hartman discovered my precocious ability to read, she unleashed me on the classroom library and gave up on me. During that time, I learned no math, no social studies, and no art. But I learned that volcanoes form at thin spots in the earth's crust. I learned that scientists take years to unearth dinosaur skeletons. I learned that Roman Caesars were the reason why the calendar was so difficult to memorize. I learned other things, too, like how to jump off a swingset at the peak of its arch, how to hide from pursuers in hide-and-seek, and how to avoid being tripped by second graders on the playground. But I never quite learned the curriculum. I loved it.

At the age of ten, I developed a nasty streak. This is one of the types of secrets that people quietly say to others to gain their confidence, even though it was years ago and everyone accepts that what happened at seven doesn't matter. I digress.
Due to my dynamic personal magnetism (I joke), I had no friends. I started hanging out with a few other boys in the fifth grade who were better looking, richer, and more popular than I was. I suppose the proper term for me was lackey or stooge. Stooge is a fun word to say. Pity you're reading it. Try saying it out loud. Being a stooge wasn't so bad--I had personal protection, popularity, and a place. Those all accidentally alliterated. Is that a word, alliterated? It is now. The problem with being a stooge was that I had to do my masters' bidding. If Tim said "jump," I asked "How high?" If Guillermo (he hated that, so we all called him Gilly, but I'm taking my revenge however I can) demanded a lunch trade, I took his tuna sandwich, no matter how soggy. And, as sorry as I am to say it, if Alejandro said "Let's pick on this third grader," I stood behind the kid to make sure he didn't run away. When I was fifteen and started to realize that I was an insufferable fool at the age of ten, I tried to reason my actions away as the folly of youth. Youth is another fun word to say. Try it now. I like the sound of my own voice maybe too much.
In any case, at fifteen, I decided that I had to fix my life. My father made it easier for me by getting a new job in a new city. I went to a new high school. No more Gillermo, no more Alejandro, no more Tim. New troubles, though. My new school was full of people, but none of them knew or cared about me. I withdrew into my schoolwork and really applied myself in that weird "if I can't win at popularity, I'll make my own victory" sort of way. I became a teacher's pet. I had no friends on the weekends. I never had long calls on the weekends with friends who wanted to talk about the latest episode of our favorite t.v. show.

This was not my preference.

At about this time, I first started regretting my complete lack of relational experience with women. I read too many books and watched too many movies about love to not want some for my own. This will sound stupid, but I chose a girl to fall for. Her name was Emery and she was pretty enough. I had no idea who she was. All I knew is that she was in my classes and we were destined for each other. We talked a few times on accident. Our conversations ended after seconds in awkward silence. I decided to apply myself to our relationship as I had with schoolwork. After building my courage to a fever pitch - a process of months - I asked her on a date. She said no.
I won't describe my emotional situation because it's laughable how melodramatic I was at sixteen. In any case, I learned some valuable things from that experience: books are easier than girls because they don't run away, and girls are worth more than books because they're challenging.
Looking back at what I just wrote, that looks so weird that I would write that. I'm going to leave it because it's true, not because it's good. If I took out all the true and left only the good, this would be a short story indeed.

Last year, I got to college. It's pretty nice here. I found a friend because I started sitting with people at lunch, randomly. It seems ok here. In high school, I would have been skinned. I now have a very insular group of close acquaintances. We only hang out on weekends, but it's enough for me. I finally have people who have my back no matter what. I've missed that my entire life. It's comforting to know I'm not alone.
During my freshman year, I developed my first real romance with my lab partner in biology.
I have erased the next sentence of my story at least twenty times. There is no easy way to say things, sometimes. This is the sort of secret you don't tell people unless you really need them to know. This is the sort of secret that hurts.

I really fell for this girl. She doesn't get a name because you might meet her someday. She was all the things I like and none of the things I hate and I became so happy in her that I forgot to be happy in me. This is weird to write down. I was pretty sure she was the only woman I would ever love. I don't know if that was an accurate prediction for the same reason as I don't know if I was actually in love: having never experienced it before, what frame of reference could I have?
I'm defending myself instead of telling my story. I apologize.
This hurts to say, but you deserve to know. Have you ever seen the color of a sunset after a storm when all the clouds are still on the horizon and the entire sky is a blood red bruised purple crushed crushing black? That's what I felt like after I she told me she wasn't ready for a relationship and she ran away, despite all the indications of our overwhelming awesomeness.
I don't toy with hypotheticals or blame anymore. I got over that months ago. But what I do know is that I will have a lot of trouble trusting again.
That terrifies me.

This corner of my autobiography is dark. Forget it until you need it.

I had a favorite food for years (strawberries) until I ate at a really excellent Thai restaurant and then an Indian restaurant and then a Lebanese place and now I'm finding out that I like food in general.

I used to have a favorite book and then I turned six and started reading.

I used to have a favorite color until I realized I only liked it because it was my friend's favorite.

I would have more favorites, but favorites are for kids and I'm just learning how to be one again.

I'm not funny unless I work at it. I suspect this is true for everyone I know. Sadly, I am not smart unless I work at it. This is not true for everyone. I am always on the south side of handsome, even if I work at it. This is a tragedy and also a blessing. I'm never handsome, but at least I don't have to try very hard to be so.

Finally: I met a girl who knows my friend and I realized she was a lot smarter than she let on in class. She watched the back of my neck a lot and then I asked for her autobiography. I do solemnly swear I want nothing to do with her skin, nor have I ever wanted to skin anybody. Ever.

This I do affirm.

--Marco