**Read it all the way through, guys...or if not all the way through, skip to the last paragraph...it's a matter of national security. Okay, maybe not national security, but just do it, okay? For me...**
So I'm currently re-reading my favorite book of all time. Tess of the D'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy. I read it for the first time in high school, then again in college sometime, and this is my third time to read it. When I picked it up a few days ago, I honestly could not remember what it was about...I remembered that somehow, Tess becomes a scorned woman early on in the book, and I'm still not clear on what the outcome is (don't worry, I wouldn't give it away if I could remember). Anyway, I just came upon a passage that really struck me because I do almost the exact same thing. (Just a warning, I'm letting you all in on a slightly darker side of Kelly...can you handle it?) I'll quote the passage here:
"She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year: the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say 'It is the--th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died'; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season, or year."
Perhaps it is not so uncommon for us to recall anniversaries. We do it all the time, throw parties to commemorate dates of weddings, births, a first kiss, the births of famous people (Oh blessed day when George Washington was supposedly born! Sometimes, we get to take off of work and school just to celebrate!!), and the joyful union of the Native Americans and the Puritans (I don't know...I just felt like throwing that in there). Anyway, the point is, I imagine that it's not so crazy to think "What was I doing this time last year? Oh, I was just starting my final fall semester in graduate school", or more specifically, "I was sitting in my aunt and uncle's living room, glued to the televised coverage of Hurricane Katrina, wondering if I should hijak a bus, drive it the five hours down I-10 to New Orleans, and pick up a bunch of stranded lives, when I suddenly realized that if I did that, I would probably be kicked off the bus and end up stranded on the side of I-10 while the people I went there to save drove off without me...that would suck!" Or less specifically, "I was struggling to get over a broken heart", or "I was making daily trips to the hospital to visit my grandfather, who would die two months later," or "I was beginning to look for internships in New York," or "I was beginning to talk to Maria about her wedding plans." This happens to me all the time...I'm constantly looking back, pondering the dates, doing my own little personal "This Date in History". Less frequently, the thought will cross my mind that: "Today is August 30...I wonder if some day, somebody will be saying 'This is the day that Kelly died, five years ago.'" Morbid, huh? Does anyone else do that? It's just funny because I don't remember when I first started doing that, and as I was reading my book, I found myself wondering "Man, I have read this book three times now, and each time, I forget what it's about...what if I read this passage the first time and thought 'Yeah, huh, interesting...', and started doing it after that?"
It reminds me of some time in junior high or high school, I was really taken by the kids at school who didn't act like anybody else (sometimes didn't even like anyone else), but still seemed to fit in somehow. I thought they were the coolest kids in school because they marched to the beat of their own drum, but still managed to convince the popular kids that they deserved to be respected. So I made a decision right then and there that I would strive, for the rest of my life, to NOT be normal. Yes, I decided to be a weird-o. The only thing was that I didn't have the imagination to do it right. I didn't know how to be weird...I would never have convinced my parental units to buy me the really out-there clothes (although I admit, I did wear those horrible Cross Colors jeans...black denim with one pocket green, the other yellow, the other red, the other orange...sometimes paired along with a red Guess t-shirt), and even if they had bought them for me, I never would have had the guts to wear them. My hair was dirty blond, straight, with bangs, and again, I never would have gotten permission to cut it funny, or dye it any strange colors, and truthfully, I just didn't have the desire to do that (plus, I didn't have a rebellious bone in my body). Well, so I didn't figure out until college what it meant to be purposefully abnormal. I struggled through high school to fit in, never quite made it, and then in college, I started listening ONLY to Broadway show tunes. That was definitely NOT NORMAL. Everyone admitted it...I had achieved weird. Pat myself on the back. I adored my show tunes...especially Rent. I got everyone in my dorm room hooked, though never quite to the same extent as I was hooked...they still liked to listen to Puff Daddy (not yet P-Diddy), Third Eye Blind, Usher (You Make Me Wanna...), Aaliyah, Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys and N'Sync. Anyway, it just got worse from there. I was hooked to my showtunes, couldn't lay off of them, went through withdrawals when I didn't have them, and that was it. Now, this wasn't the only way that I was abnormal, but we don't have to get into all the nitty gritty. Let's just say that subconsciously, I achieved the goal I had made years earlier to become one of those people who didn't quite do it like everybody else did it (not only did I not do it like everyone else did, but I didn't not do it the same way others who didn't do it did), but I still fit in. Because I had an awesome group of girls around me...Maria, Mel, Ceci, Tara, Ali, even Veronica at that point (I know a lot of you don't know who these people are, but for those of you who doknow , YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT!). I had the best friends in the whole world, and I suddenly understood that those in high school whose approval I ached for every day and night were just a blip in this book of my life...those are not the people who will say "This day five years ago, Kelly left us."
Why did I turn this from a morbid self-analysis based on my favorite book to an essay on the horrors of high school and finding yourself? I don't really know...maybe because I'm currently watching my little brother go through this same torture within the same walls that I did, and my heart goes out to him. So Stephen, honey...this is for you! And I want all of you who read this to post a comment with encouraging words of wisdom, maybe even a little story or anecdote of your own high school horrors, for my little brother, okay? Apparently, he doesn't smile enough, and I think this will be just the remedy for him.
Love y'all!!