A Fourteen Year Old Takes Notes

By Navya Kumar

I. You have. a gift. 

hear the kettle. 7:00. turn off the heater. swear when it burns you. turn onto your stomach. stars in your socks. watch the 8 stages of psychosocial. development. wonder. spit mint into the sink. hear the oven beep. recall the eggs on the counter. become a modern prophet. suck your teeth. 

run your tongue over scabbing. drink flat water. there are three. नमतेमेरेबेटे/ where's your beanie / seinfeld. 

Now, I know: how do they not know? But they don’t. 

II. With that comes a duty 

two for one. break the world-record on saturday night. rock on your heels. the door opens. you know 50 kinds of footsteps. creak #15 means the boys are here. chug soda until your wires sparkle. do the dishes. try not to flinch when the wet peanut butter licks up your hands. there are two others. invisible blisters. appointed liaison. admitted to Stanford. admitted to every single intellectual project there is. 

on mornings where taking your medication sounds awful, put the pills in the front pocket of your parachute pants for later. 

Don’t waver. Continue. Endure. Every day.

III. Do not showcase it as a burden. 

notice the ratio of balsamic to pomegranate has shifted. frown at frown. there are three more scratches on the chair. no there aren’t. no there isn't. bite your cheek. taste iron. turn off the kitchen light. it is burning into corneas. dig your fingers into your neck. feel the vinyl of your captain america: brave new world shirt. claw off your own skin. no.. no. shift in your seat. there are 17 here. 

and their mouths never cease. everything twists in the eyes of the youth. air conditioning is in 4 vents in this closet. the door has jingled nineteen times. the woman two booths down taps her boot heels. sets and sets of silverware fall somewhere. shove fingers over cartilage. shut the bathroom door. rock. rock. rehearse erik erikson until you can feel your chest moving. walk back. the world is vibrating. what what. try to speak. fail to move your lips. 

now, realize that you are an other 

IIII. Be less dramatic. Do not fuss. 

sunglasses are life savers. sometimes it's dark lenses in the restaurant. fluorescents make your temples ache like cicadas. sometimes your curtains don't open all day. if they can't see you, you don't have to see them. how can you hear better staring at the ceiling. crumbs burn into your palms. rub back and forth until they buzz. the tv keeps flashing. clap your hands without noticing. the sound is snapping. crawl into your room and turn off all the lights. 

sweater keeps falling onto your thighs. your hips buck against it. fold up the back of your bra once so it doesn't soak up sweat. kick the car floor when beads slide down your back. fingers on your shoulder make you want to take a carrot peeler to it all. skin to skin feels like a nail through tissue. if they call you a cripple then spit in their face 

You are not just different, you are an other

IIIII. I know you have an incredibly powerful mind. 

do algebra two for 6 hours straight. try not to cry when you have to move. forget water until the second alarm rings and makes you wince. there’s eggs at brunch. eating when your brain says no makes you feel physically ill. tuberculosis meningitis can still present in the lymph nodes. sometimes you forget you have legs. move and suddenly feel like floating. curse the proprioceptive deficit. run as hard as you can and soak impact into the soles of your soul. rock but do it indescript. 

the swing chains rattle too loud but you have sanitized earbuds. 

call it a headache when you can't stop seeing. call it anemia when that man has smacked his lips 34 times in the last half hour. your arms are too long and your legs are too short. you can't stop bumping into the walls. you can't just navigate. molasses. try not to scream. shake your hands like a mad woman when nobody can see. maybe you're too big. or too small. 

your otherness will always affect your actions and accomplishments, for better or for worse. 

IIIIII. It hurts me to see you waste your potential 

you never feel hungry unless you are in between tasks. the light in the living room reflects on your laptop and it makes you shift. you're going to blackout and so you take a nap. malls make you nauseous. you don't understand anything when you're with other girls. the chatter is too bright and there are 600 hundred individual laughs and shoes against tile. you start to cry. when you get scolded for your unnecessary headphones you lash out like a sick dog. 

purse your lips and try to smile. you can tell what a man does for work by his shoes. the mud that's caked on them is from 3.8 days ago. you can see everything. you are omnipotent. too little for too much. you can't stop seeing. the hum off the fridge hits like a trucker. denim against your thighs sets a fire. the school polo is a million squirming larvae.

This is all unfair, I know, but you can’t give up. 

IIIIIII. I know you're not weak. So don't act like it. 

the soft buzz of the hanging lights makes this kitchen island battleground look more like a stage. why is my brain so much crueler than my body. I am convinced I am just pretending to be ill. to live in a constant state of mind. almost always is always different. the thing about being gifted is that every action has its equal opposite reaction. take in subtle jabs and return broad smiles. drag 

a finger along your veins until it hurts. the world without my ear protectors. sunglasses. meds. and the dimness of my desk. 

continue. endure. every. single. day. 

address the pitiful irony of your situation. 

but know. 

you cannot truly live by ignoring such a significant part of your gift

By Navya Kumar