October 2019

A few weeks ago, I was kneading bread and thinking about capitalism.

As October rolls into motion at UVA, I’m reminded of all the reasons my heart soars when the seasonal clock strikes fall. Yellow leaves on Rugby Road outline the branches they dare to escape from, and Lawn rooms stacked with firewood hint at wiggling toes against crackling fireplaces. The air tastes fresh like bus stop breaths on elementary school mornings and feels crisp like a farmer’s market apple. I’ve always been partial to fall. If the seasons were cups of porridge, I think it’s safe to say that even Goldilocks would be satisfied with autumn.

Ten Years Old. Before even walking into the store, I am hit by the scent of Abercrombie & Fitch “Fierce” wafting into the mall. My fifth-grade mind had learned to associate this smell with attractive men shirtless on the beach, and preppy clothing galore. The smell of cardamom and citrus becomes even more pungent as I enter, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and taking in the upbeat pop music. It’s the definition of sensory overload. Before the obnoxiously attractive guy at the door can ask if I need any help, my friend already has her arm loaded with clothes to try on.

You will be asked one question when your house drops in Oz.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Witches’ allegiances are straightforward in The Wizard of Oz (1939). It’s safe to assume that green-faced women commanding monkey armies will steal your shoes and kill your dog, while human Peeps who travel in pink bubbles and sing to munchkins will, well, not. Every child knows “only bad witches are ugly.”

A Carolina Chickadee sat at the bird feeder, unable to see through the one-way glass. Though I was unseen on the other side, I would hold my breath anyway. Papa received magazines every month for arbitrary gardening and home tools, and for my granny’s birthday, she specifically asked for a special window bird feeder and a soft toilet lid with carpeted flowers on it. My great-uncle, Kit, had nearly broken the window to get it in, but somehow managed to rig the feeder into place.

you did not make it quick. 

There was no knife to scrape my bones, 

—no knife to puncture my flesh,

It was bruises, it was blue, it was black,

It was ugly. 

My wounds sank deep, pinning me in my plot 

They twisted my insides, turned my stomach to stone.

jagged rock jutting from flesh,

Not marble—nor onyx, but coarse, unsightly grey.

The crudeness, the cruelty of my body hidden.

For I am murdered!—yet you live.

you and your brothers like you—the blameless, the named

My nickname in my friend group is “the emotional toilet.” Not really the most glamorous of nicknames. Essentially it refers to my tendency to become someone for the people in my life (mostly men) to vent to and drop their emotional baggage on without expecting the favor to be returned. I’ve always prided myself on being a good listener and trying to help people solve their issues. Being needed can be addicting sometimes, but there’s a fine line between helping someone and trying to “fix” them. It’s an issue that I am aware of and working on, but I wonder, how did I get here?

Redheads, of course, are not like other girls. In literature (and just maybe in life), red hair is an encoded promise to deliver the heroine from standard girlhood; it guarantees a life worth telling, implying that most girls’ are not. Redheaded heroines are witty, undaunted, independent, and bold, qualified for narrative-worthy lives which “other girls” can’t access.

As I begin my journey into womanhood, I find things such as starting a family crossing my mind more and more. I think: When do I want to start having children? How many do I want? How much time does that give me to plan my own life and career?

1. What color sweater are you wearing?

a. Vibrant colors like red or yellow…they are aesthetic af with the falling leaves

b. Neutrals like brown or grey

c. Darker shades like blue or purple or green

d. Black…always black

2. Go-to Starbucks drink?

a. **PSL**

b. Hot chocolate/macchiato/anything warm, really

c. I’m only here for a snack tbh…slide me a cheese danish plz

d. Black coffee…or maybe a tea…and maybe a cookie…

The memory of writing my first ever short story is clearly etched in my mind. I remember the setting (an elementary school), the characters (a class of third graders) and the conflict (a radioactive lizard, loose in the classroom). I also remember that all of the characters in that first story, and in my next dozen, were all white.