Embrace Me

Embrace Me

   This is Alaska. Not that Alaska-country you might be thinking of, but it's me—Alaska. My dad wanted to name me Alex, and my mom insisted it should be Alaska, the place from which their love story has started. I'm their first, so that explains everything. 

   I'm a boisterous girl. Not only that, but I like to rebel sometimes (correction: most of the time). With my parents I am just Alaska—Alaska the cute child, Alaska the polite, Alaska the ambitious. They are as if living with another Alaska who is probably not me (adopted, I guess). As long as I am playing the role of the kind version of me, I can go wrecking the world outside as much as I want to. It's the advantage that I get from being a good actor. 

   School is boring without the action I bring into, and it's a talent to create a chaos without getting caught. I got caught once anyway, just for stealing some fancy assignment papers from some clumsy girl. Leaving my spot clean is what has helped me stay in that high school. 

   The twelfth grade is a decisive level that kind of looks like a choice between life or death. If I had the chance, I would choose death. School is difficult. I barely pull the years to pass to the next grade. That's one of my concerns. Beth will help me, I'm sure of this. As she does always—pass me her exam paper, does my assignments, and cover my absences. She is a real friend. 

   Beth or Elsa, like most people like to call her, has been my BFF for almost a decade. She is incredibly genius, which is somehow unusual she has a friend like me. Our friendship is all based on the “take and take” principle. I take my assignment, and she takes her money. It's not that we’re only friends with benefits, we actually do more than that. We hang out sometimes outside school, if that really counts. 

   I have never had a gang or been in one, yet my group of people is everywhere. A rebellious girl like me can create her own union. Not that hard. I call my strategy, “ride the reins.” I tell people what they want to hear, and they do what I want. It always works.

   Johnny, a boy I met last year, has been very helpful. He brought me a leather jacked I liked the other day. Even though it was stolen, I wore it, bragging about how expensive it might be. He’s like my third hand. I asked him once to tell Susie how ugly she is, and without a surprise he told her right away.

   “Hey! What’s up, bitch?” I waved across the classroom for Beth. She has been sitting head over her book for quite a while, trying to solve whatever hell is the problem. As she says nothing, I stealthily approach her, setting up my mind to tease her for a little bit.

   “Come on Beth, just look at me.” she raises her head, and a glimmer of a tear is residing in her eye. Why is she crying? I have never seen her like this. She has never been a crier. There has to be something going on. That tear has me thinking about all the years we have had together without me being her true friend. I have used her to get what I want, and I have never listened to her feelings, her concerns, or anything of that sort. I'm a bad person, I've thought to myself while the feeling of guilt has petrified me. What have I done?

   I don’t want anyone to see my tears. Hurriedly I rush to the toilet and hide my pathetic tears. I wasn’t as brave as to open up about the whole friendship story. I wasn’t even brave enough to face my own. Is it because I'm oblivious of how to treat the people around me, or am I helpless to understand the real me?

   On that cold toilet floor, I have bundled myself like a fetus burying my face into my arms. I'm a loser and everyone hates me. I'm selfish. How could I use Beth, the kind Beth, to numb my pains? Perhaps my parents haven’t done much to behave me. I can't blame them. Not many people have cared to point out my mistakes. Maybe I'm stubborn enough that they have lost hope in me. Beth is a good person, and she deserves a better friend—a friend who can pat her back when she cries. But this friend should not be me.

   I have heard a sound coming from behind me. I can identify it. It's Jessica's, the one I bullied in the fifth grade. She must have hated me ever since. But why she is patting my back now? She should have taken her revenge. Perhaps I'm the only one to hold that much of grudge towards everyone.

   My tears have betrayed me in front of her, and for a moment I have wished to die or be buried alive.

   “Are you okay?” she asks me. Why is she being nice? I nod, pretending that I don't need her sympathy. However, I really do need that affection the most. Few seconds later she leaves the restroom, and I continue my sobbing.

   This is what I have turned into—a monster. I go back home, and my heart is half crumbled. Feeling like I'm out of my awareness, I move my eyes as if a camera speculating every member of my family. Perfect, a thought crosses my mind. Do I belong with them? Or am I just a stranger walking by? My little brother, Adrian, is playing with his toys. Seeing him laughing feels like the first time. Have I ever been a sister for him or a passing shadow?

   Mom and dad are a beautiful couple. They love and forgive each other, and they share everything with each other. Looking at them is like watching a romantic movie. I love how their relationship is going very perfectly, except that I don’t believe in perfection. I'm the kind of child who might have ruined this. Maybe I don’t belong in here. I'm more repulsive and driven compared to my little brothers.

   I remember once I burned my mother’s wedding gown and blamed Adrian for that. Even though I was little, I knew he would not be punished because basically he was two years old at that time. I regret blaming him. It was a foolish thing to do. My mom, though, found out about the whole lie. The rope of lies is short, that’s what I believe.

   “Eat something, Alex?” my mom asks me while I'm slumbering in my reveries. I'm swimming away from everything that scares me. I hate it when people ask me what to do or what I want. I remain silent as my mother waits for an answer she won’t find. “Leave me alone!” I shout at her and storm to my room.

   A few years back my relationship with my mom was more like a friendship. We were very close till one day—the day that turned my life topsy-turvy.

   My mom was my secret keeper. I told her about the time I got embarrassed in front of my classmates and lost my words and the time I pooped on myself in the third grade and the time I stole a backpack from a girl and the so many little secrets. I trusted her. I believed she would never hurt me. But she did.

   I'm black like my father, and the rest of my family, however, are white. My mom used to say I'm beautiful, and that everyone will love me even if I have a dark skin. She lied. She lied to me. No one liked me. I bullied them all because no one deserves my attention. They rejected my skin so I hated them all.

   Some people may think I'm insane. The thing is I hated my mom, too, because she is one of them. I haven’t had a normal conversation with her ever since I told her about those bullies and she said, as if carelessly, that it might be because of my dark skin. I abhorred that moment and those words. The only person I thought I could look up to was also discriminating me by my color. Now I can’t see in her eyes nor pretend everything is okay.

   “Alaska, please talk to me,” my mom says behind the door. I don’t answer her pleadings. Not because I don’t want to, but my voice is barely heard from sobbing. “Go away!” I shout with a cracking voice. Who will care now after everything has been shattered?

   I love my dad much more than my mom. Perhaps that has to do with the skin color. For a split of a second the thought of me being the racist myself is agonizing. How can I love my dad and don’t love my mom anymore because of a skin color?

   My mom loves me. I'm sure of that, yet my anger has grown so much that I'm not able to notice her loving-self.

   Sitting in my bed I take a sheet of paper and pour all the hatred and the confusion I have bottled up for almost three years. That’s what I do—write when I feel scared to hear my stuttering voice:

   Dear my ruined life,

 I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have blamed my mom for such stuff. It was a stupid thing to do. I'm feeling bad. Vey bad!

 I love you mom. I really do. I love my brothers, too. Perhaps I'm the racist. I took the words you said to me very personally. I was scared and agitated, and I didn’t know what to do back then. Young I was, my foolish brain duped me. I thought if I stepped away from you and the people who were bullying me, I would grow stronger. It's not the case. I'm feeling weak and broken. I feel like I'm a deserted home. No one wants to be friends with a freak like me. Not even Beth.

 Beth is an amazing girl, but I used her as I always do. I tricked her to take her money and make her do my assignments for me. I threatened to expose her little secret if she didn’t do my homework. She trusted me on her secret, and I used it to get what I want.

 Back then she told me that her parents were divorced and now she lives with her grandma. She had no other choice. Her father sexuality assaulted her and her mother abandoned her.

 I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have used her insecurities for that. I'm stupid. She is a pretty girl with a very soft milky skin. I hated that she’s white, and I'm not. Why was I jealous of her? I thought she is like them. I thought she would bully me for being black. But she didn’t. I did. I did use her. I'm ashamed.

 Johnny, I'm really sorry. I spoiled you with my freakish influence. I shouldn't have teased you for being the nerdy boy in the sixth grade. I made you do things that didn’t look like you. I swayed you to be a different person—a person with no morals like me. I encouraged you to steal and curse and manipulate people. My biggest regret was taking advantage of your calm and loving personality. If I could go back in time and fix my broken-self before everything, I would. I would never wanna hurt you Johnny. Never.

 Jessica, I'm sorry, too, for bullying you. Really sorry. 

 Mom, it's not your fault that I'm a stubborn girl. I was foolish to think you loved my two brothers more than me.

 With regret,

 Me

   After writing this page, I hold it for a minute, contemplating about the many mistakes I did. Why am I like that? What I have tuned into? Asking these kinds of questions is useless now. I need to do something. Downstairs I hurry with ecstasy to hug Adrian and call out for mom and say out loud, “I love you, mom.” Her eyes sparkle with joy, and her smile reveals every bit of happiness. It's time to embrace me, I have thought as I'm hugging Adrian and staring at my baby brother's crib.