Too young for poems

Ochaena's mother had been born blind. She'd never liked books and had passed that on to her daughter, who was now being forced to write a book report. In order to do that, she'd need to read one, something she rarely did.

Whenever a teacher encouraged her to do so she'd shamelessly say; "I'm too busy with my napping and eating." The teacher would cluelessly respond; "I'm sure you can fit in some reading instead of lazing around your house.". Normally, she was a respectful kid. Her grades were good enough that the teachers were surprised by her lack of love for literature. On days like these she was usually in a bad mood, and it showed. "Sleeping is extremely helpful. Most of the teachers I've spoken to agree that school should start later as it's been proven that teachers don't learn much when they're sleep-deprived. Since you don't seem to care about my health, I've been trying to take matters into my own hands.". The teacher would scold her for being rude, she'd apologize, and all would be forgiven.

Her teacher's instructions had been extremely vague. Ms. Blaike was a middle aged woman. She was blonde like most teachers Ochaena had seen. She'd acknowledged that most elementary school teachers were white females. She was now in middle school and was still yet to have a male teacher for homeroom. "Pick any book you can find.", She'd smiled at Ochaena as she'd said this as if mocking her. It was unlikely Ms. Blaike had said this with any malice. Especially since Ochaena was her favourite student. Ochaena, of course, knew this and still she saw this as a battle.

The librarian was a male, and she was surprised by this. In all the shows, movies and libraries she'd entered, the librarian was of the opposite sex. She began considering checking out a book on subconscious gender biases. That would surely impress her teacher, to see an 11-year-old interested in such a matter. She only considered it for a second because she was not. (Interested in such a matter, that is). The library was extremely large, yet organized. She found herself struggling to find her way to the non-fiction section. She'd run into a library volunteer, but her makeup and tallness overwhelmed Ochaena. Her prepubescent self could not stand to get close to a put together high schooler.

She found the non-fiction section after taking three steps to her left. Her white Air-Forces creasing because of all the walking she was doing. She refused to bend down to look at the lowest shelf as her shirt was just the slightest bit short, and she didn't feel the need to show the world her underwear. She pulled up her ripped jeans which were too large at the waist. Her mother had warned her to wear longer shirts and now she could see why. With any other of her pants the shirt would have been fine, but as her luck would have it, they were all dirty.

She was immediately drawn to the adult topics. They enticed her and she knew it was only because they felt forbidden. She saw poetry and sad tales of mostly women, or comical autobiographies. A title caught her eye: "When I walk through that door, I am". She could tell what it was about, though her mother probably wouldn't think she did. Most kids her age knew more about dark social matters than the adults thought, but she felt rather clever as she opened the book. No one had ever bad-mouthed her for being cocky, but she felt that her ego inflated too quickly. She always felt the smallest victories to be significant and could go from insecure to proud in a matter of milliseconds. That's why she made sure to burst her own bubble before anyone else could. It was easy since she deflated even faster than she inflated.

She got half-way through it and only stopped because she didn't want to cry in the library. As a child, Ochaena had been one heck of a crier. Her father was constantly complaining about how loud she'd been. She continued to be a crier until 2 years ago, when she'd become more aware of the world. She'd learned how to cry silently, and how to walk to the washroom as to not draw attention to herself. She was constantly enraged by the tiniest of mistakes, so she meditated often. Her practice of hiding her emotions was useful while reading the book. There was one kid, most likely eight, and an adult sitting on both sides of her. She wasn't sure who would embarrass her more. The adult babying her or the kid's insensitivity. She decided she'd rather face the kid. If she felt a tear run down her cheek, she'd turn to his side.

It was painful to know the book was of a true story. That so many immigrants are being treated as criminals by the government while the people in power raped immigrant women and tore children away from their parents. She knew that she couldn't write about it. That her teacher would judge her for even knowing the words sexual assault. She didn't want to be judged or be spoken down to by an adult trying to steer her towards books "suitable for her age". She rushed towards the staircase and took a long glance at the non-fiction section before heading to the top floor. Her mother had always said she was dramatic. She chuckled to herself thinking about how awkward it would have been if someone had noticed her glancing at the poetic non-fiction book on the stairs. She had been looking at it the way one looks at a dying loved one.

The second floor was quiet, quieter than the previous floor. It was brighter too. The windows were grand and the curtains drawn. The late spring sun beaming at her. It was a light without heat and there was a gentle breeze in the library, (though it may have been the A.C). The sun was so bright that the lights were off. As she picked out a fiction fantasy novel, she realised that she didn't truly hate reading. She'd simply only been allowed books like the one in her hand which made things up that she didn't care about, or the solely educational ones. She checked the fantasy novel out, wrote a report on it and got an A-. That day, she promised herself that she'd go back for "When I walk through that door, I am". Even if she needed to wait until high school for it. Ochaena had been woken, that day, at the library. Her new year's resolution became to read more of the author's books.