My First Book, page 5
I hadn’t seen Piggy in months, not since he got his name on the list, not since he got himself canceled. Not since he dropped out and moved uptown. I know I won’t be seeing him anytime soon, not because of what he did, but because of what he has refused to do since.
Before you ask what he did and give me that look, that woman-to-woman thing, that strong, knowing wide-eyed look of MSNBC solidarity, that nod and tight-lipped smile, let me tell you that he was my best friend. Before you tell me that no matter what he did it wasn’t my fault, let me tell you there’s a small BIG chance he might not even have done it. Let me tell you there’s a much bigger chance that it might kind of be my fault. It either happened or it didn’t at the country house. There was a game of Wii Sports Tennis involved. Apparently allegedly he hurt her. I didn’t care or didn’t want to care or cared too much and didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t support her or call him out or yell or fight or tweet. I did nothing. I’m a girl, so I’m allowed to be paralyzed with fear and use it as an excuse. That’s what I did. That’s what he did. That’s what she did. That makes you mad. Me too. I get it. Time’s up. Aren’t we supposed to be mad? Isn’t it time to be mad?
I’m mad tonight. I’m mad because I’m dripping wet. I’m mad because Piggy is like Jack and Jack is like Roger and Roger is like Piggy and boys will be boys and I will never be a boy. I’m mad because Piggy won’t let us up, won’t buzz us in, won’t acknowledge the fact that he is the same as the boys in the rain yelling up at his window. I’m mad because of whatever Roger did and because of whatever Piggy did and because of what I know I will one day let Jack do to me. I’m mad because when it happens I won’t even care. I’m mad because I care about Jack and Roger and because Piggy hates that I care. He texts me from up there, under those high ceilings and that crown molding, and asks me if this is the hill I will die on. I tell him yes. I will die on any hill, because at least then I will be dead.
I yell until Jack and Roger stop yelling. I yell for a long time. I yell until nothing happens, because nothing ever happens, but it feels good anyways.
SORRY! WAS THE PRESENT TENSE ANNOYING? DO THESE CAPITAL LETTERS BOTHER YOU? SO SORRY!
“I should be able to play any person, tree, or animal,” says Scarlett Johannsen, before issuing a formal apology. It seems like everyone is apologizing these days. When someone is canceled, it means we are done with them. They can yell and scream and share their opinions as much as they want, but we are done hearing them. We will close our post-war windows and leave them in the rain. If they want to be heard again, they need to apologize. Then, we will crack open our windows and listen. We’ve done it again and again. If the apology is good, if we think they’re a true artist, if they’re fun at parties, then we will buzz them in.
Kanye said, “I’m a bit sleepy tonight but when I wake up I’m going death con 3 On JEWISH PEOPLE. The funny thing is I actually can’t be Anti Semitic because black people are actually Jew also You guys have toyed with me and tried to black ball anyone whoever opposes your agenda,” then he said sorry. Offset said “Pinky ring crystal clear, 40k spent on a private Lear/60k solitaire/I cannot vibe with queer,” then he said sorry. Joan Didion voted Republican. Hillary voted to invade Iraq. I voted for Hillary. I bet you did too. Did we say sorry? Did we mean it? Does it matter?
I wish there was some sort of chart that would help me determine when saying sorry matters. The y-axis could be “damage done.” The x-axis could be “sincerity of the apology.”
We could draw a line together and see if it matters. We could pick the apologies we are most confused about. We can use pencil and do it right here, right now. That would feel so good, but it would be too easy.[*] Sorry, there are just too many other factors.[*] Sorry, but we would need another little chart to determine the damage done and yet another one to determine the sincerity, which, maybe damage and sincerity are not even important factors. I say sorry all the time. Most of us raised as girls[*] say sorry all the time. It’s the way we survive or the way we are taught to survive. It feels good. Maybe this is because I love surviving or maybe it’s because I love apologizing. I know that I love to feel good, morally and physically. I know that feeling good doesn’t matter, that helping other people feel good is what matters, but helping others feel good feels so good. Does that matter? Most of my sorrys don’t matter. Let me tell you about that time I really apologized.
The Story of That Time I Really Apologized
I was on the radio when I said the thing I am saying sorry for. It was college radio, internet campus radio, no one was listening, but still. I do not know if I meant it when I said it. But I do know that I am sorry and I mean it.
The topic of the show was controversial opinions. I was drunk and brazen and I said a lot of stuff.[*] I said some stuff that requires a trigger warning and on air, with a sneer in my voice, I said, “Trigger Warning.”
I was drunk,[*] but I could see the hosts’ eyes flash. Their eyes said “Be careful,” and this made me angry. I didn’t want to be careful. I was so tired of being careful. I said, “Trigger warnings trigger me.”[*] I was trying to be clever.[*] I told the hosts and our one listener that although I don’t think trigger warnings are censorship, I do think they encourage self-censorship. I told them that self-censorship is counterrevolutionary[*] and anti-academic. I told them that I came to college to be as revolutionary and as academic as possible. I told them I then realized that there is no way to be both academic and revolutionary. I told them that trigger warnings trigger me because they remind me of all that. I don’t know why I sneered. I was being sincere.
I wanted to tell them that I have a lot of trouble saying this is like that because these days like practically means is. In my opinion, catcalling is not like assault, protests are not like revolution, and shock is not like fear.
Apologizing feels so right. We are all hurting. We are all hurting each other. When I’m at a party and I look across the room I can see everyone holding their red Solo cups and hurting. When I look out the window at the boys in the rain, I can see that they’re hurting too. When I said sorry, I meant it. I didn’t mean I’m sorry for what I said. I meant I’m sorry that I hurt you.
Now What?
Apologizing is not like changing, but it is the first step. At least that is how we see it. We see everything set up on a little line, a neat little arrow moving forward, a little x-axis filled with dashes, this leads to this, leads to this, leads to this. Now what? That’s the scariest question. If we have our little arrow, we can answer it. That’s why we say catcalling is like assault (just as reprehensible), protests are like revolution (just as useful), and shock is like fear (just as much worth preventing). A shitty man is not necessarily dangerous, and writing his name onto a Google spreadsheet does not make you a good person. Punishing someone does not always lead to protecting someone else. Feeling unsafe does not mean you are in danger. Conflict does not always lead to abuse. The men yelling at you on the street corner in Bushwick probably do not want to rape you. Being heard and seen is not the same as being understood. Wearing your pink hat and marching against Trump is not going to do anyone any good except you. Awareness does not need to be raised.
Remember, it’s 2019. I’m not asking you to agree with me. In fact, I’d be happier if you didn’t. I’m afraid of self-censorship. I’m afraid we’re all already too afraid of being wrong, of being bad, of being canceled, of having our names written on that list, of being left in the rain.
What I Learned in the Rain
In the rain it was cold and I felt small and stupid. The sky was angry gray and I understood why the boys drank so much and hated so hard. I understood why Piggy refused to fight and why Jack and Roger punched each other in the face for fun. I understood why people were so desperate to stay warm, why they called others out so their own names won’t be called. I understood the urge to denounce, the urge to be right, the urge to have others recognize how right and good you are.
Then I looked around and saw all the others out there with me. I met a microcelebrity.[*] She wasn’t cold. She told me, “If you haven’t been canceled, you don’t exist.” I don’t know if I agree, but it’s alright not to agree when you’re in the rain. You can exist without others knowing it. Silhouettes are people too.
The microcelebrity tweeted, “It’s called being an ‘edgelord’[*] and it’s the most honorable thing you can do with your life.” I would love it if she was right, but I know that a hot take won’t keep you warm at night. I know not to provoke for provocation’s sake. I know hurting people won’t make you feel better. Belief is contagious. That’s what you’ll learn in the rain. I got used to the cold and the wet. I didn’t need to be good or right or part of anything or at the party. The party is boring. Don’t buzz me up. I can come up whenever I want.[*] The silhouettes in the window are just as bad, as good as we are. The roof is leaking. It’s raining everywhere these days.
Shoebox World
I took the Adderall. I took a lot of shit from my ex, Snowball. Then I took some more Adderall and took the class on Marx and took my shit out of Snowball’s room. I like the kind of Adderall with the sugar coating. It must be the kind for kids, the really evil kind, so easy to swallow, so blue, so sweet. When people say they like candy I want to ask them, have you tried Adderall? When people say they like Adderall I want to ask them, have you tried being in love?
For fun, I Google “Marx quotes on fun,” but instead of Karl I get Groucho. He says, “I’m not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.” I’m not crazy about reality either. Neither was Snowball. If he was here now, he would tell me to write that he wasn’t crazy about anything. He was just crazy, overall—but maybe he wasn’t. Truthfully, we made each other crazy, and we knew it, so we had to make our own little universe, with its own little laws where we weren’t, where the way we treated each other was normal. But the upkeep of our private nation, our blossoming society, our new state, our paracosm, our people’s republic was beyond us. He was beyond me and I was beyond him. Reality was somewhere further off.
The psychiatrist asks me if I take pills recreationally. I tell her the truth and the truth is no. I don’t do anything recreationally these days. It’s spring and I’m not in love anymore. Nothing can be fun without him. Nothing that is real can be fun. I take the pills and I feel less real. I take the pills and I work. Work, I know, will set me free. Free from what? I don’t know, but I need to escape. It’s true. Arbeit macht frei.
Before Snowball was Snowball he was my best friend, and we were in Montreal and it was snowing. The only fight we’d ever had was there on that street, with snowballs. He won. We ducked into the warmth of one of those radical bookstores. There were inspiring posters with red blocky text, workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains, and true-believing poseurs with red blotchy cheeks. what if the revolution started right here, right now? When I look back and I remember how cold it was and how young I was, I wonder what if it had? What if the revolution had started right then, right there? With him holding my hand, whispering in my ear, Mollie I have to tell you something.
What?
I actually love you.
I was so cold and so happy and so young and all I could think was, what if we built a snowman? What if we dropped out of school and ran away? What if we joined the Naxalite–Maoist insurgency? What if we died for the cause? Or first, let’s move to Bushwick. Let’s make a five-year plan. What if you and I built something just the two of us for each other, right here, right now? What if we took a shoebox and made a diorama and shrunk ourselves down small and read our books and snorted our stimulants and made out all night and ate a ton of candy and no one could interrupt us, or tell us that we were unhealthy, or that it would never work, because we were so little and the shoebox was so big.
When there was no pumpkin ice cream at the dining hall or when I didn’t want to go to my 8 a.m. class, Neoliberalism and its Discontents, or when I wasn’t having fun at the party, Snowball would tell me, “Look, Mollie, you can’t always get what you want.” When he couldn’t afford to visit me over Christmas break after all or when he wanted to eat chicken noodle soup or when he wanted me to come straight to his room after class, I would do my best to give him what he wanted. You can’t always get what you want, but when you love someone else, you’ll do anything for them. My parents had done that for me, but his parents apparently had not. I was used to getting what I wanted. He had never gotten what he needed. Maybe I wanted too much from him and maybe he wanted too much from me, but it didn’t feel like want. It felt like need.
I need Adderall. I want my friend who has a prescription to give me the pills for free. He doesn’t and I can’t understand why. He has so many of those orange bottles tucked away behind his socks and Calvin Klein tighty-whities, filled with so many little blue pills that he won’t even take. He tells me, “It doesn’t make sense to give them away for free, when I can make money off of them.” He can sell them to freshmen who will pay double what I pay. He tells me they’re a hot commodity. I tell him to take a fucking class on Marx. I tell him we all have fucking ADHD. I tell him this isn’t fair. I tell him I want it. I tell him I need it. I tell him there’s no difference.
Next step: I want the psychiatrist to write me a prescription for it, or something like it—I’m not picky. She can tell that I want it, but she can’t tell if I need it, so she doesn’t write it and I can’t understand why. It’s her job. She works for Teva Pharmaceutical Industries ($TEVA) and Global Pharmaceuticals, supplying their drugs, filling their pockets, and technically, according to my capitalism brain, she works for me. But apparently she’s afraid that a girl like me, so privileged, so LA, so unhappy with her weight, will use them recreationally, not studiously, not as advised. Maybe she’s right. I don’t really need anything, except oxygen and clean water and around 1,200 calories a day. I want to be loved and I want to have fun and I want to build a snowman, but I don’t need to.
What the hell does recreationally even mean?
I tell my friend I need them. My homework is not labor. I don’t take pills when I babysit or intern or bartend. Digging, breaking, building, real work, labor in its purest sense, is the altering of matter, the production of something from nothing, the exchange of our body’s energy and life force for the creation of something new. So although work sets you free, as it turns out, the ultimate freedom is death. When you are dead you are nothing and nothing is the only thing that cannot be caged and contained. You are dust and you shall return to dust and you will try to smile, but you’ll have no teeth.
Snowball wanted to abolish work. He wanted no jobs and he wanted them never, but before we met he was seventeen and worked at the health food store and didn’t eat. He looked at photos of the camps being liberated for thinspo and couldn’t make it up a flight of stairs. This put him in the hospital, where he met some great purging individualists and some fucked-up overachievers and some nice nurses who loved their jobs and a doctor who told him that he was sick because he was traumatized because he was poor. He read Marx and turned eighteen and he got better or “better” and he came to school to work, and he met me and we loved and we hated. No matter how pure our consciences and how hard we struggled it wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t going to ever work, because in me he saw refracted everything wrong with the world. And no matter how intricate the laws of our world inside the shoebox became, I was the lost and last princess, Anastasia Romanov, on Halloween in sixth grade and got the swine flu at a party in the Hollywood Hills, and for him that summed it all up. I told him that story and he didn’t laugh, because I had so much and knew so little.
I had no idea what the revolution was. I had a nice house on a hill. I had parents who wrote me postcards. I had money for bagels and bus tickets. I had no brothers or sisters. I had a nanny from Guatemala. I had a mommy who was always working away. I had a head that liked to bang against the brick fireplace for fun. I had a tutor from France. I had a little diary with a lock. I had trapeze lessons on Saturdays. I had therapy on Tuesdays. I had an endocrinologist and three orthodontists. I had a gap between my front teeth, but it got closed. I had seven grandparents. I had presents from them all. I had Hanukkah and Christmas. I had chai lattes behind my parents’ back. I had to throw up. I had my toes painted magenta. I had to grow up. I had so much help. I had straight A minuses. I had scraped knees. I had to tell people my name ended in “ie,” not “y.” I had no mean words in my mouth. I had just registered to vote. I had no hate. I had never prayed. I had never had to pray. I had an allergic reaction to a persimmon. I thought I had been in love before. I had never heard of critical theory. I had been on many vacations and swum in many oceans. I had T-Mobile but switched to AT&T. I had a merit scholarship. I had never orgasmed. I had never been hurt. I had lots of shoes. I had never read Marx. I had to work on myself. I had an internship in midtown. I had never seen snow fall from the sky. I had decided on a Brazilian wax. I had ADHD. I had some stuff that he didn’t have. I had too much to drink on New Year’s Eve. I had vomited on his shoes. I had made him really mad. I had to check my privilege. I had to FaceTime him. I had all his freckles cataloged. I had a grandma who owned an apartment building. I had to convince him that he was beautiful. I had his number memorized. I had to tell him where I was going and who I was seeing. I had never been so happy. I had never been so sad. I had ruined everything. I had done it again. I had no idea. I had a lot to learn. I had to be taught. I had him. Then I didn’t.
