Dear 12-year-old self,
You are the 500 pages of abridged classics in seven days. You are the $50 for each 100 pages in a race with your dad. You are the 176 books on your bookshelf, and the 12 more you buy with your own $50 at the book fair. You are the 95 points at a math exam, the 100 at an oral quiz. You are the five pieces of required artwork, and the three favorite pens.
The number of people in your class (40) minus one (39). You are smarter than that many people. You are the four friends you found a group name for. You are the one friend that knew you since you were six. You are the only child, the first granddaughter.
You are the 15th of every month. You are the one new pajama set and two pairs of shoes bought every 15th of every month. You are 34 plush toys, five photo albums, and one Yamaha recorder.
You are the three plus two prescribed movements reiterated through every evening prayer. You are 801, the school ID you chose for yourself in first grade and surprised the principal with when you read it with ease. You are a composite of numbers. You are your pride in numbers. You are your enthusiasm for numbers.
And suddenly, it's seventh grade. You are 12. You go to the bathroom during break time. It's a small school, there are maybe 15 girls in total. They are all in the bathroom, gathered around the only blonde, whispering conspiratorially.
"What's happening?" you ask.
They look at you. The blonde one smiles. "I was talking to so and so last night and asked him to rank the girls in our school."
"And?"
"Well, here, come look."
Number one is your English teacher, which makes you feel uneasy. She is engaged you think, she should not have been considered or put on this "ranking."
Number two is the blonde. You realize that you trust her word. (Now you are wondering why you did.)
Number three comes as a surprise. Your favorite number punches you in the gut and says you are it.
Number three.
And suddenly all the numbers that used to make up your being dissolve, and you're left bare with this three.
This three that taunts you. It's seventh grade. You do not yet know how the female body works. But you know that you were ranked number three by a boy possibly younger than you. And that makes everything worse.
You are not you. You have never been you. You are 2210 on the SAT, and fives on all your APs. You are 1,458 followers, and 26 poems. You are a composite of numbers. Nothing else.
You are the 500 pages of abridged classics in seven days. You are the $50 for each 100 pages in a race with your dad. You are the 176 books on your bookshelf, and the 12 more you buy with your own $50 at the book fair. You are the 95 points at a math exam, the 100 at an oral quiz. You are the five pieces of required artwork, and the three favorite pens.
The number of people in your class (40) minus one (39). You are smarter than that many people. You are the four friends you found a group name for. You are the one friend that knew you since you were six. You are the only child, the first granddaughter.
You are the 15th of every month. You are the one new pajama set and two pairs of shoes bought every 15th of every month. You are 34 plush toys, five photo albums, and one Yamaha recorder.
You are the three plus two prescribed movements reiterated through every evening prayer. You are 801, the school ID you chose for yourself in first grade and surprised the principal with when you read it with ease. You are a composite of numbers. You are your pride in numbers. You are your enthusiasm for numbers.
And suddenly, it's seventh grade. You are 12. You go to the bathroom during break time. It's a small school, there are maybe 15 girls in total. They are all in the bathroom, gathered around the only blonde, whispering conspiratorially.
"What's happening?" you ask.
They look at you. The blonde one smiles. "I was talking to so and so last night and asked him to rank the girls in our school."
"And?"
"Well, here, come look."
Number one is your English teacher, which makes you feel uneasy. She is engaged you think, she should not have been considered or put on this "ranking."
Number two is the blonde. You realize that you trust her word. (Now you are wondering why you did.)
Number three comes as a surprise. Your favorite number punches you in the gut and says you are it.
Number three.
And suddenly all the numbers that used to make up your being dissolve, and you're left bare with this three.
This three that taunts you. It's seventh grade. You do not yet know how the female body works. But you know that you were ranked number three by a boy possibly younger than you. And that makes everything worse.
You are not you. You have never been you. You are 2210 on the SAT, and fives on all your APs. You are 1,458 followers, and 26 poems. You are a composite of numbers. Nothing else.