Just Breathe And Let Yourself Be

High school is a labyrinth of discoveries. You juggle the facades of who people think you are, while trying to decide which image you're going to snatch and claim as your true self. You want to be something that's all your own, but most of the time you quietly conform to everyone's assumptions. Luckily there are moments that you peel back the layers and decide that you don't give a damn what anyone thinks. You breathe deep and just let yourself be.

I don't remember my English teacher's name, but I do remember that he always wore cardigans and smelled like V8 juice. We'll call him Mr. Cardigan. Mr. Cardigan taught us about poetry that year. As we read and dissected every written line, he made one hundred year old words come alive for me. I felt something deep about those words. I discovered that the secrets, insecurities, passions, and joys that ran through me were in some dead person's soul as well and that brought me comfort. Those poems made my game of juggling facades seem like rubbish.

One day Mr. Cardigan gave us an assignment to find a poem that we were passionate about, memorize it, and recite it in front of the class. I chose a poem by Walt Whitman and let the words print themselves on my memory. The words meant something to me personally and nearly brought me to tears as I read them. I was excited and a little nervous to recite my poem that day. When class started, I was surprised that most of my classmates didn't seem to feel very passionate about the poems they had memorized. Some cheated off of the words written on their hands and others just flat out read a paper in a monotone voice. I was the last person in the class to recite my poem. I frantically tried to decide how to act like I needed to read my paper and pretend like I was too cool to care about this.

When Mr. Cardigan called my name, however, I stood up on top of my desk like a lunatic, recited my poem perfectly with all of the passion in my heart, and sat down. A few football players in the room laughed and Mr. Cardigan looked surprised and confused. My heart was still beating fast as the bell rang and students shuffled out of the room. Mr. Cardigan pulled me aside and said he would give me 5 extra credit points on this assignment. I didn't know if he was proud of my public display of craziness or if he was trying to offer some consolation to accompany my apparent social suicide. For that moment I didn't care about the people that made fun of me though. I had taken a big breath and just let myself be and it felt wonderful.

I'm trying to remember that now. For the past few months I haven't been able to get a story out of my head. The pieces don't fit together quite yet, but I'd really like to write it down. It wouldn't even be good enough to publish I'm sure, but I feel like I just need to at least write it. The purpose in writing the words may be just to help me reconcile the meaning of this story in my own life and mind. I don't know. But my juvenile mind is currently glued to my proverbial high school chair and my cheer-leading skirt is itching my thighs. I'm scared of what people might think if they read it. I'm afraid of trying.

Help me remember to breathe and just let myself be.