Sun Wolf

10/6/14

I sat stone-faced in the audience, drowning in a sea of siblings shouting out in support for their sisters, mothers dancing uproariously in the hopes that their children wouldn’t forget the choreography and fathers sitting with an awkward air about them as they contemplated if it would be quite manly enough to clap or smile but knowing they would get dirty glares from their spouses if they didn’t participate at all. I should have been one of those siblings, should have been prepared to hoot and holler and slyly walk past the eccentric judges dropping Nel’s name and how amazing she looked up on the stage. But then, I’ve never been that good of a sister.

As the announcer called Nel’s name she sauntered up onto the stage with that three year old kind of swagger and looked out at all of us as if she were the ruler of the kingdom, but I didn’t like what I saw. My sister is a shy little girl with one missing tooth right in the center of her little mouth and the rest stained a very light yellow from all the candy mom and dad give her to keep her up for competitions. She has freckles all over her face, strawberry blonde hair and muddy green eyes. She’s supposed to have dirt and grass stains all over her little three year old pants from wiping out after playing a game of kiddie soccer with me or blisters on her little three year old hands from hanging on to the monkey bars for too long. So no, I didn’t like the girl I saw on that stage. I didn’t like her pure bottle blonde hair extensions, her blue eye contacts, the eye liner, the lipstick, the foundation used to cover up her cute little freckles. I didn’t like the sexy cowgirl outfit that had to be stuffed with toilet paper to fit right, or the pink nail polish that glistened on her perfect hands, and especially not the fake white teeth that hid the fact that she was missing one right in the center of her mouth. I didn’t like it because the girl that stood on the stage was not my sister, it was the manifestation of dad’s money and mom’s free time imposed on a poor, innocent child.

Just like everyone else Nel said that she wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up. Or a firefighter. Or a policewoman. Or anything else that would warrant an ooh or ah of feigned respect and appreciation from the crowd. She danced just as oddly as all the other little three year old girls that hadn’t really gotten rid of their baby fat and at the end of her routine looked straight at the judges and blew a kiss. Just like all the other little girls she was applauded, (rather disdainfully from the other jealous mothers), as she skipped off the stage sassily. From a judge’s point of view she did well, though no one but the aggressive and competitive moms saw any flaws to it at all. Looking over to my mom I could see her eyes were fixed on the judges, trying to send them a mental message to vote Nel the Ultimate Grand Supreme, (redundant, I know), for her age group, as she always did. Mom cared about the superficial things, - the crown, the sash, the title, - while dad cared about how much money he’d get out of it. After all, he had to pay for every aspect of this beauty pageant life for Nel and I. Yeah; I’m a part of this system too.

Unlike my sister my body has shed its baby fat, my teeth are white and straight, my hair is dishwater blonde and my skin is devoid of any adorable freckles, which have instead chosen the occasional pimple as their place-holder. Also unlike my sister, I prefer to be my usual tomboyish self than a beauty queen because frankly, I see no benefit in learning how to be a prissy doll whose best asset is standing there trying to draw the eye to whatever I’m dressed to accentuate. At 16, everybody’s trying to find labels for themselves. They’re vain, taking selfie after selfie and then editing the best ten for an hour to make it just perfect in an effort to get the most likes possible. Everyone’s trying to confine themselves in the box society has handed to us prepackaged, and they’re perfectly happy to do so. So, I guess, Nel and I have an advantage. We were taught how to be superficial, self-centered and vain early on in life; a head start, you could say. At this point I was prepared for my turn on stage, waiting out in the soon-to-be-called-up line. It was my first time without my mom setting everything up for me, and the surprise on dad’s face as to how low my expenses were was comforting. A sharp, commanding voice echoed throughout the room, ushering me on.

I could hear the crowd go silent as I centered myself, eyes closed as I indulged in the tranquility of their hush; the calm before the storm. I waited for the lights to dim for my performance, peering at them through a clay wolf mask, a loose black frock and veil covering my arms, legs, feet, neck and hair and mittens covering my thin hands. I stepped well into the spotlight, slowly, sure-footedly, and began to remove the first layers of clothing. I started with the mittens, inching them off my hands to reveal unpainted nails, then pulling my veil gently away from me to reveal undyed, extension-less, dishwater blonde hair and an untanned neck. I reached behind myself, pulling the zipper to the flowing gown down, letting it slide off my shoulders to pool at the floor. I surveyed the crowd again, observing as they gasped in horror and dread as they stared at me, now covered in only plain black underwear and a mask that they dreaded to see behind. I knew that as I raised my hand to my face, pushing my fingers through the eyeholes as I began to lift the mask away, that I would not be welcome here again. I was the outcast I had set out to be. The mask glided off my face surreally, my hand releasing it as I stood before the crowd in as bold and courageous a way as I could muster. No one came to remove me. No one left the room. No one looked away or made a sound. I don’t think that they knew how.

Clearing my throat, I began to make a speech to debut the me I have always been. “My name is Valor Bare and I’m newly 16. My favorite color is black, I like to listen to every style of music but heavy metal speaks to me in a way that no other genre does. I want to better mankind in a way truest to myself; through written word and dedicated activism. I am a feminist, though I bear shame in that title because my brothers and sisters in the cause have chosen to desecrate it by confusing actual feminism with female supremacism. I am not straight, nor do I ever wish to be. I am pansexual, demisexual, two sexed and utterly proud, though you can consider me bisexual for sake of simplifying. I am an old soul in a new body, and I struggle with math and science. I am addicted to the undaunting allure of the human mind, psychology being one of my many passions. I can be arrogant, but I work not to be ignorant, and I can be unjustly crass towards others. I am opinionated and stubborn and bossy. I am flawed, but as are we all. Most importantly, today I am standing before you to free you as I have freed myself. I ask, - no, I beg, - that you relinquish your materialism and become savvy to the atrocities around you. Use your money for causes you believe in. Use your skills for support for those same causes. Don’t waste your lives struggling for plastic crowns and sashes and prizes, because people are at their ugliest when they focus so much on only selfish things. If you truly want to be beautiful, make a stand, like I have made a stand today. Do not be afraid of labels because they are just words. Do not be afraid of others opinions because they will not matter in the long run. Be selfish enough to fend for your happiness, but selfless enough to make the quality of life better for those around you. If nothing else, you’ll feel like an Ultimate Grand Supreme, and I guarantee you’ll grow to be a better person, too.”

Silence, still, as the audience pondered my statements, gears turning in their minds. I had gotten some especially disapproving glances when I had gone over some of my points, but it seems that at least tidbits of my speech had sunken in to everyone. If nothing else, the seed had been planted. With some self-satisfaction and with what little energy I had left, I turned, picking up the items I had dropped on the stage and walking confidently off. In that moment I was the freest I had ever been, and also the most beautiful.

Reviews

[Warrior]

Great story telling. This did justice in the realm of getting the message across. Great message. There's lot of times where a story can have a great message to aim for, and have a lot of under lining things but then no one gets it, and if no one gets it, then the point has failed. But in my opinion this did well to get the message across. You made it clear, which is why I think it's good. Keep up the good work. What was also great was that I could imagine the story as I read it, and that is also a strong point of stories. The ability to have the reader imagine it because after all we're reading not watching it, but it was as if I was there as I read this, and that is great. Good job once again.