So: "Why are you so weird?"
This was a question asked of me when I was merely 8 years old, by a friend, without malice, merely curiosity. I'll admit to being flattered.
The answer? All writers are weird. That's the simple version. But WHY? Well, in my case, the environment I grew up in was enough to ensure the bloodiest psychopath (don't worry, I didn't succumb. I am exceedingly kind and far too empathetic.) But I am weird. And well, people, I can only say this: It's In The Blood.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a fascination with shadows and gloom, of things that go bump in the night. To me, twilight has always been the most beautiful time of day. And sunrises have nothing on sunsets. Myself and the darkside, we walk hand in hand.
Terror in trainingThere’s me at age 8, three days before Halloween. My mom had just brought home a leotard and pink fluffy tutu for me, no doubt hoping I’d dress up as a ballerina. Ha.
Two hours after this picture was taken, I doused myself with a half gallon of fake blood, and my Uncle Cyrus whipped up a nifty cardboard creation that when affixed, looked like a hatchet was buried deep in my skull.
I proudly wore my costume to school the next day, the envy of all the miniature ballerinas and cowboys. Then, despair. My teacher ordered me to go to the bathroom, wash the blood off my face, and change into clean clothes, because my costume was 'too scary' and some of the kindergartners were frightened.
Being a happenin’ fourth grader, I was not amendable to being ordered around by some kindergartner. I hid in a bathroom stall and waited for revenge. A few minutes later, the kindergarten class finished lunch and headed toward the bathrooms. At the first sound of tiny feet tapping on the bathroom floor, I leapt out of the stall, clawed the air in front of the little girl, and screamed, "I’m going to kill you!"
Three things happened, simultaneously: The kid screamed, fell down, and peed her pants. I had to stand in the corner and miss recess for punishment. It was so worth it.
I come from a strange and murky lineage, a bloodline full of psychics, mediums, charlatans, fortune tellers, and the stark raving mad. One aunt was even a haruspex, and if you don’t know what that is, you’re lucky.
But I'm getting off track here. This is really a story about my maternal great-grandmother, and what she passed down.
If anything in this world is going to screw you up, it’s your family. It’s sort of their job, in fact. And you can’t get away from it: it’s in the blood. I’ve alluded to my dark and strange family history and the people who fill it here, the fortune tellers and the insane and the cockeyed dreamers.
One of those people is my Great Grandmother Hartley. I barely remember her; to me she is just a faint perfumed shadow sliding by in a swish of seamed pantyhose. She would make rag dolls for me and my little sister, big, floppy things with hideous faces that must’ve been sewn in the dark, or by a demented mind. Dolls that made children cry, and wonder if you ought to burn them before you threw them away.
Great Granny Hartley’s favorite past time in the entire world was attending funerals. Not of people she knew; just any funeral that happened to be in town. She didn’t attend to pay respect, or to ponder the deeper meanings of life and death. For my grandmother, this was first rate entertainment. Every Friday she joyfully set her hair into hundreds of tiny old-lady curls and ironed her second best dress with its print of tiny green flowers in anticipation of the weekend to come. She loved funerals, my granny. She was renown for having a wall full of ‘dead baby’ pictures, the kind people took of their dead infants way back when people did things like that, lying pale and still in a silk coffin. These pictures followed the staircase banister all the way up to the second floor of Granny’s house, and in the deepening summer twilight, their pale, blob-like faces floated eerily in the dark.
One day, Granny Hartley made my sister and I dresses. Unlike the dolls, they were beautiful things: all silk and satin, puckered on the top and coming down to just above the knees in a skirt of pointed pleats. Best of all, they were full of rainbow colors: shimmering white, deep blues, pale lilacs, dreamy greens. They were the most beautiful dresses little girls could wish for.
Then we found out what she made them of. Funeral ribbons. The kinds that adorn the giant frothy displays--and small bouquets--of flowers offered in sympathy, laid on graves and tilted against coffins during viewings. My granny had collected those ribbons for years, resulting in these masterpieces of dresses. My sister refused to wear hers when she found out, terrified that the dead people would come after her and seek revenge for the stolen ribbons. I just twirled and twirled in the sunlight, admiring the way my skirt flared out, the light shooting ribbons of gold through my gruesome finery.
How did that shape me into what I am today, I can’t help but wonder. Family will get you, all right. It’s in the blood.
So now it's your turn: Why are YOU so weird?
Two hours after this picture was taken, I doused myself with a half gallon of fake blood, and my Uncle Cyrus whipped up a nifty cardboard creation that when affixed, looked like a hatchet was buried deep in my skull.
I proudly wore my costume to school the next day, the envy of all the miniature ballerinas and cowboys. Then, despair. My teacher ordered me to go to the bathroom, wash the blood off my face, and change into clean clothes, because my costume was 'too scary' and some of the kindergartners were frightened.
Being a happenin’ fourth grader, I was not amendable to being ordered around by some kindergartner. I hid in a bathroom stall and waited for revenge. A few minutes later, the kindergarten class finished lunch and headed toward the bathrooms. At the first sound of tiny feet tapping on the bathroom floor, I leapt out of the stall, clawed the air in front of the little girl, and screamed, "I’m going to kill you!"
Three things happened, simultaneously: The kid screamed, fell down, and peed her pants. I had to stand in the corner and miss recess for punishment. It was so worth it.
I come from a strange and murky lineage, a bloodline full of psychics, mediums, charlatans, fortune tellers, and the stark raving mad. One aunt was even a haruspex, and if you don’t know what that is, you’re lucky.
But I'm getting off track here. This is really a story about my maternal great-grandmother, and what she passed down.
If anything in this world is going to screw you up, it’s your family. It’s sort of their job, in fact. And you can’t get away from it: it’s in the blood. I’ve alluded to my dark and strange family history and the people who fill it here, the fortune tellers and the insane and the cockeyed dreamers.
One of those people is my Great Grandmother Hartley. I barely remember her; to me she is just a faint perfumed shadow sliding by in a swish of seamed pantyhose. She would make rag dolls for me and my little sister, big, floppy things with hideous faces that must’ve been sewn in the dark, or by a demented mind. Dolls that made children cry, and wonder if you ought to burn them before you threw them away.
Great Granny Hartley’s favorite past time in the entire world was attending funerals. Not of people she knew; just any funeral that happened to be in town. She didn’t attend to pay respect, or to ponder the deeper meanings of life and death. For my grandmother, this was first rate entertainment. Every Friday she joyfully set her hair into hundreds of tiny old-lady curls and ironed her second best dress with its print of tiny green flowers in anticipation of the weekend to come. She loved funerals, my granny. She was renown for having a wall full of ‘dead baby’ pictures, the kind people took of their dead infants way back when people did things like that, lying pale and still in a silk coffin. These pictures followed the staircase banister all the way up to the second floor of Granny’s house, and in the deepening summer twilight, their pale, blob-like faces floated eerily in the dark.
One day, Granny Hartley made my sister and I dresses. Unlike the dolls, they were beautiful things: all silk and satin, puckered on the top and coming down to just above the knees in a skirt of pointed pleats. Best of all, they were full of rainbow colors: shimmering white, deep blues, pale lilacs, dreamy greens. They were the most beautiful dresses little girls could wish for.
Then we found out what she made them of. Funeral ribbons. The kinds that adorn the giant frothy displays--and small bouquets--of flowers offered in sympathy, laid on graves and tilted against coffins during viewings. My granny had collected those ribbons for years, resulting in these masterpieces of dresses. My sister refused to wear hers when she found out, terrified that the dead people would come after her and seek revenge for the stolen ribbons. I just twirled and twirled in the sunlight, admiring the way my skirt flared out, the light shooting ribbons of gold through my gruesome finery.
How did that shape me into what I am today, I can’t help but wonder. Family will get you, all right. It’s in the blood.
So now it's your turn: Why are YOU so weird?
Nice post, weirdo.
But weird is the new hot.
I also think of myself as weird, and maybe a lil' nuts. But in a good way. Good nuts.
I think WWWWAAAAAYYYYY too much about stuff, about everything.
Like I'll think about my organs and how can they all possibly function and keep me ticking? Or I'll see a dead deer on the side of the road and picture its last moments (easy to imagine a BLAM! but you know what I mean).
The list goes on & on, and I'd hate to have the dudes in white jackets come after me, so I'll stop.
But where does it come from? Well, I had a shit childhood (family-wise, I had awesome friends) so maybe I had to think/imagine more. Because I don't think any of my family were weird.....Assholes? Yeah, but not-so-much weird.
So maybe I'm an original weirdo. Or wacko. Or maybe it's this damn Jersey water I drink.
Awesome post, Boo.