[stylist] Seeking suggestions on CNF essay

[Donna Hill]

Bridgit,
This is very powervful, and I commend you for tackling these issues and
being so candid about both your pain and your participation in the madness.
I don't know what I can really advise. It's gripping, and I couldn't help
being brought into it. That's the point, so it is already succeeding.
Donna 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Bridgit
Pollpeter
Sent: Friday, February 01, 2013 2:27 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Seeking suggestions on CNF essay

I've been working on this piece for two years now. It's different and
attempts to incorporate pop-culture into a more personal thread. There are
sections containing music lyrics along with other pop-culture references.
One day I like this, the next I'm not sure. Just seeing what suggestions I
may find on the list. It does contain some strong language.

Give a Cheer for all the Broken

Hold on. And you don't know what you're waiting for, but you don't want to
know more. Hold on.
>From Hold On by Good Charlotte

Did you stand on the bridge contemplating the watery depths, hoping for a
flood of relief? Was the gaping mouth of the oven door inviting as you
slipped through the odorless fumes? What were your thoughts as the rope cut
into your neck, and you escaped this world? Did the taunts and jeers
subside? Have you found solace now; a peace of mind?
Slipping into the forgotten, hearing only the silence, too many seek the
solace of whispered graves. We see you, we know you, but ignorance is our
bliss as another percentage piles at our feet.
The band leads with a tune slightly off key. A melody with no harmony begins
the black parade.

Echoes of introspections cease as a celebrity speaks against bullying on TV.
Madonna shames with her speech about acceptance.

I shutter remembering a face full of pain, hoping only for a friend. A
little girl, innocent and sweet, who braved school despite the mocking jeers
of classmates; her tear-stained face pops into my head. My memory forges up
the day I pricked her with a needle, and we laughed as tears rimmed her
eyes. 

Cut my life into pieces
This is my last resort
Suffocation, No breathing
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm bleeding Do you even care if I die
bleeding?

Acceptance means following the crowd. As a group, we don't feel the sting of
loneliness.
Eventually I stepped out of this role, but an isolation replaced acceptance.
I walked the halls and knew the cruelty of adolescence. The pain of being
different is not easy to bear.

The bell rang for recess, and Mrs. Petat's second-grade class came to
attention. Each child sat still, but our pent-up energy raced around our
features. A hushed frenzy waiting to explode.
We rushed in lines of order as Mrs. Petat released the class. The barrel of
balls and jump ropes emptied in a succinct fashion. Reaching the door to the
playground, our line of whispered buzzing erupted into shouts and giggles as
we stormed the yard.
Sarah tossed me the end of a long red jump rope, and we started the ancient
swing known to children world-round.
Laurie jumped in first as the chant began. Soon I rolled into a well-oiled
maneuver. The motion of the swing remained steady while Laurie and I jumped
in unison.
I jumped in and out never skipping a beat. We laughed and shouted as each
girl took her turn, and our chant mingled through the noisy playground.
Laurie and Chandra replaced Sarah and I as we kept the motion, never
skipping a beat. Sarah and I danced to the back of the line, catching our
breath through bursts of giggles.
The rhythm of the chant reverberated through my body, tingling. My long
ponytail whipped around my body as I spun on my heel, ready to enter the
arching rope spinning round and round.
Giddiness prickled my skin as an effortless leap slid my skinny body into
the winding motion of the game. I smiled, but something had changed. The
chant was different.
"Di, di, di, Bridgit is diabetic-she is gonna' die-die-die."
I glanced at Laurie and Chandra still whipping the rope around. Their faces
concentrated on the task at hand, but their mouths wiggled with escaped
laughter through the chant.
"Di, di, di, Bridgit is diabetic-she is gonna' die-die-die."
My feet scratched against the cement jumping backwards out of the motion.
Facing the line of jumpers, their expressions seemed mocking.
The chant halted as kids around the playground pointed. A laugh thundered
through the yard. Tears nipped at my eyes.
A group of boys corralled nearby snickered. "The DIE-abetic's gonna'
cry."
My mouth opened, but words seemed like the enemy at the moment. Holding my
breath, trying not to cry, my feet trudged to the edge of the playground.
Leaning against the red brick of the school, my body took on the stillness
of the stone pricking my back.
A stony isolation left me at the edge, unsure how to find my way back.

Phoebe Prince understood isolation. She took it with her to the grave.
In high school, playground politics grow deadly.
A heart pierced with pain, Phoebe gasped for air.
Who knew being beautiful would cost you your life? Jealousy placed the rope
around your delicate neck.

Stylish clothes, popular pursuits, they do not bring immediate inclusion. We
spent years perfecting the art of judgment and acceptance; now we wonder why
bullying has grown, too big to be contained.
E's Fashion Police blares on the TV. I laugh as Joan Rivers mocks the latest
attempt of Milie Cyrus to fit in. Joan's biting commentary dare anyone to
face the world in any garb other than the accepted mode as prescribed by an
elite few.

Every day is so wonderful
Then suddenly, it's hard to breathe
Now and then, I get insecure
>From all the pain, I'm so ashamed

We breathe in acceptance and breathe out cruelty. The pumping of our pulse
leaps with joy to mock.
Cut- cut down- cut it out- cut to bleed, to feel.

When you grow up,
will you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?
Will you defeat them,
Your demons, and all the non-believers
The plans that they have made?

Was fear larger than the slit your blood seeped from? Did you tremble from
the cold, or the memory of them shouting "faggot?" How long did you hold
your secret, scared to be abnormal? Who did you think of as the faces full
of hate were erased from your mind? Are you safe now, embraced by arms that
love you for who you are?

Matthew Shepard understood isolation. By birth, he fell to this earth,
contaminated with isolation.
Dreams and hopes filled Matthew's mind, but the intolerance stifled his
voice. Shameful and wicked, that is what they told you.
A boy, shameful and wicked, not fit for this world. Shameful and wicked
shadowed your every move. Shameful and wicked, your existence was
disgusting-you must go.
Was it goodness and purity that stranded you, tied naked to a fence pole?
They took your light allowing ignorance to guide.

I wear purple today in recognition of Stop Bullying Gays day. Purple
sweater, purple boots, purple jewelry.
God did not create people only to have them destroyed by hate. We preach
that life is precious, but this sermon doesn't seem to apply to all. 
Who are precious in His sight?
Love thy neighbor, turn the other cheek and hate the gays. This is the
message spread to the ends of the earth.
Molded, shaped and formed, our concepts of Adam and Eve are constructed out
of rigid, immoveable material. 

Life it seems, will fade away
Drifting further every day
Getting lost within myself
Nothing matters, no one else
I have lost the will to live
Simply nothing more to give
There is nothing more for me
I need the end to set me free

Curled up in a corner on my bed, I sobbed, my head resting on my knees.
Screams hovered in my throat. No one to talk to, to cleanse the poison from
my soul.
Swollen eyes searched my room for any remnant of hope. I wanted something to
tie me to this world, an anchor that made me one of them.
Happiness seemed easy for some. Inclusion was my goal, to be normal. Too
much weighed me down; these jagged thoughts pierced me to the ground, unable
to join the world.
Cruel words piled up like dirt.  Slut, whore, tramp-- it did not matter that
I was a virgin; the gospel of rumors is truth.
Pink-handled scissors whispered tantalizing possibilities. Suffocating,
unable to move, death was inviting. Escaping this enclosure was the relief I
sought. 

Torment poured salt into your fresh wounds. You felt the lash of hatred.
Consumed by emptiness, you sought a final solitude. Unaware of the future,
you saw only today. Unable to dry the flow of tears, you stopped the flow of
blood. Your enemy's words were endless, but you deafened the sound with a
blow. Happiness was not found in this life so you moved on, desperate for
acceptance.

The television guides us as Chelsea Handler spews comments that sear like
acid. Derisive laughter accompanies the jokes made at the expense of others.
We are taught to mock, caring only for our pleasure. We have learned
well-grasshoppers , now go forth and spread this message of hate to all who
will listen.

With the lights out, it's less dangerous Here we are now, entertain us I
feel stupid and contagious Here we are now, entertain us

I turn the TV off in disgust. I feel heavy with the guilt of the countless
souls I heaped more pain on to. My own past misery, a shared experience, has
taught me nothing.

The guys living upstairs sat on their balcony, one crying, one consoling.
Giggles escaped my lips as I strained to hear what absurdity made a grown
man cry into his beer.
"What a wuss," I said.
"It's not funny," Ross, my husband, said.
I turned around to stare at him. "Are you serious?"
"You don't know what's wrong, it could be serious."
"He's crying like a drunken baby." I giggled again.
"That's really insensitive. I've been there."
My giggles cut short. "Like I don't know hurt and pain?" 
"You're the one laughing." He walked away, leaving me to feel ashamed.

I wish you would step back from that ledge, my friend You could cut ties
with all the lies, that you've been living in And if you do not want to see
me again I would understand

These are the thoughts I ponder. I still fight to accept myself, thrashing
my spirit about, but I can no longer live among my own intolerance. 
Ripped to tattered pieces, many find no solace. The pain of difference cost
much, and many run dry trying to balance the debt. I will try to make the
load easier, but am I too late?
Hushed for now, wipe the stains from your eyes. Flesh broken and bruised,
but alive just the same. Sticks and stones will break my bones, and words
will lead to the grave. 
Hands will lift you. Rest, but only rest. Walk in the light breaking free of
the shadows. Blessed are those who cut the ties that bind.

I'm beautiful in my way
'Cause God makes no mistakes
I'm on the right track, Baby
I was born this way

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
 
"If we discover a desire within us that nothing in this world can satisfy,
we should begin to wonder if perhaps we were created for another world."
C. S. Lewis


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