Flying the Freak Flag

Funny how similar the entrances and exits look...

I got excited and dreamed aloud today. Don't worry...I was quickly brought back to earth with a well-meaning nudge . And even though I shouldn't have, I felt stupid afterward. These are the moments when I'm figuratively naked, looking in the mirror at the body my mother promised, and scrutinizing and pinching every inch. I hate this feeling.

All day long, I walk around like everyone else. Grounded. Hell, borderline defeated. Pretending to accept my fate like a lamb on the slab for slaughter. But that, honestly, isn't me. There's a world of possibility between my ears. Anything goes. I could get up from my desk, walk out the door, enter the parking lot, get in my car, and drive until I run out of gas...in my mind. In reality, I sit in a cubicle, drowning in the unrealistic expectations of others (because they don't want the responsibility of efficiency or effectiveness), feeling like a victim of bait and switch, listening to my radio stations on Pandora. That isn't the me I want to be.

I'd much rather indulge in all the possibilities inside. But we aren't exactly raised that way, are we? I guess having low to no expectations makes any small victory, any crumb of success appear as hearty as a club roll...and we thank God for giving us what we never expected to get ourselves. But what if we expected, even got excited, about our dreams? And I 'm not talking the well-composed adult dreams where our ducks are in a row, and we have resources to play with when the day is done. I'm talking about those out-there childhood dreams of owning a double-decker bus that also serves as a rolling pizzeria (this was my cousin's dream as a five-year-old. She also wanted to park the bus periodically to paint houses). What happens to those when the reality of human-implanted limitations sets in? Do we subconsciously begin to accept low-level losses? Begin to invest in the inevitable instead of the unexpected?

Consider this: the NOTORIOUS B.I.G.'s debut album was titled Ready to Die, and, evidently, there was nothing wrong with this in the eyes of BAD BOY ENTERTAINMENT or the label that backed it. It made a 24-year old who had limited experience with the world (and I mean as a planet) believe he had "seen it all," "done it all," and had nothing left to do with life put push it to the edge of reason. Party...and Bullshit! Party...and Bullshit! That was his dream (because it all was); now he was "ready to die"...on his debut album. Why didn't anyone stop calling him Big Poppa long enough to notice his predicament? Or did he one day have dreams of owning the block instead of hustling on it and someone close to him act as gravity to send him crashing down to earth with such force that he gave up on Catholic (or private) school altogether to become the "hip-hop legend" he's been marketed as since his death in 1997? Sometimes I wonder...if it wasn't so acceptable to turn each other into legends in death, would we focus on doing it in life?

It's all a matter of finding our entrances and exits, I suppose. My reality and greater reality aren't the same. It excites me to think I'm that woman that Eric Roberson is singing about in "SHE" and "Picture Perfect," even though I'd be hard pressed to find that in anyone's reality, especially mine. That doesn't stop me from believing there is some great guy who could actually fall in love with my mind or that I can write a new version of the great American novel and/or love story. I exit my march with the sheeple when I feel the inclination to sing the love songs to myself that others couldn't be bothered to sing. Or write a piece of flash fiction that a 20-year-old gushes over because she understands how moments shape a story while publishers reject me. I'm accepting it all.

This pensive, and sometimes brooding, overworked teacher is flying her freak flag, even if no one salutes.