“can you explain this assignment to me like i’m 7?” i ask at a decibel a little too high for the tension in this library. it’s the first midterms of grad school and i’m at the point of walking away and disappearing into the sunset like richard simmons. i find myself in a private study room with a classmate whose name i can’t remember, some girls i don’t know, and a gay i want to fuck.
my classmate translates these pretentious academic instructions into rice and beans so i return to my desk ready to devour. i put my headphones on. i play some j.lo. and then i stare at a blank screen for a minute? three minutes? long enough to get lost in the haze and feel the dread emanate from my enlarged pores- this is 2015, before i had money for monthly facials! i have no sentence, phrase, or word to start this essay by so once again i get up and make the rounds.
and by get up i mean my attention deficit very hyper disorder is kicking my ass because the adderall hasn’t hit yet so i make the walk to the bathroom, vending machine, prance around the lobby like everything’s great!!!!
i feel alone, misunderstood, foreign. i question my ability to communicate in the gringo language. i am constantly asking for clarifications and surviving awkward silences when i try to be witty. i find myself walking on eggshells, lost in translation whenever i quote a reference like minded millennials don’t seem to get. is it my accent?! my timz? my thug appeal?!
i sit at my desk and the blank page is laughing at me, i’m sure. i feel the frustration begging for release and unfortunately for me, my tried solutions aren’t available. running on the beach? this is new york. what they call a “beach” is dead water, sand, and syringes in coney island or dead water, sand, and garbage at riis beach.
i can’t call abuela and complain about how hard this is. i don’t wanna worry her. i could call my friends on the island and say what? this is hard pls tell me you love me? yes, yes, yes, but it’s 2015 and i haven’t learned how to communicate my needs.
it’s at this moment that i get the visual in my mind of some blonde in a tv show saying, “i hate it here i’m gonna murder myself” and I repeat it out loud to myself, for my own amusement.
wouldn’t you know, that little quote liberates me into finally being able to start writing this stupid paper. i hear the hum. i visualize open skies. look at me, defying gravity! i’m reading books, highlighting articles, and drinking good coffee from the mexican bakery nearby. it’s while taking a sip that i feel a tap on my shoulder.
it’s diana, the dean of students. she looks like the hispanic version of matilda’s school principal. just as butch, just as scary, but with red lips and decent hair. i take out my headphones to ask what can i do for her but before i open my mouth she extends her arm and says,
“come with me.”
thank you, but no. i have a paper to write, lady!
i walk behind her becoming scared and afraid as we take the elevator to the 7th floor, where the dean offices are. i’m in my head trying to figure out what i could have possibly done.
fuck, i shouldn’t have said in class that social workers gotta look better if they want respect or we’ll end up ignored in history like mother teresa has. think about it! if she had looked better she’d be a saint by now.
diana leads me to her office where her 40 yo closeted homosexual assistant with curved eyebrows and a frozen forehead, is perked up ready to take notes. he tries very hard to hide he’s a friend of dorothy’s but this guy? he knows both liza and lorna. here’s also the dean of admissions, gorgeous jamaixan lady. and the actual dean of the school, this jill zarin doppelganger, all scattered in this hellhole.
“what is this in reference to?” i ask the group of very serious academic social workers.
and the pause these people take you’d think it’s ryan secret about to announce the next american idol.
diana says, “we asked you here to talk about some comments you made in the library just now.”
just now?! i scream out loud in my head. are you spying on me?! but okay great so definitely not mother teresa.
“i don’t follow,” i say and they tell me to sit.
i’m starting to get nervous and start praying it doesn’t become evident by getting the whitney’s. you know, that dripping sweat when you need a rug in your hand at all times?
i’m scared and diana asks if i feel suicidal.
all the fucking time bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! but i can’t say that.
no? i say in that caucasian way like oU at the end.
“that’s not suicidal ideation, no. nou.”
well, diana says, “we were told you said and i quote, ‘i’m going to murder myself.’”
i chuckle looking at the assistant and he would’ve had a reaction if it wasn’t for the botox.
“well…”
i say,
“no one here watched the simple life? it’s a quote from paris hilton. i hate it here im gonna murder myself, which she told on the phone to her mother kathy hilton! and it’s ironic, hello? murder myself? it’s like a joke ha-ha.”
diana looks confused. the homo assistant looks at me holding in his laughter.
the gorgeous jamaican lady says “well that settles that” and by the high pitched, very fake, very annoyed ‘ha-ha’ by the dean, i can tell i’m not in trouble but i will absolutely be very soon.
Omg