Bonny Marie

April 13, 1999 - December 18, 2007

Head Trauma

There are dozens of things I should be doing at the moment—studying German, a Family History assignment, cleaning my room and doing laundry—but I’m so sad and so distracted, and all I want is to fly at you and cling to you and make you tell me it’s okay and smooth my hair. I miss you, especially now, especially during the times that are hardest to bear.

My first reaction in these situations is to recoil, to shut up and keep to myself and not say a word, not because I don’t want to tell people or allow others to sympathize but because I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to be eloquent and meaningful with my words in these cases. I feel awkward and stupid, like everything that comes out is some form of word vomit, desperate for sentiment but completely lacking.


When my grandmother died last year, I think the number of people I physically told is so few, I could count them on one hand. My friend Justin was visiting from Seattle. He kept text messaging and calling me the day she died. I didn’t have the heart to pick up the phone, nor the words to express my pain, so I basically ignored him. I wrote him back at one point in the afternoon to tell him, My grandma is really sick and things are crazy with my family. I’ll keep in touch. She had been dead six-and-a-half hours by then, and I didn’t keep in touch.

It’s not that I didn’t expect him to be sympathetic. He would have been very kind about the whole thing, and was kind, in fact, under the impression she hadn’t passed yet. He was genuine, though I was deceiving him in my crazy, personal defense mechanism. It was almost like I couldn’t tell him the truth without having the words to articulate the extent of my sadness. I would rather be left alone in my grief, though I wanted the company and support, than to lamely inform him of something that should be so much more significant than I’m able to express.


But I wish you were here for me to tell you. I wouldn’t mind just blurting it out all at once with no special language, but all the emotion in the world. I know you would understand, too. I know that you understand how special our little girl is and what a presence she is in this family. You would understand our sense of loss and appreciate how we mourn. You’d understand the balance between letting me fold myself into your arms, and letting me have my space.


My mom has an irrational fear of flying. It’s an admittedly irrational fear. She knows it is, openly acknowledges it, but it doesn’t make the process any easier. She takes her “doggie downers” an hour before take-off like clockwork, and keeps the bottle of pills tucked safely into the seat pocket in case of turbulence, mild or severe. She’s got a relaxation CD uploaded onto her iPod that literally talks her through take-off, landing, and any number of unexpected events in flight—like an unexplained flash of the Fasten Seat Belt sign.

It’s difficult for Mom to help others understand her fear. Others think it’s funny, or frustrating. It’s easier not to go into detail about it, so she doesn’t. No one is any closer to understanding why she feels the way she does, but at least she doesn’t get frustrated herself.


The most difficult thing is watching my dad suffer. We suffer together, but he is very alone in many ways. My dad has always been the strong one—absolutely emotional and feeling, but in our estrogen-driven family, he keeps a sense of equilibrium. There are few deaths that would affect him quite so specifically. One occurred last year. We never in a thousand years expected a second just a year later. The relationship is so very, very different. It’s almost more heartbreaking that way. This little baby is a Daddy’s Girl through and through. From day one he was Alpha, she thought she was Beta. My poor dad. My heart breaks twice for him.

And he can’t say the words either. He can’t call his sister, his best friend. He can’t call them up and just say it. How do you say it? How do you tell them without breaking down completely? He’s about to lose his running companion, the tail that literally wagged the dog with excitement at the top of the stairs when he came home from work each day, his third child, in essence. He must explain what he’s going to lose. He must face them, and in facing them, he faces the truth of it. You’re far away—you aren’t even here for me to face. It’s easier and harder that way, all at the same time.


Times like this clarify how truly empty words are. No matter how hard I try, it will not be possible for me to explain how I am affected right now. I cannot communicate the extent of my impending sense of loss or make you feel what I’m feeling. A very unique little light in my world is flickering off, and there is no way I can effectively convey my pain in words.

Language is limited. Language is vast, it is varied, and theoretically I should be able to mold words in such a way as to force you to feel, see, hear, smell, taste my pain. I should be able to take these bottled emotions and allow them to explode onto a blank page, somehow resulting in heartbreaking, life-changing genius. My descriptions should be so vivid that you understand you are the one I want right now, why you are the one who could make things all right.

But I don’t know how to be lovely and tragic and verbally intriguing. I don’t have the energy or the focus to wrangle words and shape sentences in such a way that I might express the inexpressible. I’m tired and beaten.

Bonny is dying. I need you.

A review I'd never send

Okay. Honestly, where do I begin? You’ve frustrated me all semester as you’ve managed to irritate, patronize, nearly insult, and absolutely intrigue me all at once. You’re a regular Mr. Darcy and as I’m sure you can imagine, girls do not like having a Darcy in their lives because we all know how that story turns out in the end. It’s much more comfortable to go on at odds with someone who makes you feel goaded than it is to buck it up and admit to yourself that you’re semi-attracted to them, on whatever level.

To be frank, your writing tends to induce in me the same reactions our interactions do. Generally speaking, I walk away feeling itchy and like I want to shake my fist at you, partially because there are some really great, well-constructed things going on that I truly appreciate, and partially because you have the capacity to come off as pretentious, self-indulgent, and ostentatious. You are an anomaly to me.

You're well-spoken. You have an impressive vocabulary and you carry yourself well, both in person and on the page. I acknowledge the subjectiveness of art, and that's how I've managed to keep myself under control now and then throughout the semester when all I've wanted to do was reach across the classroom, latch my hands around your neck, and shake vigorously. Unfortunately, I'm sure I only wanted to strangle you more when you looked especially nice in class that day. Whatevuh.

I think something that frustrates me about your writing-- and this fiction piece in particular-- is the fact that I recognize similarities in our styles, tastes, and habits. For example, I am a comma whore. I sprinkle commas throughout my writing, especially when I'm writing prose, and I'm afraid most of my interjections set off by commas are confusing and relatively unnecessary. I noticed this in your piece. Breaking up these lengthy sentences and varying the sentence structure would be beneficial, I think.

Something that severely bothered me was your grand total of six paragraphs in a 14-page piece of fiction. It was slowly killing me. I felt like I was suffocating. I'm begging you-- break up your story into paragraphs. It makes it more managable, and playing with specific breaks in paragraphs can really emphasize points effectively.

Your careful use of profanity was really attractive. I cannot tell a lie.

There were three very obvious parts to your piece: Jack's parents' history and his childhood; Nam; and post-Nam New York. I would have liked to have seen these three sections flow more easily one to another. As it stands, I feel a little bit like I read three different stories about the same guy that didn't relate as well as I know they were intended to. I think the exposition about Jack's parents was a little too lengthy-- I was really interested in Jack once we "finally" got around to his story, and seeing as he was the main character, I think there was too much said about his parents. It made it confusing for me at first who was going to be the main character.

Another misleading element was the phrase "Jack's third tour in Vietnam would prove to be his last." That to me indicates that he's going to die in Vietnam, and at that point in the story I'm not invested enough in his character to want to keep reading. Be careful to really say what you mean. Semantics is a slippery subject, but very important to consider!

Watch yourself that you don't use the same phrase or word too often, particularly not twice in a paragraph unless you're absolutely certain you mean to say it. Example: "rest of his days." It's cliche anyway. Come on. You can do better than that! Speaking of language, I wasn't entirely sure how to read your piece. The use of "you" indicated a conversational, familiar tone, but other times it felt more formal. I think I wanted to be more removed from the story so I could see the action and not just be informed what was going on.

Don't get me wrong. You had some very lovely work going on in this piece too. Some of your imagery was extremely vivid and sensory. You description of Cracker after his death, for example, was gorgeous and revolting (again with your contrary nature!!). It was a well thought-out piece, and had some heartbreaking moments (like selling his father's farm). When you were sensory, boy howdy were you sensory. I looooooooooooooooooooooooved the use of Gershwin's lyrics in the rising action. It really helped to set the pace of the story, and added to the frantic, chaotic nature of the moment. It was also effective irony that I very much appreciated.

I think what ends up frustrating me the most is the fact that it's already good and I want it to be just that much better. You obviously have the talent and capability to churn out some really impressive stuff, and you're certainly not lacking in creativity. You have a tendancy to project your emotions as very precious in your writing, but your writing is best when it's raw, and gory, and hard to swallow. I definitely think this story has the potential to be developed into a longer, more detailed narrative. I'm quite sure most of the critique I dish out is as specific as it is because I see it in my own writing too.

I'm not a hatemonger. In some, deep-down sort of way, I hope my frustration has been somewhat mutual. I truly do value your opinions and comments (even if they can be way off the mark-- but hey, at least you prove your ability to commit to an interpretation, and that's admirable too), and have always looked forward to hearing what you had to say all semester. Maybe it's because I tend to be outspoken myself, but yours is among the few opinions I've actually been curious to hear whenever I've written something for workshop. I can't help but be suspicious that my sentiments are returned.

Go ahead. Look up my number on stalkernet. Assuming I can ovecome this prideful prejudice I've conjured all semester, and you can set aside any aloof, uppity attitude you project, I think we'd actually get along. Care to prove me wrong?

Fairest

I wrote this for my Creative Writing class final. Ashley said Alli would like it. Let me know what all ya'll think, please! Sorry it's kind of long.

_____________________

“I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags. Even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young, they’re still princesses. All of us.”

I try to repeat this to myself when I’m feeling particularly self-deprecating. I am a princess. All girls are. There’s no one in the world who can make me feel badly about myself except myself. People can only hurt me with my permission. I’m only inferior to those I allow to be superior to me. Those who tear down others are only compensating for their own low self-esteem.

If all girls are princesses, that means I’m a princess too. Is it possible to be the princess and the witch in my own fairytale?

Everyone thinks the pretty girls always have it easy. Pretty girls have confidence. They have great hair, and boys like them. Being pretty somehow makes their lives sunny and successful—like everything is possible if you're pretty.

I think it's the less fortunate looking girls who have it best. They're not ugly or self-loathing enough to let the pretty girls walk all over them. They gain confidence from the talents they have and actually develop. The kind of boys who like these girls are the ones most Pretty Girls would rather date anyway, though they'll never admit it. Being extraordinary can be terrifying and uncomfortable, especially when you're extraordinary trait is something you can't take any credit for yourself.

Once, in late November, Mother took me downtown to the most overpriced shop on the street. It was her favorite. She wore red leather gloves as she held my hand, leading me down the street at a light clip, and a perfect snowflake caught on the cuff of her black coat. It held there for a moment, long enough to demand the beginning of a smile from the corners of my mouth, before it disappeared and melted in a moment as it surrendered to the heat of wool. It stole my smile with it.

"Don't stare," Mother scolded, her tone a song and a hiss all at once. I forced my dark eyes forward, away from the displays of perfumes, and snakeskin purses, and dozen-carat diamonds. Each saleswoman seemed the mistress of her counter, milking each customer and convincing them to buy hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise they certainly did not need, would probably never use. They dressed and wore their hair the same. The only difference between them, to me, was the varying colors of their perfect complexions.

We stopped in front of a counter featuring my mother's favorite brand of particularly expensive make up. She tore off my coat in one fluid movement and I found myself plopped into a high chair, my knees even with the edge of the glass. I absently smoothed the skirt of my deep purple party dress and studied the shadow my kitten-heeled feet cast on the brightly lit products in front of me. I wondered how hard I would need to kick to break it and what my mother's reaction would be.

I didn't pay attention to the conversation exchanged between her and the cosmetologist. I simply sat still, playing with the tasseled end of my black velvet sash, and allowed the layers of color to be smeared and blended and buffed onto my face. It smelled lightly perfumed, like flowers, not like chemicals. "We pay for the natural minerals," Mother explained once. I never understood her reasoning. To me, make up always seemed anything but natural.

A mirror was held in front of my face to gauge my reaction when the woman had finished. I looked like me, but the face in the mirror wasn't me. Her eyes were more defined, set off by a light sweep of lilac shadow and violet liner. Her lips were perfectly red, and flawlessly highlighted cheekbones. Though it wasn't the reflection I was accustomed to seeing, it wasn't disappointing, and a half-smile slowly crept back from its hiding place. I looked to my mother, as ever, for approval and she spoke to me in a way I had never heard before or since. "There," she breathed into my ear as she peered into the mirror beside me, satisfied. "Who is the fairest one of all?"

I was eleven when she whispered that phrase into my ear. It became my mantra. Some people recite verses of scripture to buoy themselves up before they wage war on the day. Others Dr. Seuss or the words of an inspirational public figure. Who's the fairest one of all? I would ask myself, hesitating before I looked up to the mirror, uneasy at the thought of confronting the reflection. I would look, set my shoulders back, and take a deep breath. You are the fairest one of all.

The face in the mirror would answer every time with her perfectly rounded, crimson lips each time I asked her. She had grown since the first time I saw her at that make up counter, my mother's smiling face next to her. Her eyes are larger, dark and unsettled, though some might call it alluring. The hair that was once limp and mousy blonde is positively golden, teased to perfection in a cascade of curls down her shoulders. Our shoulders. My shoulders.

Years ago, Mother arranged for us a standing appointment with Rafael every six weeks. Nothing stood in the way of these appointments. She simply paid off the professor who thoughtlessly scheduled a conflicting final my sophomore year of college. We'd sit beside each other with matching silk smocks as his interns shampooed, trimmed, dried, and colored our hair in matching styles. He spoke with a heavy, unidentifiable European accent, though I overheard him on a personal call once with the thickest New Jersey accent I had ever heard. We were offered lovely drinks served in colorful glasses—mineral water for me until I was old enough for the wine spritzers Mother loved. Jacques, her gray toy poodle, always sat clutched under her right arm. Jacques tended to shake like he was perpetually chilly, his frazzled curly fur sticking straight out from his ears and his little beady stare nervously flitting from sight to sight. Mother bought Jacques a red sweater to stop his shaking, but I knew better. He wasn’t cold—he was scared, and powerless, and sensible enough to know he couldn’t do a thing about it.

You are the fairest one of all. It typically took a few repetitions to make myself sound convinced. The curious gaze was never swayed.

I didn’t try to be mean to the girls in my class growing up. They found me snobbish and rude because I tended to observe, rather than participate. I was raised on comparison. Who is wealthier, who is more capable, who is more beautiful? Despite my mother’s constant assurance I was the most beautiful, it was never enough. My face, my hair, my clothes were always molded, tailored to take me one step beyond myself. I didn’t associate with most of the girls my age because I was afraid of them. Their normalcy threatened me. It made me sad.

All girls are princesses, but Haley was a princess who wore glasses. Marie had frizzy hair, and Amber was overweight for her age. Though the special care my mother took to make me the Pretty Girl made me uneasy, it also armed me with a strange sense of arrogance. The other parents didn’t want their girls to be more than mediocre. My mother didn’t love me the way I was, she loved me more. She wanted me to be better than myself—she demanded it of me. Wasn’t that an indication of how much she cared?

But my true feelings were conflicting. I felt superior to these girls, more entitled to attention, affection. At the same time I acknowledged the insecurity and recognition that I couldn’t just be me, I had to be a heightened version of me. As a child, it made me do things I didn’t understand.

Cutting geometric shapes out of construction paper in math, I played with the oversized green plastic scissors in my hand. They were hardly sharp enough to cut this paper, the ugliest shade of orange imaginable. I opened and closed them a few times, listening carefully to the gentle swish as the blades passed by each other. I looked up to the back of Taylor’s head. She was hunched over her work at the desk in front of me, at her bright yellow sweater set off her stringy, dishwater-blonde hair that rested in clumps on her back. I hated her, suddenly. I hated her hair and I hated that her parents found her appearance acceptable. It made my skin crawl with revulsion and jealousy. Before I could internalize my actions, I reached forward and snipped off a four inch chunk of that disgusting hair.

It stuck to her back, static electricity keeping it in place for the remainder of the class period. When the bell rang I already had my supplies put away and my books packed up, so I threw my royal blue backpack over my shoulder and ran out of class before the offensive hair could be discovered. I’m not sure what Taylor’s reaction was, nor the teacher’s for that matter, but no one ever blamed me for wrongdoing.

She came to class the next morning with her hair cut into a charming bob, the ends of her hair dancing level with her chin. Taylor didn’t smile for a week, but I did, proud of myself for assisting with such a needed, successful change. Mother would have been proud, too.

My favorite subject in school was science. I went on to get a degree in Chemistry at Yale, to the surprise of my high school social circle that graduated by the skin of their teeth. Pretty Girls hang around other Pretty Girls, regardless of mental capacity or scholastic achievement. Mother didn't understand my academic ambition but figured it would include me—and therefore, her—in a new class of society, a new brand of wealth and glamour. "I'm starting to see what you find appealing in these intellectual types," she teased one evening at a gala held in honor of the university's donors. She laughed like the girl she fancied herself to be, not the woman she had become—melodic and childish. Incidentally, my mother's passion for education was as fleeting as her affair with the dean.

I felt more comfortable in the lab than I had ever felt before. It was quiet, and isolated. I smirked and wondered what Mother would think of my appearance—hair pulled back tight and my face hidden beneath a set of protective goggles, a shapeless white lab coat covering my gym-sculpted body. Gloves covered my manicured nails and I wore comfortable, worn in New Balance sneakers to compensate for hours on my feet. The image would frighten her.

For my senior project I researched and developed a basic antidote for a number of poisonous household cleaning products. My professors were pleased, and encouraged me to pursue higher levels of education. Time continued to pass the way it seemed to most of my life, in an odd sort of suspended reality, blurry and distorted. I only seemed to gain clarity mixing powders and chemicals, testing their reactions and working alongside some of the most brilliant educators in the field.

Ironically, my first job out of school was with the very brand of make up my mother supplied since I was little more than a child. I began as a lab assistant, securing promotion after promotion until I began one of the chief technicians. We develop new products, testing for quality, and we always use natural ingredients. It seems so trite. It seems like a waste of my education to be limited to an industry, a line of cosmetics that does not exactly promote the schooling it took to get me here. At least I’ve got my shapeless white lab coat.

I set up a miniature laboratory in my basement. I don’t know what it is I’m trying to find or trying to prove, but I mix and assess what I can get my hands on. A small part of me is afraid I’m going to start concocting something destructive merely because I can—because I have the capacity and learning to do so. I don’t think I ever will. The knowledge that I could is enough.

I met a man last year. His name is Jacob, and he is tall and slim but strong. When he holds me, I rest my chin on his chest and look up in his face, and I can’t help but smile because he’s smiling at me. His whole face smiles—not just his mouth, but his eyes, and the little scrunch in his nose, and creases in his forehead, and his dimples. He has dimples.

Jacob has very dark hair that is not quite black, partially because it’s graying here and there. It only makes him more handsome. His is the kind of hair that just begs to be played with, and he indulges me. I love to tuck my nose into the fold of his collar because he doesn’t smell pretentious and manly, like he’s compensating for something. He smells safe, and warm, and that’s how I feel when I’m with him.

He is the CEO and co-owner of the company I work for, but is not one of those business types who is obsessed with himself and his company. I love when he pops in to see me, no matter how late he’s running for a very important meeting. He will kiss the end of my nose and tell me, “You’re so beautiful,” with this little hint of awe like he can’t believe I’d have him.

Jacob is a widower of five years, and he tells me I have reminded him that it’s possible to love again. I was worried at first, afraid I wouldn’t be able to measure up to the woman he loved for so long, but the way he looks at me, with such overwhelming adoration and tenderness, sets my heart and mind at rest. Since him, I usually forget to look myself in the mirror and repeat my morning mantra. I don’t need it anymore.

. . . . .

It has been nearly seven years since I married Jacob. We live in a perfectly lovely home, large and beautiful but not more than we need, though we could afford much more. The initial dreamlike euphoria of our relationship has not exactly worn off, but it has changed. He is as good to me as ever. He leaves me flowers at work now and then, and cooks dinner most nights in spite of his own long days. He jokes that I am the queen of this company, given his position, and should anything happen, I stand to inherit his title and all the wealth he has acquired. I don’t like it when he reminds me of that, even in joking.

Perhaps what has changed is not his affection toward me, but the way I internalize it. He has only grown more dear, more loving and patient, but I find myself suspicious, almost as though he’s got motives I can’t detect or understand. No matter how often my sensibility reassures me, there remains a sinking feeling that he wants something from me—that I’m only a trophy wife to show off at parties. I never express my concern, however. It would hurt him too much.

What worries me most is my recent dependence on my girlish mantra. Who is the fairest one of all? I have not needed to ask myself that question in years. In my marriage, I not only gained a husband, but a step-daughter from Jacob's first wife. She has always been the darling of her father’s eye, a gorgeous, if not strange looking, child. Her hair is darker than night, and her skin light and perfect as a porcelain doll. On any other child, her features would be odd and spooky, but she is so sweet and peaceful, and carries herself with such an endearing innocence.

As she’s grown I’ve realized she is what my mother always wanted me to be, only she doesn’t need changing. She is more a princess than any other little girl I’ve ever met with natural grace and beauty. Her laugh is like music, and she sings like an angel. She is becoming, without any effort, the child I should have been. She adores me, though lately I give her no reason to, and calls me Mother because I am the only one she’s ever known. Each of her faultless traits, her flawless features, increasingly grates on my nerves with each birthday, giving me less and less reason to despise her but more and more inclination to do so. I try to love her for Jacob's sake.

I’m beginning to hate her.