The Saints Of Mibba
Revelations of a Seventh Grader.
Growing up, I had always loved books and writing. They were my specialty, the reason I was considered smart. I knew how to use a pencil, and how to bend words just the right way for the right piece of writing. And yet, it wasn’t until fifth grade rolled around that I realized just how powerful these words I were using really were.
Ten going on eleven. Normal going on goth, or so the rest of my grade would come to call me. I enjoyed a band called Green Day; they were my comfort, my inspiration, my everything. I had bought American Idiot and stolen Dookie and Warning from my sister just that summer; definitely turning points leading up to who I am at the current moment. In my grade, practically no one listened to the music I was listening to, and I found this out the hard way.
There was one other person, though. I sought out refuge in a girl named Savannah who, like me, was into a different sort of band. It was not Green Day, however, it was a band who, like Green Day, meant social rejection from our narrow minded classmates. My Chemical Romance. Soon enough, she would get me into them, as well as I would get her into Green Day.
We both were ignorant, naive to the loathing our fellow pupils felt towards us. We were different in every sense of the word; we had different views on good music, we wore different clothes, we had our own opinions! To our small ten, nearly eleven year old minds, we could not have foreseen how this would soon destroy our dignity, our self esteem, and ultimately, ourselves.
Rejected by the fifth grade society ladder, the perfect little pretty girls sneering at us as they stomped on our fingers with their little half-inch heeled boots, the cute albeit tough gangsters who tackled us to the ever so lowly rung of the outcasts. The second to last rung, beaten only by a curly haired blonde girl who was poor and rather unhygienic as the keepers of the bottom step. If not for Savannah and a smart Russian born girl by the name of Catherine, I would be sleeping six feet down, buried with my eyes shut and hands crossed on my chest in a peaceful state, to never be tormented again. Sometimes, I wonder if that was what should have happened, if I had just committed suicide than I wouldn’t have to live through the pressures and drama that is currently circulating through my seventh grade life.
Yes, I was always a secret drama queen. Secret, as in that nobody knew that I thought such things, that I blew such minuscule insults and offensive actions out of proportion, unless I was crying in Gym for the umpteenth time or telling an obnoxious verbal bully to F.O.D.
Even though I was horrible at hiding it, nobody ever knew that I was a drama queen. Nobody ever read the stories that I poured my heart into, the first person suicides and angst ridden fics. No, they weren’t for the public eye until the next year, sixth grade, when I would stumble upon Mibba and finally work up the courage to share these writings.
But that year I learned far more than what my teacher ever taught us all. I learned how vicious people could be, and that those familiar faces that surrounded me on a daily basis resented the way I stood out, resented me so passionately. Never before had words directed at myself felt like stab wounds, ripping apart my flesh and leaving me for dead, to bleed out in a blinding sun. No, not until that year, I could only imagine how words such as ‘lesbian’, ‘pussy’, ‘tattle tell’, ‘suck up’, could well up such emotions to the point of near disaster. Songs such as ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ and ‘I’m Not Okay(I Promise)’ paired up with a positive way with words were the only things that would get me through the days, until sixth grade would emerge and I would be reborn, into a newer life. A fuller life.
I’m sure people on Mibba have gone through the same sort of verbal abuse and know this experience just as well as I do. It may have happened in a different grade, a different scenario, different people involved...but we, as one, have experienced it. Otherwise, how else could we be the writers that we are today? The authors of in the Internet, the messengers of passionate phrases that we, proud that such an intelligent sentence came from our skulls, show off in signatures and headlines in profiles. Only we, as a whole, can understand the depth and meaning of words, not as a dictionary entry, but as a part of who we are, and what we stand for. Words are so powerful. And without them, there would be no Mibba, and there would be no Cassie, and there would be no Saints of Mibba. There are no such things as powerless words and I, having realized that, have finally found my voice.
Ten going on eleven. Normal going on goth, or so the rest of my grade would come to call me. I enjoyed a band called Green Day; they were my comfort, my inspiration, my everything. I had bought American Idiot and stolen Dookie and Warning from my sister just that summer; definitely turning points leading up to who I am at the current moment. In my grade, practically no one listened to the music I was listening to, and I found this out the hard way.
There was one other person, though. I sought out refuge in a girl named Savannah who, like me, was into a different sort of band. It was not Green Day, however, it was a band who, like Green Day, meant social rejection from our narrow minded classmates. My Chemical Romance. Soon enough, she would get me into them, as well as I would get her into Green Day.
We both were ignorant, naive to the loathing our fellow pupils felt towards us. We were different in every sense of the word; we had different views on good music, we wore different clothes, we had our own opinions! To our small ten, nearly eleven year old minds, we could not have foreseen how this would soon destroy our dignity, our self esteem, and ultimately, ourselves.
Rejected by the fifth grade society ladder, the perfect little pretty girls sneering at us as they stomped on our fingers with their little half-inch heeled boots, the cute albeit tough gangsters who tackled us to the ever so lowly rung of the outcasts. The second to last rung, beaten only by a curly haired blonde girl who was poor and rather unhygienic as the keepers of the bottom step. If not for Savannah and a smart Russian born girl by the name of Catherine, I would be sleeping six feet down, buried with my eyes shut and hands crossed on my chest in a peaceful state, to never be tormented again. Sometimes, I wonder if that was what should have happened, if I had just committed suicide than I wouldn’t have to live through the pressures and drama that is currently circulating through my seventh grade life.
Yes, I was always a secret drama queen. Secret, as in that nobody knew that I thought such things, that I blew such minuscule insults and offensive actions out of proportion, unless I was crying in Gym for the umpteenth time or telling an obnoxious verbal bully to F.O.D.
Even though I was horrible at hiding it, nobody ever knew that I was a drama queen. Nobody ever read the stories that I poured my heart into, the first person suicides and angst ridden fics. No, they weren’t for the public eye until the next year, sixth grade, when I would stumble upon Mibba and finally work up the courage to share these writings.
But that year I learned far more than what my teacher ever taught us all. I learned how vicious people could be, and that those familiar faces that surrounded me on a daily basis resented the way I stood out, resented me so passionately. Never before had words directed at myself felt like stab wounds, ripping apart my flesh and leaving me for dead, to bleed out in a blinding sun. No, not until that year, I could only imagine how words such as ‘lesbian’, ‘pussy’, ‘tattle tell’, ‘suck up’, could well up such emotions to the point of near disaster. Songs such as ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ and ‘I’m Not Okay(I Promise)’ paired up with a positive way with words were the only things that would get me through the days, until sixth grade would emerge and I would be reborn, into a newer life. A fuller life.
I’m sure people on Mibba have gone through the same sort of verbal abuse and know this experience just as well as I do. It may have happened in a different grade, a different scenario, different people involved...but we, as one, have experienced it. Otherwise, how else could we be the writers that we are today? The authors of in the Internet, the messengers of passionate phrases that we, proud that such an intelligent sentence came from our skulls, show off in signatures and headlines in profiles. Only we, as a whole, can understand the depth and meaning of words, not as a dictionary entry, but as a part of who we are, and what we stand for. Words are so powerful. And without them, there would be no Mibba, and there would be no Cassie, and there would be no Saints of Mibba. There are no such things as powerless words and I, having realized that, have finally found my voice.
♠ ♠ ♠
by a fatal life.