Today I forgot to pay attention. It's such a little thing, really, and yet, its consequences are vast. For me, "paying attention" doesn't necessarily just mean listening, it means watching, observing, learning where the other person is coming from. It was at break, and my friends were deeply imbedded in a talk (well, a criticism, really) about how two of our friends act in regards to LGBTQI stuff. (I say stuff because it covers a large spectrum of things, and this is what I mean). They were deeply engaged, almost jumping over one another in order to be heard. I, in my corner, was bored. Being friends with who I am fiends with means that this topic, if it isn't the central focus of the conversation, is at least mentioned in regards to almost anything else. Usually, I pay attention. I listen carefully, and add my own thoughts, because it is an issue that is important to me too, although nowhere near as much as it is for them. But today, I was sick of it. Sick of it being the focus of every conversation, of our everyday interactions with one another. I just wanted to talk about something, anything else. So I sat in my corner and fumed. Looking back on it, although I still wish we talked about something else more often, that whatever else we do talk about doesn't carry so much weight, and that maybe current events could carry just a little less weight, I know I should have payed attention. I should have recognized that where they stand, where they are coming from, these LGBTQI issues ARE the central focus of their lives. That it matters more than anything how these issues are treated, not just by lawmakers and people like myself on the outside looking in, but also by people who are members of the community.
I had just come in from outdoors, where I had just finished the process of measuring and photographing my newest insect catches, when my mom asked me if I had closed the garage door, a question she always asks me, to which I always answer, “Of course”. This time however, I thought for a moment, and realized I didn’t know. I raced down the stairs, through the hallway, and burst into the garage. I had forgotten. The right garage door was wide open. This was a problem. A particularly annoying chipmunk had set up home around our house, and I hadn’t been able to catch him yet. He repaid my capture efforts with a will to enter my garage and wreak havoc. Sometimes he just scared the daylights out of us at night, sometimes he chewed into my bug food containers and ate everything, and, worst of all, he sometimes ate my prized specimens. I knew that every second the garage door was open was all the more probability that he had slipped inside. I walked over to my insect table to take a look around. Suddenly I heard a scurrying motion and saw him disappear into the boiler room. Ugh. Now I was in for it. I went into the boiler room. No sign of the little trickster. I walked out, and sat at my table. Pretending to be engrossed in something, I hunched my back and peered behind me. The chipmunk poked his head out of the boiler room, then jumped to the edge of the garage door, where he looked outside. Thinking that if I scared him now, he’d run out, I lept up and yelled. He darted right around me and back into the boiler room. I sighed in frustration. This one wasn’t going to go down so easily.
One day in seventh grade we had just come in from our morning recess. Out of breath, cheeks rosy from the cold of late fall, the four of us sat down and without being told got out our math notebooks. The assignment had been short and easy. We were on a geometry chapter, which I always understood better than the algebra, and were drawing figures (they had to be perfectly accurate), finding angles and perimeters and areas and volumes. We had had two exercises for homework; each with an identical A and B. Essentially, we had four figures to reproduce exactly, and four areas (or volumes or perimeters; I can't remember which) to find. My teacher (a kind woman, though one who adhered very firmly to all rules without exceptions) looked at my homework. And pointed out to me that I hadn't done the second problem. My stomach dropped. I realized how it had happened; I had done the two parts of the first problem and inattentively thought I'd done both problems. It was a genuine mistake that no one would have worried about anywhere but at the French School. My teacher was not angry, but she was firm. I would have to lose a card. (To address the issue of people not doing their homework, we were given ten squares of paper at the beginning of the year. One had to be turned in for each missed assignment; whoever had the most at the end of the year won a prize.) It was the first card I lost and the only one that I would ever lose; in fact, I can count the number of times in my life that I have forgotten to my homework on the fingers of one hand. The incident was a minor one in everyone's eyes but mine. Congregating with the three other seventh graders (all girls) in the bathroom two hours later, I looked at myself in the mirror. "How do I look?" I asked. "Like you spent the last two hours crying," someone answered.
I have never thought of myself as a forgetful person. I write all of my assignments down, I keep most of my belongings organized, but every once in a while, something gets misplaced. The days leading up to my first day at Waynflete were stressful ones. I was prepared almost a month ahead of time. I was so nervous, possibly more than I have ever been in my life. I was not ready to enter this new world. The night before my first day, I laid everything out on my floor in my room. That morning I woke up half an hour before my alarm went off, and started getting ready. I put on my nice cute outfit I had planned for the day, I had breakfast, I brushed my teeth, and I was ready to go. I hopped into my moms car, and we were on our way. The whole ride up, I was feeling as though I had forgotten something, but I was convinced I didn't. We got off the turnpike in Portland, and it hit me. I had left my backpack at home. I was late on my first day, and I have not forgotten it since.
I hate when I forget the time. I have four clocks in my room and are constantly checking them. I set timers on my phone when I want to get something done at home, like showering or doing laundry, so I can do it efficiently. Most nights, I plan out when I will do my homework, when I will eat dinner, etc. Those rare moments that I lose track of time, or something takes longer than I originally thought, my heart begins to race and I immediately feel lost. This is also why I hate being late and I hate when people I am meeting are late. I don't like it when something that affects me is out of my control and it is comforting to know that I am always in control of the time.
I do not forget often, but when I do, my family does not let it go for a while. The other day, my parents reminded of a time I forgot while in middle school, which I, ironically, had forgotten about. It was a Wednesday, school got out around twelve, and my dad took time off from work to go out to lunch with me before my first basketball game of the season. My dad and I ate slowly, but mostly laughed at each other’s bad jokes, thinking we had plenty of time to kill. After lunch we walked and drove around Portland, trying to pass the time when my mother called. She wished me good luck and began listing everything I should have packed the night before. She did this all the time, and still does, so I half-listened as I answered yes automatically. Then she said the word sneakers. MY heart suddenly felt heavy. How could I forget basketball sneakers? Thirty minutes until the game and I forgot my sneakers. After casually passing the time we were thrown into a rush to find a pair of size six basketball sneakers. We ran into the first store we could find and bought the first pair we found. I arrived at the game just as the warm up was starting. I remember that we won that game, but I had blisters.
Right now Diana, my second mother, is away. She is down in Florida seeing her mother. So now it is just me and Lee and let me tell you I will appreciate what Diana does when she gets back. Diana is the inhouse “homemaker” and she does everything from making meals and cleaning up for the night to gardening and cleaning. Lee works Tuesday through Friday and when she works I have to make dinner and clean up. On Tuesday I forgot to clean up. My mom came home after her long day and was greeted by a kitchen that looked more like a disaster zone. She didn’t say anything but I feel like that was my responsibility and I forgot. Well, at least now I will be able to appreciate what Diana is doing when she finally gets home and I won’t have to worry about the kitchen anymore.
It was a day of hurry and rushing. I had to find the keys to look for something in the car, I don't recall what it is only that it was incredibly urgent. I searched all over the house, frantically turning over the couches and rugs. It was so frustrating! I just had it in my hand but, I didn't remember where I put it. So, I retraced my steps, going through the motions of coming in the door, walking to the kitchen, my room, the basement. I even checked in the laundry, worried that it might've dropped in the bucket I had been looking in earlier. I didn't know where the spares were either and, my mother couldn't help because she was busy, and no one else was home. Quickly, I look in the last place I would ever think of, underneath the couches. I doubt they were under there anyways but, I was desperate. I reached my right hand under the couch, trying to feel for it but, for some reason, I couldn't grasp anything with my hand. I tried a couple more times, but it was like my hands just couldn't work anymore. A panicky and frustrated feeling bubbled up in my chest and I wrenched my hand back to find out the reason I couldn't grasp anything with my hands was because I already had something in them. The keys.
Today I forgot to pay attention. It's such a little thing, really, and yet, its consequences are vast. For me, "paying attention" doesn't necessarily just mean listening, it means watching, observing, learning where the other person is coming from. It was at break, and my friends were deeply imbedded in a talk (well, a criticism, really) about how two of our friends act in regards to LGBTQI stuff. (I say stuff because it covers a large spectrum of things, and this is what I mean). They were deeply engaged, almost jumping over one another in order to be heard. I, in my corner, was bored. Being friends with who I am fiends with means that this topic, if it isn't the central focus of the conversation, is at least mentioned in regards to almost anything else. Usually, I pay attention. I listen carefully, and add my own thoughts, because it is an issue that is important to me too, although nowhere near as much as it is for them. But today, I was sick of it. Sick of it being the focus of every conversation, of our everyday interactions with one another. I just wanted to talk about something, anything else. So I sat in my corner and fumed.
ReplyDeleteLooking back on it, although I still wish we talked about something else more often, that whatever else we do talk about doesn't carry so much weight, and that maybe current events could carry just a little less weight, I know I should have payed attention. I should have recognized that where they stand, where they are coming from, these LGBTQI issues ARE the central focus of their lives. That it matters more than anything how these issues are treated, not just by lawmakers and people like myself on the outside looking in, but also by people who are members of the community.
I had just come in from outdoors, where I had just finished the process of measuring and photographing my newest insect catches, when my mom asked me if I had closed the garage door, a question she always asks me, to which I always answer, “Of course”. This time however, I thought for a moment, and realized I didn’t know. I raced down the stairs, through the hallway, and burst into the garage. I had forgotten. The right garage door was wide open. This was a problem. A particularly annoying chipmunk had set up home around our house, and I hadn’t been able to catch him yet. He repaid my capture efforts with a will to enter my garage and wreak havoc. Sometimes he just scared the daylights out of us at night, sometimes he chewed into my bug food containers and ate everything, and, worst of all, he sometimes ate my prized specimens. I knew that every second the garage door was open was all the more probability that he had slipped inside. I walked over to my insect table to take a look around. Suddenly I heard a scurrying motion and saw him disappear into the boiler room. Ugh. Now I was in for it. I went into the boiler room. No sign of the little trickster. I walked out, and sat at my table. Pretending to be engrossed in something, I hunched my back and peered behind me. The chipmunk poked his head out of the boiler room, then jumped to the edge of the garage door, where he looked outside. Thinking that if I scared him now, he’d run out, I lept up and yelled. He darted right around me and back into the boiler room. I sighed in frustration. This one wasn’t going to go down so easily.
ReplyDeleteOne day in seventh grade we had just come in from our morning recess. Out of breath, cheeks rosy from the cold of late fall, the four of us sat down and without being told got out our math notebooks. The assignment had been short and easy. We were on a geometry chapter, which I always understood better than the algebra, and were drawing figures (they had to be perfectly accurate), finding angles and perimeters and areas and volumes. We had had two exercises for homework; each with an identical A and B. Essentially, we had four figures to reproduce exactly, and four areas (or volumes or perimeters; I can't remember which) to find. My teacher (a kind woman, though one who adhered very firmly to all rules without exceptions) looked at my homework. And pointed out to me that I hadn't done the second problem. My stomach dropped. I realized how it had happened; I had done the two parts of the first problem and inattentively thought I'd done both problems. It was a genuine mistake that no one would have worried about anywhere but at the French School. My teacher was not angry, but she was firm. I would have to lose a card. (To address the issue of people not doing their homework, we were given ten squares of paper at the beginning of the year. One had to be turned in for each missed assignment; whoever had the most at the end of the year won a prize.) It was the first card I lost and the only one that I would ever lose; in fact, I can count the number of times in my life that I have forgotten to my homework on the fingers of one hand. The incident was a minor one in everyone's eyes but mine. Congregating with the three other seventh graders (all girls) in the bathroom two hours later, I looked at myself in the mirror. "How do I look?" I asked. "Like you spent the last two hours crying," someone answered.
ReplyDeleteI have never thought of myself as a forgetful person. I write all of my assignments down, I keep most of my belongings organized, but every once in a while, something gets misplaced. The days leading up to my first day at Waynflete were stressful ones. I was prepared almost a month ahead of time. I was so nervous, possibly more than I have ever been in my life. I was not ready to enter this new world. The night before my first day, I laid everything out on my floor in my room. That morning I woke up half an hour before my alarm went off, and started getting ready. I put on my nice cute outfit I had planned for the day, I had breakfast, I brushed my teeth, and I was ready to go. I hopped into my moms car, and we were on our way. The whole ride up, I was feeling as though I had forgotten something, but I was convinced I didn't. We got off the turnpike in Portland, and it hit me. I had left my backpack at home. I was late on my first day, and I have not forgotten it since.
ReplyDeleteI hate when I forget the time. I have four clocks in my room and are constantly checking them. I set timers on my phone when I want to get something done at home, like showering or doing laundry, so I can do it efficiently. Most nights, I plan out when I will do my homework, when I will eat dinner, etc. Those rare moments that I lose track of time, or something takes longer than I originally thought, my heart begins to race and I immediately feel lost. This is also why I hate being late and I hate when people I am meeting are late. I don't like it when something that affects me is out of my control and it is comforting to know that I am always in control of the time.
ReplyDeleteI do not forget often, but when I do, my family does not let it go for a while. The other day, my parents reminded of a time I forgot while in middle school, which I, ironically, had forgotten about. It was a Wednesday, school got out around twelve, and my dad took time off from work to go out to lunch with me before my first basketball game of the season. My dad and I ate slowly, but mostly laughed at each other’s bad jokes, thinking we had plenty of time to kill. After lunch we walked and drove around Portland, trying to pass the time when my mother called. She wished me good luck and began listing everything I should have packed the night before. She did this all the time, and still does, so I half-listened as I answered yes automatically. Then she said the word sneakers. MY heart suddenly felt heavy. How could I forget basketball sneakers? Thirty minutes until the game and I forgot my sneakers. After casually passing the time we were thrown into a rush to find a pair of size six basketball sneakers. We ran into the first store we could find and bought the first pair we found. I arrived at the game just as the warm up was starting. I remember that we won that game, but I had blisters.
ReplyDeleteRight now Diana, my second mother, is away. She is down in Florida seeing her mother. So now it is just me and Lee and let me tell you I will appreciate what Diana does when she gets back. Diana is the inhouse “homemaker” and she does everything from making meals and cleaning up for the night to gardening and cleaning. Lee works Tuesday through Friday and when she works I have to make dinner and clean up. On Tuesday I forgot to clean up. My mom came home after her long day and was greeted by a kitchen that looked more like a disaster zone. She didn’t say anything but I feel like that was my responsibility and I forgot. Well, at least now I will be able to appreciate what Diana is doing when she finally gets home and I won’t have to worry about the kitchen anymore.
ReplyDeleteIt was a day of hurry and rushing. I had to find the keys to look for something in the car, I don't recall what it is only that it was incredibly urgent. I searched all over the house, frantically turning over the couches and rugs. It was so frustrating! I just had it in my hand but, I didn't remember where I put it. So, I retraced my steps, going through the motions of coming in the door, walking to the kitchen, my room, the basement. I even checked in the laundry, worried that it might've dropped in the bucket I had been looking in earlier. I didn't know where the spares were either and, my mother couldn't help because she was busy, and no one else was home. Quickly, I look in the last place I would ever think of, underneath the couches. I doubt they were under there anyways but, I was desperate. I reached my right hand under the couch, trying to feel for it but, for some reason, I couldn't grasp anything with my hand. I tried a couple more times, but it was like my hands just couldn't work anymore. A panicky and frustrated feeling bubbled up in my chest and I wrenched my hand back to find out the reason I couldn't grasp anything with my hands was because I already had something in them. The keys.
ReplyDelete