Number One

So this is where it has to stop.

Well, not completely stop. But begin, I guess.

The stopping of the voices of everyone else. The end of the suppression of my own voice. The beginning of daring myself to have the courage to be who I am, and stop trying to be what everyone else has always wanted of me.

It's no small step. Even just starting, here and now, I stand on the verge of a sublime emotion caught up between thrill and complete vulnerability. How do I navigate through this, when I feel like I only just realised it had to be done?

How can a person who was always guilted into surrendering to others stop that attachment to guilt, chop down the proverbial jungle plants in my path, and feel strong enough after the fallout, after the shit hits the fan, to continue?

I don't know, obviously. This is my uncharted terrain, attempting to make sense os my situation as best I can with some bottled water and a keyboard, the sound of the dryer thumping making the floor vibrate beneath my bare feet.

I've read so many things tonite. I believe fate guiding my mouse here and there, the day passing in a blur of firefox tabs and stories so sad that I wanted to reach out and pull the person to me and hold them safe and still.

So, the beginning. Picking through the memories that trail behind me like bad cologne.

My parents are from the former Yugoslavia, moved to Chicago soon after marriage. My brother was born in Chicago and I followed 11 years later, born in Arizona in 1982.

My conception was no small miracle. From the details I've been able to gather, after my brother was born my mom had some type of birth control device implanted in her nether-region. It was metal of some sort. When it came time that they weren't completely dirt poor and wanted to have another kid, my mom went to get the device removed. For some time after, they had no luck conceiving. She feared that the device had somehow screwed up her insides. After visiting another doctor, they were advised to move to a warmer climate, I suppose to help stimulate the ovaries.

So basically I was, as I like to say, smoked out.

Moving on....

I'm very young. I don't know how young. I looked perfectly normal for my age, even cute. I had long, naturally blonde hair. I was a firestarter, often causing fights between my brother and I.

I remember my dad had gotten me a small kitchenette set as a gift (one of those child-sized ones). It was made entirely of sheets of metal, painted to look like a kitchen. I was disappointed to say the least. Even at that age it was obvious my dad opted for the cheap alternative to the type I actually wanted. Though I remember thinking to myself that I wouldn't say anything, lest I make him feel bad about it. A few minutes at a time, my brother would put it together for me little by little. The most interesting and interactive aspect of this kitchenette was it did have a "cabinet" along the bottom, that actually opened. I vaguely recall mixing something green into my dad's shaving cream and storing these "pies" inside that cabinet.

Being a child of parents born outside of an English-speaking country, I inherited an unusual, difficult-to-pronounce name. This name was the first true bane of my existance. Children being essentially ignorant little creatures, I was teased because of my name. One day at school in particular we were assigned the task of going to the library and doing "research" to find the name of an animal that begins with the same letter our first names began with. Mine being a "J", I found "Jaguar" and was satisfied with this choice. When we all returned to class, we were made to sit in a large circle and one by one recite our name along with the animal. I think I can remember my best friend, Taylor, had picked "Toucan." When it came to be my turn, I stated my name and "Jaguar." My teacher insisted that that was incorrect....that I needed an animal with a Y sound (in my name, the J is pronounced as a Y). When she asked the kids what animal would work, they all, somehow, came up with the colourful "Yak." Much to their sniggering delight. Well, I did what I was told, it hadn't been my fault the teacher wasn't more specific to begin with. A yak wasn't exactly a noble creature for a little girl to pair her name with.

Maybe that's when my feelings of masculinity began.

But I'll continue that next time. It's past 4am, and rest is much needed.