I thought about its beauty and power, and knew that beyond the stars and beyond the clouds, it was there, waiting for the end of our fleeting lives.
9
HAIR AND NAILS
T ODAY WE KNOW THAT FOLLICLES AT THE BASE OF HUMAN HAIRS, FINGERNAILS, AND TOENAILS CONTAIN CELLULAR MATERIAL RICH IN DNA, WHICH CAN BE USED TO DETERMINE THE IDENTITY OF AN INDIVIDUAL. P ERHAPS IT’S NO COINCIDENCE THAT ANCIENT VOODOO DOLLS WERE PREPARED USING BITS OF HUMAN HAIR AND NAILS, BECAUSE THEY WERE BELIEVED TO COMPRISE ELEMENTS OF A PERSON’S IDENTITY . T HE DOLLS WERE OFTEN USED IN VOODOO RITUALS DESIGNED TO CONTROL, REWARD, OR PUNISH INDIVIDUALS.
I was finally in high school, and naively believed it would be a new start for me with other kids my age. It was a regional school that combined two towns: Norton and Easton. Our small-town group of Easton students did not know the Norton students, and so none of them knew our past. I believed we all secretly wanted to hide our former selves. The girls who were chubby and made fun of, the boys who had peed their pants in second grade, and those caught picking their noses—all wanted their stories to die in the past along with our preteen years and last year’s clothing styles.
This was not a school of higher learning, but an alliance of fallen souls. It was an experiment in socialism and power play executed on a group of same-aged beings desperately trying to find themselves in a culture of unforgiving greed and dominance. Those of us from the Easton schools wanted a new start more than anything—geeks and losers getting a chance to become popular and cool.
Every day I woke up at 6:00 a.m., moments after the sun rose, and prepared for war. We marched into the school building like bloodthirsty zombies out to get tortured—not by our teachers, but by each other—as we tore one another apart, flesh from bone. As the blood and goodness bled out, nothing remained but anguish and despair. The teenage mind and social system is an atom bomb wrapped in denim and designer clothes, drenched in perfume and cologne, and steered by an intellect that thinks it knows everything.
I decided not to tell the new students about my gymnastics. I was already filled with self-hatred that simmered daily to a boil, and I couldn’t stand to add to that. I couldn’t allow the teasing to grow, and I had to strategically reinvent myself. I strived to conceal the passion and love for the art that gave purpose to my life. I tried other sports to fit in, but they just didn’t feel right. I was good at soccer, but my deep romance with movement wouldn’t let me go. Like two star-crossed lovers, gymnastics and I were going to die together.
The new kids in school from Norton were more socially advanced than us in every way. We were the good kids suddenly introduced to a pool of new people who smoked weed, drank beer, and had sex. It seemed like heaven and hell were colliding. Sure, we were teenagers, but I think we were more like angels and demons creating a social nightmare while having to learn irrelevant and untenable things for a future that was permanently held above our heads. As much as we tried to study and become good students, curses and evil intentions won over our minds, and the difference between right and wrong became impossible to tell. In our teenage years we were completely powerless over all of that, but I was determined not to fall victim to peer pressure. I had firsthand experiences at home of the destructive and insidious nature of drinking and smoking, and I knew those temptations would pull me away from my Olympic dreams.
High school is an exaggerated microcosm of the world in which we live, and despite my attempts at disguising myself, I could not hide who I was. Everyone knew I was a gymnast. The sides between towns crossed, and the pasts we secretly swore to keep were told. The ridicule I heard made it excruciating to love what I did. Theteasing got worse than it had been in middle and junior high
9
HAIR AND NAILS
T ODAY WE KNOW THAT FOLLICLES AT THE BASE OF HUMAN HAIRS, FINGERNAILS, AND TOENAILS CONTAIN CELLULAR MATERIAL RICH IN DNA, WHICH CAN BE USED TO DETERMINE THE IDENTITY OF AN INDIVIDUAL. P ERHAPS IT’S NO COINCIDENCE THAT ANCIENT VOODOO DOLLS WERE PREPARED USING BITS OF HUMAN HAIR AND NAILS, BECAUSE THEY WERE BELIEVED TO COMPRISE ELEMENTS OF A PERSON’S IDENTITY . T HE DOLLS WERE OFTEN USED IN VOODOO RITUALS DESIGNED TO CONTROL, REWARD, OR PUNISH INDIVIDUALS.
I was finally in high school, and naively believed it would be a new start for me with other kids my age. It was a regional school that combined two towns: Norton and Easton. Our small-town group of Easton students did not know the Norton students, and so none of them knew our past. I believed we all secretly wanted to hide our former selves. The girls who were chubby and made fun of, the boys who had peed their pants in second grade, and those caught picking their noses—all wanted their stories to die in the past along with our preteen years and last year’s clothing styles.
This was not a school of higher learning, but an alliance of fallen souls. It was an experiment in socialism and power play executed on a group of same-aged beings desperately trying to find themselves in a culture of unforgiving greed and dominance. Those of us from the Easton schools wanted a new start more than anything—geeks and losers getting a chance to become popular and cool.
Every day I woke up at 6:00 a.m., moments after the sun rose, and prepared for war. We marched into the school building like bloodthirsty zombies out to get tortured—not by our teachers, but by each other—as we tore one another apart, flesh from bone. As the blood and goodness bled out, nothing remained but anguish and despair. The teenage mind and social system is an atom bomb wrapped in denim and designer clothes, drenched in perfume and cologne, and steered by an intellect that thinks it knows everything.
I decided not to tell the new students about my gymnastics. I was already filled with self-hatred that simmered daily to a boil, and I couldn’t stand to add to that. I couldn’t allow the teasing to grow, and I had to strategically reinvent myself. I strived to conceal the passion and love for the art that gave purpose to my life. I tried other sports to fit in, but they just didn’t feel right. I was good at soccer, but my deep romance with movement wouldn’t let me go. Like two star-crossed lovers, gymnastics and I were going to die together.
The new kids in school from Norton were more socially advanced than us in every way. We were the good kids suddenly introduced to a pool of new people who smoked weed, drank beer, and had sex. It seemed like heaven and hell were colliding. Sure, we were teenagers, but I think we were more like angels and demons creating a social nightmare while having to learn irrelevant and untenable things for a future that was permanently held above our heads. As much as we tried to study and become good students, curses and evil intentions won over our minds, and the difference between right and wrong became impossible to tell. In our teenage years we were completely powerless over all of that, but I was determined not to fall victim to peer pressure. I had firsthand experiences at home of the destructive and insidious nature of drinking and smoking, and I knew those temptations would pull me away from my Olympic dreams.
High school is an exaggerated microcosm of the world in which we live, and despite my attempts at disguising myself, I could not hide who I was. Everyone knew I was a gymnast. The sides between towns crossed, and the pasts we secretly swore to keep were told. The ridicule I heard made it excruciating to love what I did. Theteasing got worse than it had been in middle and junior high
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