Declaration

By Rebecca Messmann

ENGL 112B: Dr. Warner

December 2, 2009

My goal in writing is to show teenagers that they are not the center of the universe. High school students can tend to be dramatic and care obsessively about things that are no longer important after graduation. No matter what others tell them, especially adults, they have a hard time believing until they figure it out for themselves. Hopefully the example provided in the story will both encourage teens to focus on others instead of themselves and recognize those young heroes who are already trying, while not being overly didactic. While many young adults struggle with important, real problems, I do not mean to trivialize their need to seek help or worry about serious conditions. Instead I am directing the book to help those suffering from bad hair days, date-less proms, or a failed test to become more selfless and think of the broader picture outside of teenagehood.

            The young adult problem novel is about Hannah, a high school student whose parents are divorcing and she has to find herself at a new school. The main focus of the story is to get Hannah to realize that things are not the end of the world. She is going through difficult challenges, but such is life. She will begin serving those less fortunate at a women's shelter and become grateful for the blessings she has been given as she meets wise and loving women who have had too much reality. She learns that life is service, and that true happiness comes from helping others.

“It’s my declaration / to anyone who’s listening,” the David Cook lyrics blasted as my mom and I sped away from my childhood home.

“You’re my inspiration / as I stand alone against the world,” Mom joined David at the top of her lungs. She looked over at me and looked genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. Her palms pounded the steering wheel and her eyes closed as her head tilted up to let the music sink in.

I was sitting shotgun, trying to take it in. I wasn’t in the mood to sing. Should you be singing when you’re leaving behind 20 years of marriage?

“Why so sullen?” mom asks me, “we’re finally free!” I smile enough to placate and mouth the words of the song along with her. It’s not that I’m not happy. But I’m not angry, or heart broken, or anything else, either. If you’re just feeling empty, how do you describe that? I might as well call it happy.

We moved to our house when I was a baby, so of course I don’t remember living anyplace else. As I left that night, I pictured all the blanket and chair forts that had been built in that living room, all the hours spent jumping and sleeping on the trampoline in the backyard, the wall where my brother and my growth spurts had been recorded over the years.

It is weird to think that home wouldn’t be home anymore. My bike is still in the backyard. My cat is still roaming the familiar streets. But at least Mom was finally happy.

Her life was being drained at home with my dad. Or so she told him that night. She said it was exhausting trying to stay there and act happy when she wasn’t. It was also exhausting trying to pretend to the world that your parents were happily married and you had such a nice, little, picturesque family. And I guess on the outside, we did. It was just the inside that was so messy.

“I know you don’t want to have to move and share a room with your mother, but this really is for the best,” Mom told me. The David Cook song had been turned down, which meant a serious conversation was about to ensue. We had a thirty minute drive to our new place; ten repeats of “Declaration.”

I told Mom I felt a little badly for Dad, living in that big empty house by himself. My brother lives across the country now with his new wife, so all dad has now was the cat. “He put it upon himself, Hannah. He never loved us. I’m sorry to be so blunt with you, but it’s true. If he loved us, he would have taken care of us. And he never did.”

I guess she was right. He never did anything to show that he loved Mom. No romantic getaways or bringing home flowers. Not even an “I love you.” Ever. How do you live with someone your whole life and they never tell you they love you? I hadn’t seen my parents hug or kiss in years. Not since elementary school. And even then it was always just a quick peck as he left for work.

We didn’t do anything together or ever really talk anymore. Oh, well. I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody to take care of me. I’m practically an adult. I can take care of myself.

We got to the apartment and I started unpacking my things. I really didn’t have much. My clothes were still on hangers and my shoes still in their compartments. I put them in the closet, and my toiletry bag in the bathroom. There. Done. Just like home.

I went to alphabetize the movies in the living room. Then I fluffed the pillows and sat down. We had up and moved our whole lives and I was already done replacing it all. That was a depressing thought. I was not supposed to have those. Mom said I need to think positively and project only happy thoughts into The Universe. She’s very big on The Universe these days.

I went to the kitchen and started opening the boxes and planning where to put them. I’d only ever had them one way before. But this kitchen was way too small to keep the same format. My mom left things like this to me. She says I have spatial awareness. I tried many configurations with those dishes and pots, but nothing fit properly in the tiny cupboards. We needed more space. Or less dishes. After rearranging them enough to get the doors to close, I sat down again. They were not very aesthetically pleasing, but at least we could locate what we needed.

Back in my room, I mean our room, mom was on the bed. It did not look like she was projecting positive thoughts. It looked like she was crying her eyes out. Was this better? At least she’s grieving the death of her marriage and not celebrating it. But would I rather have her blissfully singing or sobbing into her pillow?

I wish I could comfort her. I wish I could just go lay next to her. Or let her head rest on my shoulder and we could just cry softly together. But that’s not how it is with us. It would be very awkward. Instead we just sit there. Mom’s crying and we’re both avoiding eye contact at all costs. I’m not sure if I should say something. She’s the one that’s been telling me all this time how this is the right thing, and aren’t we going to be just so happy.

I decide to get ready for bed. When I come back from the bathroom, mom is also in her pajamas, curled up in her bed. She turns her ipod back on, quieter this time. I hear the familiar album once more. I swear my mom only left my dad because she thinks she has a chance with David Cook.

I hate Mondays. Fridays we play, Saturdays we work, Sundays we rest, then the remainder of the week we just sit around bored waiting for Friday again. This Monday is especially sucky because I have to go to the new school. I’ve been at my same school since elementary. I took that for granted. Now that we live further away and we’re on one income, I can’t go there anymore. Mom says now that we’re in a nicer neighborhood public school will be better, I just need to think optimistically. It’s hard to think optimistically on a Monday.

Maybe I should just start school tomorrow. Let everyone else get first day jitters out of the way before I show up. Mom does not think of this as positive thinking. She says not to be afraid, I’m a lovely girl and will have no problems making friends. I think about this as she drives me to school. I can’t remember the last time I made a new friend. It feels like I’ve always just sort of had them.

Mom drops me off and I stare up at the daunting campus. Two story buildings. Everywhere. I have no clue where I am. Mom wanted to bring me over this weekend to find all my classrooms and make sure I knew where the bathrooms and everything were, but I thought I could figure it out on my own. I wasn’t anticipating the campus would be so huge.

I had just enough time to find my first class, Wind Ensemble, before the tardy bell rang. Our teacher’s cool. He doesn’t care about talking as long as you play your part and you can eat as long as you don’t spill on his new carpets. That’s what he called them, too. His carpets. He had all the new students, meaning the freshmen and me, introduce ourselves. That’s so stupid. Why should all the other students know our names, and we don’t get to learn theirs?

Lunch was lame. It’s like when you’re little and your best friend is out sick, so you sit with secondary friends. Only I don’t have any friends at all here, so I was going to have to eat alone. I went to the band room to get my lunch. The lockers were removed several years ago for drug and weapon problems, so our teacher lets us keep our junk in the band room cubbies.

When I walked in, there were a few kids already eating there. They had music stands propped up to lay their food out on. Some were filling in the first day of school information sheets. A few were playing around in the corner. Some were napping on chairs in the back row. I sat by the ones eating, close enough to look like maybe I was with them.

I just ate my peanut butter sandwich and allowed a little self pity thinking. Not too much, of course. My mom could tell when I’d been allowing negative thoughts. She said her new hearing aids were so good she could read my thoughts. I didn’t doubt it.

I walked home from school feeling defeated. I wanted to cry so badly. It made my throat hurt from holding it down. After band, I had been late to every class. I hadn’t met a potential friend yet. My shoulders were bruised from people shoving past and pounding into me. And we even got a homework assignment in History. We have to find an organization to do community service with for this huge project we do all year. Who gives homework the first day? And why do we have to start now when it’s not even due until the end of the year?

I got close to the apartment and let myself go. By the time I got my pajamas on and into bed the crying had made my head start to pound. I curled up and slept it away.

When mom came home, I could tell her day hadn’t been much better than mine. She’s a teacher, so it was her first day of classes, too. She said I needed to get my lazy bones out of bed and we’d have a nice, peaceful family dinner. She had brought home Japanese food. It’s my favorite. But can you really call it family dinner when it’s just us two? And we’re eating take-out?

It wasn’t until second period the next day that I realized I hadn’t chosen a place to serve my time. I went to the library at break to use the computers. Stupid idea. They were all full and by the time someone left one I was running short on time. I tried to log onto the server, but didn’t have a password. I waited in line to ask the librarian for help only to have her say I needed my ID card, which I didn’t have. I asked her where to get one and she didn’t know. I figured I should ask the front office, but I had no idea where that was.

I was never told I needed a student ID. Why don’t they tell kids these things? I couldn’t have been the first new student here. There are thousands of us. Was I seriously the only one who didn’t know this? I even read the whole stupid welcome packet the school sent my mom. Nowhere in it was anything about how to get a magic card. I looked about frantically, hoping she would offer some help. Maybe just let me on a computer just this once. She turned to help the next kid and the bell rang. I wanted to cry again.

I left the library missing my old school. My old school where everyone just knew me already. There were nice librarians, who were all helpful and wrote you a pass if you weren’t finished and were going to be late for class. And I would be able to get to class anyway because I knew where they all were. And there weren’t a million students, there were only a few hundred. Where I had teachers who trusted me and knew I was a good student. I could say I forgot to do the assignment and they would let me turn it in later. Now I’d have to come up with some excuse.

But no. I was here. I was in a new city and new school and all alone. I didn’t have my assignment ready and forgot where the class was held anyway, so I just slipped into the bathroom. I willed myself not to cry. I did not need to be red and blotchy the rest of the day. I already had dark circles and bags under my eyes from yesterday’s debacle. As the second bell rang a man walked into the bathroom. Was this or was this not the lady’s room? He stayed in the doorway, though, and just called out, “Get to class!” My heart started racing. I didn’t know they checked on these sort of things. I flushed the toilet, pretending I wasn’t ditching, and ran out the door.

Even if he believed I was going to the bathroom, he probably thought I was gross because I didn’t wash my hands. Oh, well. I scurried around aimlessly until I found history. I slipped into my desk and my hippie teacher said nothing. Maybe he didn’t notice I was late. Maybe that’s the one advantage of a big school; you can disappear if you want to.

When I got home I looked up the Helping Hands Women’s Shelter. That’s where I’d be spending my time until the end of the school year. Turns out the majority of the class didn’t pick a place to serve. The teacher passed around a list of options and you could just sign up for whatever you wanted. I was glad I wasn’t called out, but annoyed I had unnecessarily stressed about it. Why couldn’t he just tell us before that if you didn’t have a particular place you wanted you could just choose one in class? Whatever. By the time the sign-up sheet got to me the only openings were for the women’s shelter, old folk’s home, or pound. I’m not really into old people or animals, so abused women it is.

You had to put in enough hours there to “learn that life is service.” Why couldn’t he just tell us how many to do? What if I learn it after 4 hours? Will I fail? Does he expect like 100 hours? I have a lot of homework already and it’s only the second day of school. When would he like me to do all of these service hours? Weekends? I think not. And is it better to front load them? Like do them all this semester and be done with it, or should I space them out?

I just want some guidelines. A rubric, perhaps. They would never get away with this kind of crap at my old school. Too many parent complaints. I doubt parental involvement is an issue at this school.

Saturday Mom dropped me off at helping Hands on her way to Yoga. I planned on learning that life was service, so I could be done. This place gave me weird vibes. The shelter’s director had other plans for me.

“Hannah? Great. Welcome. So, today you can just read up on what we do and how we do it. I’ll give you a tour of the place and then answer any questions you might have. We’re very protective of our guests, so I won’t have you interacting with anybody until I’m sure you’ll be a great match,” she explained.

I started reading the booklets she handed me. This was going to take all afternoon. I thought she’d be grateful to have a volunteer and I could just babysit or hand out clothes or something. Mom wasn’t coming back for two hours. I could already tell this was going to be a long day. And I’d probably be back next week.

Declaration

By Rebecca Messmann

Eng 112B: Dr. Warner

December 2, 2009