Prologue: The 8th Day
On the 8th day, God created Taylor Hanson. He is a creation truly in himself, worked like clay slowly and thoroughly in the Creator’s hands. He is a masterpiece- a tour de force. Anyone who tries to compete with the beauty, the charm, the talent of Taylor Hanson is left in the dust. It is no contest. And I know I’ve said it time and time again, but he isn’t simply perfect. His imperfections cast his perfection. He doesn’t feel the same way about me. He sees me as simple perfection without the imperfections at all. He doesn’t see me as flawed. In the eyes of Taylor, I am a goddess who can do no wrong. He doesn’t notice my lame jokes, poor balance in heels, and habit of dipping my sleeve in my ketchup. He sees me as Athena herself- overpowering all odds and coming out stronger for it.
It puts a lot of pressure on a person, if you can imagine. If he thinks I am not capable of failure, what happens when he finally catches on? I have to wonder if he will still want me when he opens his eyes and for the first time realizes that I am nothing but a little girl dressed up in a bed sheet toga with a tinfoil spear at my side.
Somehow being poor has made me a hero in Taylor’s eyes. The house with peeling paint, the faded and torn clothing, the bike ride to school…I guess it all makes me a hero. I’m not just in the lower class of this country; I am rock bottom. I don’t have two dimes to rub together or a nickel to my name. How many clichés can you think up about being poor? They all apply to me.
Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me,/I lift my lamp besides the golden door. –Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)
I haven’t read about it in sociology text books or interviewed bums who live under the bridge. I have experienced it all first hand. I have missed the school field trips that require checks I won’t admit I don’t have. I have had my power turned off when the electric bill wasn’t paid. And God…I have missed the Christmases. It wasn’t bad before school. When you don’t know who Santa Claus is, you don’t watch the sky for him. But in elementary school there’s no escaping Christmas. You make reindeer puppets in art, do elf subtraction, and worst of all, exchange secret Santas.
I remember the year I was Kelly Mitchell’s secret Santa. Third grade, if memory serves me right. I made her a plate of cookies with colored sugar on top. I bought the cookie dough all on my own at the Five and Ten on the corner and spent the whole afternoon rolling it into little balls and peering into the oven while it cooked. When she opened the gift, she flicked the plastic plate across the table in horror.
“Someone gave me homemade cookies! Gross! They’re homemade!”
I was humiliated. I sank down in my seat and tried to pretend it wasn’t me. Maybe if I rushed over to the plate and swiped the tag off of it before anyone saw no one would ever know; it would be the phantom Santa.
The girl next to her grabbed the plate in her hands. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember she wore braids every day that year except for one. She didn’t wear them the day after her mother slept in the hotel- too angry at her drunken and violent husband to sleep at home. At least, that’s what I assumed when she came in with her hair loose on her back.
“They’re from Gabrielle Carter!” she gasped, pointing a plump, pink finger at me. I don’t remember what I said to be honest. I probably just blushed and muttered something apologetic. But God….to exist without Christmases in a merry elementary school…it was more than painful.
Being poor is romanticized. People have this image of the poor girl with dirty hair and dingy clothing on her way to school. They get these images from commercials made by AmeriCorps and Martina McBride’s song, “Concrete Angel.” They see this little girl who starves in the evening and can’t sleep at night because she’s too cold. And most of it is true. I promise you, it’s true. But it’s not beautiful.
I remember when I was in high school I used to chuckle about my poverty, grinning to my English teacher, “You know, it’s going to be some inspiration for when I’m a writer one day. Poverty sells, Mr. Gunter.”
After all the pain and resentment I’ve had for the way I grew up, to think, a hero is what it makes me in Taylor’s eyes. Is that possible? Me…a hero? No. But a survivor? A survivor I am, and sometimes I think he was my life support when I most needed him. He saved me at the exact point I needed him to, and so although I may be his hero, Taylor Hanson is mine. God knew that on the 8th day.