Epistle

\\A writing directed at a specific person or group of persons in a formal, didactic form-- often with the purpose and need of explaining one's self. Examples include the letters from Apostles to Christians in the New Testament of the Bible or of the epistles present in Egyptian Papyrus and other writings made by Pharaohs as well as a "formulae" for writing this genre of letter.//

This Epistle, is mine. Of a pent-up autistic child always on the fringes of primary school social hierarchy.

My name is Aylin Gutierrez. Right now, I’m at an age where I can watch R-rated movies, I like sleeping at least ten hours, and having meat on my food.

So, let’s get it out of the way, I’m a weird kid, I’ve been a weird kid and I have some things to say.

Let’s define what I am first. What I am “supposed” to be.

A child. I am a child; I’m supposed to be dumb and naïve. I’m supposed to be the stars, to be the spring flowers wearing necklaces of dewy pearls. To the ones older than me, am I a potato? A raw, incomplete, incapable potato meant to be loaded with what everyone else says is my purpose, says is my “milestone” to be listened to and acknowledged? To not be shut down. Well, to me that’s just silly.

Because when I was little, the world was crisp and fresh. It was all new too but it just… was. I’m not sure why, not sure now. Why I saw the world in straight line-by-line instead of escaping from a muted, flowery throw couch or the dull, apathetic white of the floor. It wasn’t appreciated, I bet, that I wasn’t vanquishing beasts. I didn’t sigh or fantasize and make a Prince my own. From story pages and vividly colored shots did some unknown one in the box try to tell me what love was. Conceptually I knew of it, but never did it tickle my heart.

Not for my peers, not for my older siblings who teased and crowed and boasted, certainly not for the discarded shards of China and empty eyes of glass that I poked to hear the sound and feel the smooth surface.

And I’m sure I can guess what you must think now; “how heartless!” “How brutish and how cruel!” What a cold, heartless child I am. Perhaps, I have the dreaded “refrigerator Mother.”

I did not.

I just did. Not. Did not feel. At all.

That China set I’d had once when I was four or so. The cups were really glass, and really painted with such delicacy pink and gold and other colors in the shape of flowers. A teapot center, my dolls and I all in a circle. Water or orange soda in place of tea. Real drink! Only, it was silent. Valentina never attended the tea party with a new dress, Baby Ollie never grew up.

So, I smashed the cups and little plates into each other. I believe the hole in the teapot was on the spout, so the pour was edged and much more wide. The pieces left in storage, dolls bagged up sealed with no air, the tea pieces later thrown away. I don’t know when. I cared then, but not all that much.

Not that I didn’t like it or did I get mad. No, I was bored. It all bored me. That’s it. The smashing and the sound was much more fun.

How is that my fault? I didn’t realize, I really didn’t that there was something not right there. Not right in how I preferred to read books during my playtime, how the words ‘like’ were nothing but lines to recite from my shows. Things the normal people say. The popular people. The ones with friends, who are kind and fun and worth the effort and time to talk to and understand.

The ones who deserve to be seen and wanted.

And so would I learn, “say you like Edward.”

Then you and these squealy girls, who are also so cute and sparkly, can talk all night.

Don’t bother with the girls who put on ‘the most expensive’ and ‘the most stylish’. Style is a concept, it’s a trick. Style is to exclude, rich and the best is to exclude. Never trust the mean girls. The girly girls.

Because weird is what’s powerful. Weird is what’s right and what’s real. But they won’t get that. The girls will bully you, attack you, harangue you and hang you before all the school to be laughed at and outcast.

And the teachers? The teachers are useless.

My teachers used to promise; “they won’t care about you in middle school. They won’t hold your hand.”

Why do you lie like that?

Why do you all lie like that?

Granted, I still stole lines from TV. I just found better TV. One that is actually real, one that is actually made with me… the child in mind.

Not with some fancy diploma or “studies and figures,” but a heart that feels and bleeds. Enough to make even this cold, empty heart feel and bleed.

Love and joy.

The rush through my skin of seeing my first anime with big eyes, characters just a little older than me, real people who really spoke to each other.

My Little Pony, for little girls like me or like you, pink and proper, pretty, and sentimental, louder, and more lovable. Or, weird and boyish, devouring food, devouring stories instead of cheap Walmart makeup or press on nails.

Yugioh, and B-Daman, Magi Nation, Famous Five, Holmes, Bollywood! My oh my! Detectives and boy shows going hard and going strong ripping me to bits when they die. Making me gasp as they chase a crime-doer down.

So slowly, quite slow, and unsure mind you, but still doing…

The fog lifted. And I wasn’t over it anymore. Wasn’t over life, wasn’t over all you stupid idiots.

The girls will bully you, will attack you, harangue you and hang you to be laughed at—laughed at—laughed at—shunned.

Ha-ha! Sure, unless you search for yourself what no one else will permit. Peers. Ones smart and weird too, who love life and learning and newness for its own sake. The smart people.

And sure enough, the girls are quite nice here.

They may not like all my shows, may not get all my references and I am definitely…

vague… sometimes but…

I think, I really think and don’t tell since I may be just a bit arrogant to think; the girls, may just be endeared enough to listen anyhow. Trust me, I have no idea how I exactly scammed so many people either.

Though my theory. It goes like this.

I don’t think I was supposed to have friends just then.

I was supposed to learn F-R-I-E-N-D and all the lovely nuances in between.

I’m supposed to like myself and see myself. Partake in what I love and discard now; all the vain, plastic symbols that held little sway or meaning.

From— ooo hey Asian tonight. I should eat Asian. Or a burger, mmm love burgers—pizza not so much. Though I know it is good only a monster wouldn’t—wait. What was I saying?