Childhood
The Psychopathology of Cartoon Characters
“Sometimes even I am afraid of the things my mind comes up with.” -Bugs Bunny I read a lot as a kid, but I didn’t read books. While other kids were beginning to read assigned literature from English classes, I was devouring comics books like “Archie” and “Richie Rich.” I had collections of them and kept tabs on when the latest editions of “Mad Magazine” and the like would hit Mel’s penny candy store, which was two blocks from where I lived. I also religiously watched Saturday morning cartoons.
By Cathy Pepe5 years ago in Confessions
Tough love
Most of my life I thought that life just wanted to knock me down every day. It always felt like something new and worse was happening, it felt like I couldn’t stand back up for ten minutes before there was a new battle for me to fight. I fought back each time a little harder, sometimes I wanted to let life knock me down, and keep me down because I didn’t think I was strong enough to fight back. Little did I know, I was strong enough to fight ten times harder than I was, I was able to fight harder and beat every battle before it even hit.
By Audrey DeLong5 years ago in Confessions
From a Guy in the Girl World
When I was a kid, I wanted to hang out with the boys. At the time, I was under the impression that I was a girl. I was wrong, but that came later. Then, all I knew was that hanging out with the boys was fun. There was something that the boys and I shared in common. It made hanging out with the boys—being one of the boys—easier than hanging out with the girls. The boys wanted to rough house, shout, and be loud. I wanted to rough house, shout, and be loud.
By Blake Smith5 years ago in Confessions
I Fallen And I Can't Get Up
Looking back, I enjoyed my time in middle school. Grades sixth through eighth is a time for growth, puberty, and having a crush or two. Puppy-love hit me like a ton of bricks in the sixth grade until this day, and I don't regret it one bit. For security purposes, we'll name him "James," James was considered the popular guy in school in the sixth grade, and being labeled popular brought so much power and exposure. Like most young girls, I fell into the trap of following the flock. I've always been private with my crushes. I never bragged about who I liked because, frankly, I didn't trust anyone withholding my secret. I just professed my love by scribbling in my notebook along with my jar full of hope, hoping that one day he would eventually like me back.
By teisha leshea5 years ago in Confessions
True Crime: Evil Stepmother
We all grew up reading fairy tales that involve some kind of evil stepmother who abuses children. Usually good, sweet natured, beautiful children. Lately, the evil stepmother has gotten a bit of a reprieve in many types of media and medium, such as books and movies. While I, personally, enjoy seeing the much maligned "evil step-mother" trope finally catch a break, I think we also need to shed some light on actual evil mothers.
By Guenneth Speldrong5 years ago in Confessions
French Lessons
French Lessons By E.H.Kupinsky My Mother has a friend who married a French man. She has two kids that can speak French. My Mother insists I take French lessons the Summer I turn 7. No one in my family speaks French. My Mother will drop me off three days a week, early in the morning, on the lawn leading to a bungalow on the California State University Northridge Campus. When I was in Kindergarten I convinced my new Best friend that our school Sucked, that our Teacher was Stupid, and we belonged in College. I swiped two Three ringed binders so we would look like College kids and together we ditched class to make our way to the University Art department where I felt certain I belonged. My Mother was still angry two years later. We stared at each other before I exited the car, her smiling, me silently annoyed at our unspoken inside joke about Kindergarten. She says, hand casually gesturing to all that awaits outside the car, “Go on, you like it here,remember?” I say nothing as I exit the car and walk myself to the bungalow as she drives away. I knock even though I know I have arrived too early. I sit on the lawn all alone feeling very small and tickle the palms of my hands on the grass waiting. I come to understand as I watch all the other kids arrive for this class, I am the youngest and the smallest. I hope for the millionth time, that my size will not make me a target for any bullies and my mouth will not get me into trouble. I am surprised to find that I like French and find it musical in my mouth. It’s incredibly satisfying to boldly mimic the Teacher’s accent loud and dramatically. After class, I watch my new cool older friends get picked up by loving parents. A week ago, my Mother took me to a Sandwich shop 3 blocks away from the CSUN campus on Reseda Boulevard and let me pick a sandwich. She spoke while I ate, informing me of her intentions and made me repeat her instructions back to confirm my understanding. It is to this sandwich shop that I must return, as it is now my new designated pick up point. She has given me exactly the amount of money required to eat the same sandwich while I wait for her for an incredibly long time. I don’t mind. I enjoy people watching and making up stories in my head: That old man is a widow and never stutters except when he admits to loving Soup and then produces a very large ornate spoon from his breast pocket. That tired lady keeps chickens like my Uncle but only for the eggs. She has named them all with funny German names and last night she walked outside barefoot to sing with them in the moonlight. I can’t help being the weird little kid high up on a barstool, legs dangling, staring at everyone while they eat. I have decided to like French almost as much as I like Roast beef sandwiches. One day, weeks later, the nice man who makes my beloved Roast beef sandwiches leans over the counter, sighs and says, “ I know what your Mother is doing and it’s not ok. You tell her I said so.”My heart sinks. I know he isn’t my babysitter and he resents my Mother trying to turn him into one. I eat what remains of my sandwich silently crying knowing I will probably never have the privilege of eating here again and going over the least offensive speech I will deliver to my Mother who will no doubt be furious. She yelled at me the whole way home, as usual, saying I must have done something wrong for him to so rudely ban me from returning. She had a way of seeing hidden meaning in everything. All of it resulting in me disappointing her along with the world conspiring against her. When it was finally time to show me off to her friend, She lied and said I was fluent in French. This friend of my Mother, kneeling in front of me, proceeded to ask a series of questions in French. I answered what my name was, where I lived, and who with. She spoke a bit faster and I found myself confused and unable to respond so I cried, offending and embarrassing my Mother. Slowly now, she repeated her question while I struggled to answer. My mother threw her hands up saying “I give up! There goes more money down the drain!”She stormed out of the room when I finally responded in French quietly, still crying, “I don’t understand because I only speak French a little bit.”
By Emily Kupinsky5 years ago in Confessions
Good Hands
I was supposed to be a ballerina. I was dancing at four. Seriously. As a backup my mother enrolled me in art lessons, also at four, also serious. I was, then, an only child. I was never very good with the pirouettes, but I loved drawing Humpty Dumpties. By the time I was eight I was pushing back on ballet class, but was happily drawing chalk designs on the sidewalk. At about this same time my maternal grandmother taught me to sew. We spent hours together sitting at her black Singer sewing machine, designing and stitching clothing for Madam Alexander and Tony dolls. (I am old.) At sixteen I reached the height of my ballet success as a Snowflake "understudy" in the Ballet West production of The Nutcracker. Yep, an understudy, after years and years of "under achievement" and self-inflicted foot pain. I neglected to mention that I am "thick" of body...not lithe, thin, willowly...or any of those words used to describe those who made up the actual Snowflake Corps de Ballet. I was an awkward cygnet who would not transform into a dancing swan ever. Anyway, at that same time, I was loving my high school art classes. OK, so here is what happened. I quit ballet. As it turned out, my hands worked so much better than my feet. If we had just figured that out earlier. I loved art. I loved craft.
By Vicki Bluth5 years ago in Confessions
Laughter is the best medicine.
Ever since I was a little girl. People would say. " You're funny." So I made it my mission to delight people with jokes, singing, laughter dance. I was enrolled in every dance class morning, noon and night. I had such a hard time in school paying attention. And it was not until my third grade teacher read my short comedic story about someone trying to finish a race and falling face first in the mud infront of the class that I realized I delighted in making others laugh. I knew that it was my calling. Finally I had done something right. Every since then I have delighted in the idea of writing a sketch comedy show. Every chance I get I work on it and I mention it to everyone in passing. I have not had a chance to create it in full just bits here and there. But when I write I am always surprised to see what comes out. I had heard that Beethoven channeled his music though dreams. I channel my improv through pretending to be characters with friends. And long walks to funk music. I am now twenty six. I have attended theatre school, sang at broadway workshops ( Shaking in my boots) I must add infront of broadway singers during the Newsies and Matilda tour, done Shakespeare and musicals, toured schools. But still I have not created my own show.
By Milan Shultz5 years ago in Confessions
Sprouted in Old Barrels
In between my room and the back veranda where I spent most of my time, was a tiny 6x8 room used to iron clothes. The room was always dark as the only natural light that made its way in was filtered through an insubstantial window whose purpose I never truly understood. Permeating the room was the scent of the old ironing board, crispy yet warm after years of use. The room always had clothes newly pressed or just about to be, hung up in the makeshift closet or strewn around on top of the barrels that were pushed up against the longest wall. When no one was around and I got tired of climbing the grill that enclosed the veranda I’d always sneak into the little room to search through the barrels.
By Kerry Cooper5 years ago in Confessions
Sprouted in old Barrels
In between my room and the back veranda where I spent most of my time, was a tiny 6x8 room used to iron clothes. The room was always dark as the only natural light that made its way in was filtered through an insubstantial window whose purpose I never truly understood. Permeating the room was the scent of the old ironing board, crispy yet warm after years of use. The room always had clothes newly pressed or just about to be, hung up in the make shift closet or strewn around on top of the barrels that were pushed up against the longest wall. When no one was around and I got tired of climbing the grill that enclosed the veranda I’d always sneak into the little room to search through the barrels.
By Kerry-Ann Cooper5 years ago in Confessions
