White-Washing and The Lone Ranger: An excessively long facebook comment

As you may know, recently, Disney and director Gore Verbinski released a reimagining of the classic radio series, The Lone Ranger, starring Armie Hammer as the titular character and Johnny Depp as the “sidekick”, Tonto. I was, upon first hearing of its upcoming release a few months ago, relatively excited. A western starring Johnny Depp. Sounds cool. I liked Rango. But upon closer inspection, the movie really began to fall apart for me. In the following paragraphs, I explain why.

(Note: This was in response to an article my mom shared to my facebook wall. The article in question can be found here. The articles from which I drew my information are here and here, the artist’s “about me” page is here, and the painting can be found here)

>>>

First of all, I wouldn’t NECESSARILY call this portrayal racist. My first instinct is that yes, this is racism and therefore gross, BUT having read the article you posted, I’d say it’s more culturally insensitive than anything. Clearly, Depp is sincere when he says he’s trying to do something good for the Native American people, “trying” being the key word.

The problems here are as follows: Johnny Depp is not Native American. He supposedly has some Cherokee blood, but the character Tonto is a full-blooded Potawatomi. Depp is not. He’s a white guy. This is called white-washing, and is not okay for a few very big reasons. One, because Johnny is predominantly white, he cannot have full insight into the trials faced by the Powatomi people (or any Native American people for that matter). He is trying to “save” the character from a history of misrepresentation and racist stereotyping, to bring light to the subject of the Native American people’s suffering — but the story he’s trying to tell here is not his. He is not intimately connected with the culture of the Powatomi people and so cannot realize the full cultural value of their traditions and rituals because they are not his. He is not personally hurt (hurt on their behalf, almost certainly — sympathy is not constrained to one culture) by the sufferings they have faced because they are not his sufferings.

For another thing, Tonto is a PRIME example of the underrepresentation of Native American people in Western media. I cannot think of ONE Native American character who is portrayed as an actual person rather than a stereotype based on sensationalism and paranoia. Of these portrayals, Tonto is probably the most famous. The problem here is that, when a character is Native American in a way that matters, where it is an integral part of the character’s life and family and way of doing things, it is over-exaggerated, stereotyped, and reduced to dancing wildly around fires and speaking in broken English and SOMETIMES they have SPIRIT ANIMALS because it’s MYSTICAL. There are no famous, popular, mainstream portrayals of Native American people living as actual people who follow their own traditions just like everyone else does, the traditions being unique to them but the act of following them being universal. Native Americans are not treated as people. And the one time they attempt to portray one as a person (whether or not they succeed is… questionable) they cast, rather than a Native American, a white person. If a Native American man wants to play a character who is Native American in a way beyond skin-color, he must play a stereotype. If a white director is going to cast a character who is Native American in a way beyond skin-color who is more than a stereotype, he’s going to… cast a white guy??? Why? What kind of sense is that supposed to make?

Now we look at the costuming. At first, everyone was just annoyed because the costume looks very similar to the Jack Sparrow outfit. However, Depp has stated that his costume was inspired by a painting of a “Native American” man that really spoke to him. That’s a little more understandable. But upon doing some research into the painting (I Am Crow, by Kirby Sattler) we find that the artist is… white. “Without personal history”, who “does not denote tribal affiliation” and wants to “satisfy his audience’s sensibilities of the subject without the constraints of having to adhere to historical accuracy”.

Oh.

So.

More sensationalism and stereotypes without any sensitivity to culture or history created by a white guy?

Huh. Sounds familiar.

Tonto’s costume is in no way connected to any Native American tribe — certainly not the Powatomi tribe. I mean, honestly, a stuffed crow on his head. What. Consequently, Tonto is entirely disconnected from actual Native American cultures and history. He cannot represent them accurately because he himself is not represented accurately.

As a white person with no Native American blood whatsoever, I understand and appreciate that white people (generally) feel bad and want to make things better. We WANT to be respectful and tell the stories right. But they’re not our stories to tell. And by using white directors, white actors, white artists, we are MAKING them ours (white people taking things from non-white peoples — also sounds familiar) and, with the best of intentions, twisting and convoluting them until, once again, they are nothing more than stereotypes.

And an entire race of people with multiple tribes and cultures and ways of living continues to go unrepresented and unappreciated. And that’s just really not okay.

>>>

Below this, I went on to gripe (with a sudden loss of grammar skills) about the artist and his need to sensationalize Native American culture, rather than just paint the real thing, because, you know, clearly, entire tribes and families and traditions that are completely different from our own and have existed for hundreds and hundreds of years are just really not fascinating or beautiful or mystical enough to be interpreted artistically. No, you have to turn it into a sensationalist fantasy world that pales in comparison to the deep well of the actual thing. Brilliance.

Victim-blaming

Um, for the record (just putting this out there because it’s been on my mind lately) if you’ve ever been abused — whether emotionally, physically, verbally, sexually — and/or if you’ve been raped, it is NEVER your fault. I don’t care how you were dressed, or what you were drinking, or what bad decisions you’d been making behind closed doors. It is NOT your fault, EVER. It is ALWAYS the perpetrator’s fault, and NEVER the victim’s. I’m just very tired of hearing stories of people who were raped or abused and were afraid to tell anyone because they were called “slut” or told that “they deserved it”. NO. YOU DID NOT. NOBODY deserves that, EVER, NO MATTER WHAT they did. THE END.

This goes for men and women alike. I mean it. If someone has hurt you this way, YOU ARE NOT TO BLAME.

And to everyone who is blessed enough to have not been abused in these ways, can we PLEASE stop blaming the victims. Please. Let’s not teach our girls how to avoid rape, but instead teach our boys to JUST NOT RAPE. I think that would be much more effective, since how a girl (or boy) dresses actually has nothing to do with whether or not she gets raped, and whether or not a boy (or girl) decides to rape someone else has EVERYTHING to do with the fact that they think everyone else will blame the victim.

Also, let’s talk about this argument: “You wouldn’t put meat on a hook in front of a shark and expect him not to eat it.”

Well, here’s the thing (and this may come as a shock to you): men are not sharks. They are men. In making this argument you liken men to nothing more than blood-thirsty, instinct-driven animals who are incapable of controlling themselves or making the choice to simply walk past a scantily clad woman. And if that’s what you are, then why the heck have we entrusted the vast majority of this planet’s governments to you?! I don’t want to live in a world lead by animals!

This is not me lobbying for a feminist-rule thing here. I have no problem living in a country lead by  a man who respects his wife and daughters enough to see them as something more than food, anymore than I would have a problem living in a country lead by a woman who shows the same respect towards her husband (or wife, as the case may be). But if all men are basically sharks, and all women are basically meat, we need to get the sharks out of power as soon as possible or myself and my fellow turkey dinners are screwed.

Do you see why the argument doesn’t work? Because I do, and I am beyond sick of hearing it.

So let’s just stop. Stop blaming the victims. There is nothing more to it. Blame the abuser, not the abused. The end, that’s all, goodbye.

This was meant to be a shorter post than it ended up being. Oh well.

This Is Your Map

Open your eyes.

The world around you is unfamiliar to you. There is sand beneath your feet and a blue sky above your head, but there is no sun. The wind seems to sigh against your arms and legs, rippling the sand into small, dusty tornadoes that fall silently to the ground as an army of thin white clouds slides its way across the sky. Aside from the wind, there is no sound. You breathe with the wind. In… out.

It isn’t hot, but it isn’t cold. There seems to be no temperature at all. It isn’t… wrong, but you don’t quite like it. Look around. There is a dark mass in the distance, just upon the horizon. Head in that direction.

Your feet make no noise as they pad across the sand. The wind seems to whisper words you can’t make out, as if you have walked past a room and heard an adult say your name and you don’t know what he is saying about you. You wish he would stop. Don’t let it bother you. Keep walking.

The sand shifts a few yards away, and a figure rises noiselessly from the earth. He is small, round in the middle, dressed all in yellow and red, a striking combination against the brown sand. His hair is scarlet and sticks out inches from his temples, leaving his scalp shiny and pure white, like his face. He wears a painted smile. Do not look at him. Whatever you do.

You can feel him eyeing the back of your neck as you press on. Do not look at him. Do not.

As you walk, more little piles erupt and all manner of strange creatures make their way past you. It is okay to look at the girl with the balloon who slips past you in a daze — only remember not to be startled when you realize that she is not walking, but being lead two or three inches off the ground by her balloon. It is okay to look at the monkeys. Avoid eye contact with the chameleons — they are paranoid and will think you are watching them. It is okay to look at the dogs, but do not ask them to play — they will be loyal friends, but they are too loud, and you don’t want people looking at you. Under no circumstances should you look at the lady in the red gown. If you see a cat, make friends with it. You can always trust the cats.

There are people all around you now — fish leap from the sand and dive back in, their scales glittering; dogs trot past, tails wagging; a strange man in a black suit with a half-painted face strides past, his knees reaching his collarbone with every step; a boy paddles his boat through the sand, a kite streaming from the aft; cats walk upon the air at your eye level, their backs arched and their eyes hooded, bored — but still, there is no sound but the breath of the wind. You breathe with it, only to realize that everyone around you is doing the same. In… out.

“It’s probably best if you breathe to your own rhythm,” purrs a tabby from two feet above your head. “It’s what I always do.”

Trust the cats. Change your breathing pace. Do not listen to the wind. Do not look at the clown, though you can still feel his gaze pricking your spine. Keep walking. You are almost there.

It is a forest, you can see now. A small forest. A very still forest. The leaves are green, but there are strange markings on them. Checkerboards and swirls and letters from some long-dead language you’ve never heard of before. You venture a few yards inside. It is dark, and silent. An old woman sits huddled beneath a tree, her wrinkled hand outstretched, palm up, fingers curled in a claw. You have a feeling she speaks the language.

“Spare any food for a dying old woman, good Knight?” she croaks.

There are Cheez-its in your pocket.

“I’d give her what you have,” says the black cat that followed you here. “An old woman is a pleasant ally and a terrifying enemy. You want no enemies here, you know.”

Trust the cats. Do what he says. Hand her the few yellow crackers. Bow politely when she thanks you, and take the scrap of cloth she presses into your hand. It is of more use than you think. Keep walking. Do not look back. She will not be there if you do.

There is a pool in the middle of the forest. It’s bubbling sound is pleasant. Sit down beside it. Take off your shoes. Dip your feet in the water. The black cat sits down beside you, washing its paws. You can see flamingos a few yards in, though they don’t move like any flamingos you’ve ever seen. They walk as if they are in a dance, but you can hear no music. It is okay to watch them, but if you find it funny (and it is doubtful that you do) do not laugh. Be respectful of their dance. They move with the rhythm of the wind. Remind yourself to breathe against it.

The cat falls with a yowl into the pool. Pull him out quickly. He is terrified. Pull the cloth from your pocket and rub him dry. Now he is grateful, and he will be your friend for good. You don’t know why, but you are deeply relieved to have a friend here. It is at once a beautiful and desperately lonely place. The cat nuzzles himself into the crook of your arm. Scratch between his ears. Breathe with the rhythm of his purr. Close your eyes. Go to sleep.

When you wake up, it is raining, and you are no longer in the forest. You are on a sidewalk, surrounded by a wall of mist on every side. You can see no more than ten feet any way you look. The cat is curled up on your stomach, sleeping peacefully. Do not wake him. He won’t be happy to find himself wet again.

People pass by, appearing from the mist and disappearing into it a few seconds later. Some of them are familiar. The girl with the balloon floats by, unseen. The fish leap from the cement, gulping in the rain with every breath. The man with the half-painted face lopes by, a bale of umbrellas tucked under one arm. He stops in front of you, offers you a deep red one. Take it. Nod politely, but do not speak. He would be startled by the sound. He smiles fondly and vanishes into the fog. A chameleon skitters its way across the pavement, darting his eyes around anxiously. He looks very suspicious. Don’t ask him what he’s hiding.

The clown is back. Open the umbrella. Hold it in front of you, so he cannot see you. You can feel his stare. The cat purrs. It is safe to look now. He is gone.

Hold the umbrella over yourself and your friend and wipe him dry with your free hand. When he wakes up, he nuzzles you affectionately. It is a wonderful relief to have him awake. The two of you sit huddled under the umbrella, waiting for someone else to pass by.

Someone else does. You do. A person with your face appears from the fog, smiles, beckons, leaves. From now on, the choices are up to you. It is wisest not to follow yourself, as anything wearing your face is not to be trusted. However, if you do not you may never find a way out of this strange world. If you choose to follow yourself, proceed with caution. When you pass the big-t0p with too-bright colors — and you will — do not go inside, no matter how loud the laughter coming from within is. Do not. It is not safe.

It might be that if you follow yourself, you will reach the end of the world. When you do, it is okay to look down. The drop is deep and dark and sharp, and goes on forever. I cannot tell you what is down there. I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Do not feed it.

Or, perhaps, you will find the Way Out. It will look like a forest, a normal forest, with normal animals. If you reach the Way Out, the cat will leave. This is okay. Say goodbye with grace. He cannot come to this world. He is not like you. Step over the line. There, the leaves will crunch under your feet and the birds will sing and the crickets will chirp and you will not have to remind yourself to breathe against the wind. There, you will reach a picnic. You should sit down and eat your fill. It will make you sleepy. Allow it to soothe you into unconsciousness. It is the Way Out. When you awake, you will be back here, in the real world. You will have escaped.

Of course, you do not have to leave. I didn’t. This is my map. These are my daydreams. Daydreams are a curious thing. Sometimes they can be controlled. I often find that a better way to go about it is to control myself within them. And so, I have developed a series of instructions in case you ever find yourself trapped within my world. This is a world of no explanations, no plot, no motivation. It is a world in which everything seems to be asking an unspoken question, which I do not know the answer to because I still do not know which question is being asked. It is a world in which no one has a name, and if you have one you are likely to forget it. If you should ever find yourself there, you should know that it is not a good place, or an evil one — but it is dangerous to venture inside without knowing what to do. So now, this is your map.

If you wish, you can stop by and say hello. I’ll be here on the sidewalk, in the rain. We can jump in puddles if you like, before you move on, as long as you promise to share the umbrella when the clown comes by. Trust the cats. Always remember to breathe against the wind. Put the map back in your pocket now.

Close your eyes.

When Harry Met Lauren

There once was a boy named Harry. He had messy black hair, green eyes, round glasses, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He was a wizard.

There was also a girl named Lauren. She had messy blonde hair, blue eyes, freckles on her nose, and an urgent, pressing, constant desire to read every book she could get her hands on.

Harry and Lauren met one day in her tiny apartment bedroom in Dallas. She shared it with her little sister. It was a very, VERY small room.

They also met in a tiny cupboard under the stairs at Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He shared it with some spiders. It was a very, VERY small cupboard.

Lauren was eight.

Harry was ten-almost-eleven.

Lauren was American.

Harry was British.

Harry was a wizard.

Lauren was not.

But none of these differences mattered. In this strange, bespectacled boy Lauren found a friend. He was brave, and kind, and actually quite bright (though he dimmed in comparison to Hermione Granger — Lauren’s hero). He was loyal and accepting and forgiving and everything Lauren wanted to be.

Harry’s world opened up a door for Lauren. A door that lead to a world beyond her tiny apartment bedroom. A world where people could fly, and fight trolls, and defeat horrifically evil wizards before they’d stopped being a preteen.

This was a big deal because Lauren wasn’t even a double-digit yet.

And in this world, things were different. There were all kinds of love in that world. Romantic love, yes, but not right away. First, there was fatherly love.

James Potter sacrificed his life trying to protect his wife and son from the evil wizard, Voldemort.

And then there was motherly love.

Lily Potter not only gave her life to protect her son that night. The magic her sacrifice left in Harry’s veins protected him all his life.

And then there was WEIRD love.

Say what you will about the Dursleys, but Aunt Petunia loved her Diddy-kins.

And then there was the love of friendship.

There was Ron. Blunt and witty and funny and awkward. Ginger and freckle-faced, the youngest of six boys (with one younger sister). Loyal and kind-hearted and brave. And then, a little bit later, there was Hermione. Sweet and smart and bossy and nosy and fierce and protective and confident. Bushy-haired and buck-toothed and always with her hand in the air. The daughter of Muggles. A facer of impossible odds. And sometime later, there were more. Neville and Luna and Ginny.

And there was brotherly love.

Sirius Black was more than a godfather to Harry. He was a brother and a father and a friend all wrapped up in one. And Ron was the family Harry never had.

And there was sisterly love.

Harry and Hermione loved each other deeply, but she was his sister. And it was perfect that way.

And there was familial love.

The Weasleys — fierce, brave, fiery-spirited, hot-tempered, and affectionate — the Dursleys — loud, boisterous, annoying, abusive, ridiculous and sickening — the Malfoys — snobby, elitist, racist, and loyal to a fault — the Dumbledores — mysterious, scarred, broken, hidden, and sad.

There was obsessive love.

Bellatrix was infatuated with Voldemort, despite the fact that she was already married. But to Voldemort, she was never anything more than a human shield. Not to mention Lavender Brown, every teenage boy’s worst nightmare.

There was the love that exists between a teacher and a student.

Harry and Dumbledore loved each other. Albus was Harry’s hero. Harry was everything Dumbledore wished he had been. There was nothing weird or wrong about it. It was just love.

And there was, of course, romantic love.

Harry and Ginny. Ron and Hermione. Tonks and Lupin. Arthur and Molly. Lily and James. Lily and SNAPE. Cedric and Cho. Albus and Gellert. Hagrid and Madame Maxime. Bill and Fleur. NEVILLE AND LUNA (I don’t care that in Jo’s world, they weren’t together. In my mind, THEY ARE A THING).

And then there were these WOMEN. These HEROES. These VILLAINS. They weren’t dainty or meek or damsels in distress. Not at all.

First there was Lily. A mother who sacrificed her life to save her child.

Then Hermione. Brilliant, outspoken, confident and a little bit bossy, and never, ever hiding who she truly was for the sake of others’ opinions.

Then Professor McGonagall. A grumpy old spinster with a mysterious past, a courageous spirit, and a LARGE mischievous streak.

Then Molly Weasley. Warm, kind-hearted, affectionate, loving, and TERRIFYING when she was angry. Lily might have died for her child, but Molly killed for hers.

Then Luna Lovegood. Weird, ethereal, imaginative, faithful, and UTTERLY unaffected by the opinions of those around her — not to mention brave.

Ginny Weasley. Hot-tempered, stubborn, competitive, mischievous, smart, confident, and actually a bit of a flirt.

Nymphadora Tonks. Clumsy, tomboyish, blunt, relaxed, easygoing, courageous.

Then Bellatrix Lestrange. Insane, hilariously evil, so much fun to hate, and not afraid to be absolutely SICK.

And Dolores Umbridge. KILL IT. KILL IT WITH FIRE.

Narcissa Malfoy. A woman of no redeeming qualities other than her love for her family. Lily died, Molly killed, and for her child? Narcissa lied. And you won’t know how brave that was unless you read the books.

There were, of course, a few not-so-awesome women to off-set the awesome ones. Cho, Fleur, Lavender, Pansy — all EXCESSIVELY annoying. But Lauren knew this was done on purpose.

In this world, there was sacrifice. Bravery. Nobility. Loyalty. Unconditional love and forgiveness.

She learned to fight. She learned to stand up for what she believed in no matter what. She learned how to be a good friend. She learned that no one’s opinion is worth sacrificing your identity. She learned that ALL obstacles can be overcome. She learned that to love someone with all your heart doesn’t have to mean you love them romantically. She learned that she, as a woman, did NOT have to be weak or powerless or dainty. She could be strong and powerful and bold and smart and STILL be beautiful and feminine. She learned that anyone can be a hero, and anyone can be a villain, and that it all depends on your choices.

This world taught Lauren who she wanted to be when she grew up.

She’s almost there. Lauren is 16-almost-17. Her hair is still blonde, and her eyes are still blue. She’s not quite as bony as she was, and there are no scabs on her knees. She’s learned a few things. She’s developed a few talents (none of which, rather to her disappointment, include the ability to fly a broomstick). She still reads as many books as she can (often multiple books at once), though she’s a bit pickier — she likes fantasy books, and doesn’t read as many shampoo bottles.

Harry is about 31 by now. He’s married to Ginny. Has three kids. Is an Auror. He’s still best friends with Ron and Hermione. He probably always will be.

Lauren writes now. Rather well, actually. Stories, mostly. Some poems. She attributes this passion for writing to a series of books about a young man who found out he was a wizard and, through a series of fantastic events, saved the world.

Harry’s scar doesn’t bother him anymore.

All is well.

Thanks, Harry.

All Hallow’s Eve (A poem by yours truly)

When the Harvest Moon rises,
And black cats are about,
When witches are winking
And the Pumpkin King’s out

When the broomsticks are dancing,
And the skeletons sing,
When the werewolves are howling
And the owls take wing

When Dracula waits
In his fortress of stone;
When Frankenstein’s monster
Wanders and roams;

When the undead go walking,
And the warlock’s spell’s cast,
When the cauldron boils over
And the Wicked Queen laughs

When the ape speaks your name,
And the crow hovers near,
When your walls start to see
And the hilltops can hear

When the scarecrows are waving,
And the fire’s too hot,
When there’s a hand on the doorknob
And an eye in the pot

When the sun rises golden
And it touches the leaves,
Better run, better hide;
This is All Hallow’s Eve.

Worthy to Be Served

Jesus says that I am a princess.

Okay, sure. I’ll believe that. I mean, He’s the King, and He’s adopted me as His daughter, so logically that DOES make me a princess. This really isn’t a concept that’s hard for me to embrace. That I am loved, prized, and highly valued, I accept and believe with all — well, most of, anyway –my heart. And I can use the word “princess” when thinking about myself. That I am “royalty” however… That idea has always been one that’s slightly repulsive to me.

Why is that? Princesses are, by very definition, royalty. I am of royal blood, adopted by the creator and ruler of the universe. I have a birthright, an inheritance, the greatest inheritance any living thing can receive. To be royal is something to which I have a right. But to be treated as royalty has always made me feel, well… wrong.

That’s not to say that I have a problem with my younger sister occasionally saying, “Hey, Lauren, it’s fine, you stay here, I’ll do the dishes today”, which does sometimes happen. We keep it fair, though. When she says that, she really isn’t doing me a favour in the long-run because we both know that the next time we have to do the dishes, I’ll volunteer to do them by myself to keep things even. Short-term, though, it’s a very nice thing to do, and I don’t mind at all being given an extra half hour to do nothing while someone else does the work for me.

But like I said, we keep it even. I do a chore for her, she does a chore for me. If she volunteers to do a chore for me, I take another one for her. We’ve been doing that for years, and it’s actually a pretty good system, especially given that we’re prone to fighting with each other when we work in close quarters together. But for some reason, I’ve always had a problem asking other people to do things for me, and it’s even harder for me to accept help when it’s offered.

For example, I went to Joplin last summer with my drama class. We were there on a relief mission to help raise money for a local theatre that had been destroyed in the tornado, and we were also helping out a church that had been giving a LOT of its time to help people who’d lost everything in the storm — we were sort of returning the favour. And it was great fun and it was hard work and it was late nights and early mornings and humid weather and incredible unity with some of the best people I’ve ever met. And we carried a lot of really heavy boxes. A LOT. Of really heavy boxes.

Now, when a box was so heavy that three of us girls put together could hardly stand up underneath its weight, I had no problem letting a couple of guys take it away from us. But there were multiple instances when one of my guy friends (all of whom I love and respect very much) would offer to carry a box for me or help me sort out a storage shed full of heavy boxes, and I would turn them down. As if their offer was somehow implying that I was too weak to do the work for myself, as if I had to be fine and able, no matter how heavy some of the boxes were, or else I’d become some sort of burden.

And, more recently, I was in a production of “Scrooge, The Musical!” with a local theatre, and because I don’t drive I had to ask for a ride to almost every rehearsal — mostly from my director and from my buddy Wil, who happens to be one of my best friends. And every time I had to ask for a ride, I felt so out-of-place and in the way. I felt, again, like I was a burden.

Even my own dad isn’t free from this mindset. He offers to help me with my math work, and I say “No, I think I’ve got it”, even though most of the time, I really haven’t. I find myself craving a trip to the movie theatre or bookstore, and I literally have to work up courage (sometimes even giving myself a pep talk beforehand) to ask him if he’ll take me. Recently, I found myself in a very odd, very unexpected state of unreasonable sadness and exhaustion, and couldn’t bring myself to ask him to make dinner for me. Even when he saw me crying and offered to make me some macaroni, I still felt horrible for saying, “Is that alright with you?” and for even accepting the macaroni once it was done.

In fact, looking back on all this, I realize that almost every time I feel guilty about asking for or accepting help, the help has come from guys. Men (the one exception being my director, Mrs Roberts). For the most part, I don’t have a problem asking for or accepting help from women. When my mom or my sister or my close gal-friends offer to help me, I’m totally fine. I certainly don’t have to work up courage to ask them if they can help me carry something or give me a hand with chores or help me out with my homework. But when the help comes from a guy, I either feel guilty for asking or guilty for accepting.

And this is ridiculous.

For one thing, I am being incredibly unfair to the men in my life. When I ask them for help and feel guilty about it, I am basically just assuming that they don’t want to help me, that they don’t care about me, that they’re so selfish that they’d never want to help me. None of which is true. And when I accept help that is offered and feel guilty about it, I’m actually feeling guilty about giving them what they want. They want to treat me as a lady, they want to help me out, and yes, they want to serve me, and yet when I give that to them I beat myself up about it for “being a burden”.

Which leads me to my second point: I am being unfair to myself. I am allowing myself to believe that I don’t deserve help and that I have to be as independent from their help as possible, or else that makes me weak and burdensome. Every time I ask for or accept help from a guy, I spend hours afterwards beating myself up about it. I mentally and emotionally hurt myself over the fact that I’m letting a guy help me. And that is so wrong in so many ways, it kind of scares me.

The thing is, though, that I didn’t start thinking of it that way until just a few minutes ago. My friend Wil posted a video on facebook of a man reciting a spoken-word poem, a God-given message from guys to girls. I watched it, and I was bobbing my head up and down, agreeing, smiling, saying to myself, “I’m so glad there are guys out there like this. I’m even blessed enough to know a few of them” and “I wish all girls knew this” and then the guy said, slowly and pointedly, “You are worthy to be served”.

My mind froze. Wait, what?

“You are worthy to be served.”

Say it one more time.

“You are worthy to be served.”

I felt like God had grabbed onto my heart and was forcing it to focus on that one line, and I found myself remembering every time I’d refused help from a guy, every time I’d had to give myself a pep talk to be able to go ask my dad for a favour, every time I’d beaten myself up over asking for or accepting help from my dad or one of my guy-friends. And then I heard God whisper something in my ear, slowly and pointedly.

“YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE SERVED.”

And I remembered every time Jesus had given of Himself to help a woman in the Bible, every time He’d said that He came to earth to serve, to help those who were in need. I pictured Him washing His disciples’ feet and saying, “I came to serve, not to be served”. I’d always used those stories and scriptures as motivation for mission trips and charities and helping my friends at church and drama class as much as I could, as reasons for encouraging my friends to the point where my director called me “Lauren the Encourager”, a title that I’m secretly (and, I think, rightly) quite proud of. But now, the more I thought about it the more I realized that those verses were not just meant to be instructions. They were a message. A message from Jesus, to lots of people but right now specifically to me, that He came to serve me. Among others of course, but… me.

And it dawned on me: I am worthy to be served.

Not just loved, not just valued, not just highly prized, but served.

Now, I don’t mean that from now on I’m going to lounge around and eat grapes and ice cream while my guy-friends do all my work for me, or that I’m going to assume that if I ever need a favour one of them has to give it to me. Me choosing to accept help or ask for it without feeling guilty does not mean that I’m now lazy. There is still a limit to how many things I can ask for from my friends. After all, they are my friends, not my personal slaves.

What this is is a declaration. I am choosing to see myself as royalty. I’m still humble, still human, and still a servant, but my Father is the King of Kings, and He chose me. And I am worthy to be served.

And, just in case someone is reading this… so are you. Men and women alike.

You are worthy to be served.

Because God is awesome.

(Note: Sorry if this post is a bit rambling at times. I’m still feeling a little stunned and confused, and more than a little emotional, so the thoughts in my head are pretty jumbled right now and may have gotten twisted and tangled coming out in print.)

The Forgotten Legend of Mitzy Bunkler: A Bedtime Story by Lauren Elizabeth (part 3)

The oldest thing in the universe was not a human.

It was not anything that any human, other than Timmy, has ever seen, or would ever see again.

The oldest thing in the universe was something called a Faraway.

Faraways were once a strong, proud race of people. They lived on a planet hundreds of thousands of lightyears away from Earth, called The World of Listeners. There were all sorts of kinds of Listener on the World of Listeners. There were the Silent Children, and the Deepening Mountains, and the Rootgazers, and the Starhunters. But the oldest, proudest and strongest of these races were the Faraways.

They reigned as kings over the World of Listeners for hundreds of thousands of years. The shortest stood over ten feet tall, and those were just their children. The tallest and oldest of them could grow to be more than sixty feet above the ground. Each of them carried a staff, a staff fashioned for them by the Rootgazers who were excellent workers of wood, and at the end of each staff was a beam of light. And sometimes the light glowed as if it were a sun, and other times they seemed no brighter than the tiny pinprick of light on the end of a firefly, and that is how you could tell when a Faraway had thought up a really good story; when his staff shone so bright that you could see it from miles and miles away. And when the staffs glowed like this, Listeners would come from all around to gather at the Faraway’s feet, and there they would sit, to listen to the tales of the universe. For that is how Faraways first came to be kings. The Listeners must have something to listen to, and nobody told better stories then the Faraways, the Kings of the World of Listeners.

But that was a very long time ago now. There are very few Listeners left in the universe, and none of them live on the World of Listeners anymore. The Silent Children grew up, and left for a planet with jobs and telephones. The Deepening Mountains stopped deepening and were turned to stone. The Rootgazers grew bored with the wood of their world, and left to find a place with new materials to work with and new shapes to carve. The Starhunters left one night to find the brightest star in the universe, and never came back — to this day no one knows where they are, or whether or not they found that star. And, with no one to tell their stories to, the Faraways began to die off, one by one, and the lights on the ends of their staffs slowly dimmed, and finally went out.

All but one. One Faraway was left on the World of Listeners. One Faraway left in all the universe. And he sat alone, his staff still lit, leaning against one of the piles of rock that had once been a Deepening Mountain, and waited, and waited, and waited; for he still had one last story to tell.

That was how Mitzy and Timmy found him. He was the strangest thing Timmy had ever seen. He looked as though he might be made of stone, but the stuff that covered the stone was soft and thin — a bit like fur, he though, a light gray kind of fur that must have once been deep brown, or black, or even blue or yellow. Or maybe it had always been gray. Timmy didn’t know. He craned his neck to try and see the old thing’s face, but it towered what seemed like miles above him (actually, the last Faraway was only about forty feet high, but to Timmy, who was only six and not yet three feet high, it seemed like this old creature was a big as a planet) and Timmy could only catch a glimpse of a long, sweeping white beard and eyebrows that were almost as long and sweeping, and just as white.

“What is he?” he asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the creature from his apparent slumber.

“He is the last Faraway,” Mitzy replied, the bells of her voice sounding far away and sad, very sad. “You were right. I have taken you to meet the oldest thing in the universe. We are on the oldest planet in the universe, but it is long dead, now. He is the only living thing on it. He has lived for billions of years, and a great deal of them here, alone on his dead planet. And we have come to meet him.”

As she said this, she stepped forward and touched the bottom end of the huge staff which rested beside him, and the light at the top of it suddenly burst forth in a blinding fury. Timmy gave a yelp and covered his eyes with his hands, but the next second the light had dimmed again, and when he looked back up, the giant face of the last Faraway was looking down at him from above.

“Not a breath of wind has touched my staff in over a million years,” said the Faraway slowly, as if he had not used his voice for a very long time. It (his voice) rumbled and roared from inside him, and somehow sounded to Timmy like a pile of earth falling to the ground from a shovel or a truck. “No living thing besides myself has walked on this planet for longer than even that. I am the last of my kind, the last of any kind that may have once roamed this silent planet, and yet there you stand before me: a little human boy and his picture, so far beneath me I can hardly see you; but you are there nonetheless.”

“What is your name?” asked Mitzy, twinkling as loudly as she could.

The Faraway’s face grew even sadder and even older than before. “I do not remember. I have tried, over the years, to recall what I was once called by my people, but I cannot. It fell from my memory long ago, and there is no finding it again.”

“How have you lived this long?” asked Timmy, frightened and hesitant.

The creature turned his great grey eyes upon the little human boy. “I do not know how I have lived. I can only tell you why. I live because I was given a story — the story — the last story. I was given it by the very last Faraway, other than myself, as he died, and I have kept it safe for all these years. But the story must be told, for I am old, and it will not be long before it is time for me to follow after my brothers and sisters.” He blinked slowly, and looked long and hard at the tiny little creatures standing below him. “Will you listen?” he rumbled, and it seemed to Timmy as though he was not simply asking, but pleading. “Will you let me tell you the last story?”

Timmy nodded. So did Mitzy. And the Faraway gripped his staff, closed his eyes, and smiled.

Through the woods, and over river, down the hills, and into glade; There we’ll find the hidden treasure, left where the Knight of Children laid; Lost in fog, and soil, and years, trapped inside the hermit’s mind; Drowned beneath a flood of tears, and left for only one to find.

Afterwards, Timmy could never quite remember the story. Not when he wanted to remember it for himself, anyway. But whenever he wanted to tell it to someone else, to Mother or Dad or Arnold, or someone at school, then he could remember. It was about a Knight, the strongest of the Silent Children, and the treasure he left for his sister to find when she’d need it most, and a very, very old tree that knew the way to find it, and a song — the most beautiful song — that was the only way to make the tree tell the sister how to find the treasure. It was the kind of story that was meant to be told, not simply remembered. What Timmy liked best about it, he decided, was that you never found out just what the treasure was. You had to imagine that part for yourself.

When the Faraway finished telling the story he looked down at Mitzy and Timmy, who were gazing up at him, their eyes and mouths wide open, but most of all, the Faraway noticed, with their ears opened the widest of all.

“You are Listeners,” he rumbled softly. “You are the last Listeners.”

And it seemed to Timmy that he could hear singing, and it was coming from the lighted end of the staff. He gazed into the light, and it didn’t hurt his eyes even though as he watched it became brighter and brighter, until everything around him had turned white and all he could see was the staff. He realized that the staff had become small enough for him to hold, and he knew, somehow, that he was supposed to take it. He reached out his hand and wrapped his fingers around the middle of the staff, and the singing grew louder than ever, and the light brighter than ever, and Timmy just stared and stared and stared at the light…

And then it stopped. The light vanished, and the singing was gone, and Timmy found himself still at the foot of a pile of rock that had once been something very different, on a planet that had once been full of people that knew how to listen, with Mitzy Bunkler beside him. But the Faraway was gone, and so was the staff. “Where’d they go?” he asked Mitzy.

She looked at him, her bright green eyes misted with tears. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I think something else is going to have to be called the oldest thing in the universe now.”

Timmy and Mitzy never did find out what happened to the Faraway, or his staff. But afterwards, back at home, Timmy became known by the kids at school as an absolutely marvelous storyteller; and they always knew when he’d thought up a really good story, because his eyes would suddenly grow very, very bright — almost as if there was something inside them, like a lamp, giving off real light — and then the children at his school would grow very quiet, and gather around him, and Timmy would always tell them the most fantastic stories anyone had ever heard — anyone who’d never met a Faraway, that is.

But now, on the World of Listeners, on the Empty Planet, Mitzy took Timmy’s hand, and Timmy felt himself disappear. Back on Earth, he opened his eyes. There, in front of him, were two normal-sized grown-ups. The woman was lying on a hospital bed, looking very tired but very satisfied. She kept shooting eager, impatient glances at the man, who had his back turned to her — Timmy thought he must be holding something — a pile of clothes that he was folding?

Finally the woman burst out, “Can I see her now?”

“Alright, alright, of course you can see her,” replied the man, laughing — it sounded to Timmy as though he’d been crying — and when he turned around, he leaned over and placed a tiny little bundle of blankets into the woman’s eager arms. As he watched, the woman, suddenly hesitant and, Timmy thought, almost scared, she reached out a tentative finger and pulled back one of the folds of cloth. There, underneath, was a tiny pink face, with a round nose and big eyes squinting up into the light, an open, toothless mouth and the smallest ears Timmy had ever seen. A baby. The woman gave a quiet gasp of joy and held the baby a bit tighter. “There you are! There’s my precious little angel! My sweet, precious little Rosette, is it nice to be a part of the world now? Yes it is!” The baby gave a wail. “Oh, I know, I know, Mommy’s tired, too, precious angel! We’ve worked very hard today!”

Timmy looked from the baby’s face, to the mother’s exhausted smile, so full of joy and utter delight, to the man’s proud grin as he leaned over his wife and child, holding the mother’s hand and looking as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, to Mitzy. “Is she the youngest thing in the universe?” he whispered in awe.

Mitzy laughed her tinkling laugh. “Not quite, but almost. Rosette was just born a few minutes ago.”

Timmy watched the little family for a while younger. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? That one of the youngest things in the universe can be born just at the exact moment that the oldest thing in the universe dies?”

“It is,” said Mitzy solemnly, taking Timmy’s hand again. “It’s completely amazing.”

When Timmy opened his eyes, he found himself back on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus. His backpack was on his back, lighter than it had been before, and he realized he was standing up straighter than he had been, because the sidewalk seemed further below him than when last he’d looked at it. Mitzy was beside him, but she seemed to be growing faint. Only her eyes remained as bright as ever.

“Is it over?” Timmy asked quietly, looking into those green eyes.

The silver, misty head nodded once.

“You’re leaving now,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of the obvious. It was time for Mitzy to leave.

“I am,” she twinkled, the bells sounding very far away. “But don’t worry about being sad. You’ll forget about me very soon. Everyone does. Everyone must.”

“Why?”

“That’s for me to know and you to forget about,” she said. Timmy knew she was trying to make a joke, but her voice was sadder than ever.

“I’ll try to remember you for as long as I can,” he promised. “I’ll tell stories about you. I’ll make sure everyone knows how big the universe is, that everyone knows that it’s so big that there can’t be any such thing as ‘average’. I’ll do it because that’s what you want, right?”

All that was left of Mitzy were her eyes, those glowing green eyes that seemed to float in midair. They blinked once to say yes.

Timmy felt tears spring to his eyes. “Goodbye, Mitzy Bunkler,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

And Timmy thought, just for a second, that he could hear the singing from the Empty Planet again, only this time there were words in the music. Goodbye, Friend.

And then the eyes were gone, and Timmy was alone on the sidewalk again, waiting for his bus.

But he wasn’t alone for long. A few seconds later there was a chattering of voices and a group of kids who went to his school ran up, laughing and talking and pushing and shoving, throwing pieces of paper at each other and telling jokes. One of them accidentally bumped into Timmy. “Oh, sorry –” she said, stopping to make sure he was alright, “Whoa! Are you okay?”

Timmy blinked and looked at her. “Yeah, I’m fine, why?”

“Well, it’s just your eyes are really bright and it kind of looks like you’ve been crying.”

“It does?” asked Timmy, surprised. He reached up and wiped his eyes. To his bewilderment, he felt tears there. Why on earth would he have been crying? “I don’t think I’m sad or anything… oh well. I’m Timmy. What’s your name?”

Her name was Angie, she was in the grade above Timmy’s, and she loved a good story more than anything else in the world. She and Timmy sat together on the bus-ride to school and talked and talked the whole way there, and Mitzy Bunkler, the last Faraway, and the supernova were pushed into the very back of Timmy’s mind. It was as if they’d never happened.

But they had, and Timmy never quite forgot, not really. They were always there in his head, sometimes popping out in his conversation, sometimes making their way onto paper when he was writing. He became a very popular boy at his school, because he had a habit of making everyone else feel very, very special, and he was known by his teachers and fellow students for adamantly insisting that there was no such thing as “average”, as well as the brilliant stories he told. And Mother and Dad and Arnold, who had always been proud of him, were more proud than ever, and when he got home from school that first day Mother practically burst into tears because “Your voice sounds as if you’ve grown up just since yesterday! Mommy’s little boy, grown up in just a few hours!” Timmy never quite knew what she meant by that, but he heard Mother telling Dad later that there was something so… so different about his eyes. She had always thought they were blue, but now there were definitely a very sharp, bright green, and it looked as though they’d seen a great deal more of the world than many adults on Earth.

And Timmy was happy. Really, truly happy.

 

Go look in a mirror. Any mirror. Do you see her? She’s there. It’s okay, you can say hello, although she probably won’t reply. But she may, you never know. Miraculous things can happen to anybody, and today might be the day that Mitzy Bunkler, the lonely, forgotten miracle, may just choose you.

The end

The Forgotten Legend of Mitzy Bunkler: A Bedtime Story by Lauren Elizabeth (part 2)

I should tell you what Mitzy Bunkler looks like. Of course, nobody really knows anymore, so I can’t say that my description will be exactly spot-on, but I’ll try my best to be accurate.

Mitzy Bunkler is small. Very small. Actually, she’s probably no more than two feet high, and probably less. She’s very thin, and very straight, like a stick that’s been sanded and carved until it could be a table leg or the set of handlebars to a very old-fashioned bicycle. Now, from that bit of description you might guess that she is a fairy, but she isn’t. She’s related to fairies, of course (everything magical is related to everything else magical), but really she’s something different. A picture, you see, is a tiny whisp of imagination that forms itself into a little being — sometimes a dog, sometimes a bird, sometimes a cat, but most times a person. Most children have them, but the very sad thing about pictures is that they can’t have each other, and when the little child who created them grows up, they get forgotten about; so each picture is, at some point in time, really and completely alone.

Mitzy Bunkler’s hair is gray, and made of smoke. Her skin looks like the fog on your mirror after a hot shower. When she moves, she swirls and curls and seems to somehow catch hold of everything around her, and to most people she looks like no more than a shadow, a spot of grayness in an otherwise colorful world, and so they can’t see her. They don’t even know she’s there. But Timmy could see exactly what it was that made her so visible to him, what made her exist for only himself: her eyes. Her eyes were a dazzling, sparkling, fierce green. They were the sharpest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen, and if you saw them, they’d be the sharpest, saddest eyes you’d ever seen, too.

The eyes were the first thing Timmy saw when he opened the toy box.

Out swirled Mitzy Bunkler — irritable, cramped, and grouchy, but existing. She liked existing. Existing was actually a very lovely feeling — but she wasn’t going to show Timmy that.

“Took you long enough!” she chirped angrily. Mitzy Bunkler had a very tiny voice to go with her very tiny body, so most times her voice was like a flute. When she was angry, she chirped like an offended mother bird; when she was scared, she whistled like a kettle. Luckily for Timmy, she didn’t get angry or scared very often. He’d go deaf if she did.

“S-s-sorry!” gasped Timmy, leaping backwards onto his bed. Arnold was standing there, gaping at the strange misty form that was curling and twisting in front of him. He was so shocked he couldn’t even growl.

Mitzy’s eyes cooled a little. “Well, it’s alright, I suppose. I’m out now, aren’t I?”

“Yeah…”

Mitzy turned (as best she could turn, given that she wasn’t made of a whole lot of substance) and gave Timmy a long, hard look. Timmy felt as though he was under inspection by the school nurse on check-up day. He sat up straighter, wanting to seem healthy.

“You’ve been crying,” Mitzy declared after about five minutes of this. Timmy waited for her to say something else. She didn’t.

“Yeah, I have,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Because… because of being average.”

“Who’s ‘average’?” chirped Mitzy, suddenly indignant. “Who on earth — or any planet — has ever been average in the history of time and space?”

She stared at Timmy again for a long time. Then Timmy realized she expected an answer. “Um… I d-don’t know…” he said, even though he did know.

“Nobody, that’s who.” Mitzy folded her arms and smiled, looking very pleased with herself, as though that statement had been one of irrefutable wisdom.

“That’s what Mother and Dad say. They say that ‘average’ is a made-up word, except when you use it for test grades and stuff like that.”

“I’d say your parents are smart people,” said Mitzy approvingly. She glanced apprehensively at Arnold, who had started growling again. “Look, I think I’d better go for a while. Just until tomorrow morning. I’m coming with you to school.”

“Y-you are?”

“Of course I am. I’m your… well, you call us invisible friends, and grown-ups call us imaginary. I’m one of those. I go where you go.”

“So how are you going to leave tonight?”

“Oh, I’m not going to leave,” she said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m just going to dematerialize. Break into a million bits, I mean. And then tomorrow I’ll materialize again when it’s time to go to school. I’ll have to be careful about my aim, though. That’s how I ended up in the toy box. I was aiming for on top of your bookshelf, but I guess my aim’s much worse than I thought.”

“Uh… yeah,” said Timmy stupidly.

Now Mitzy laughed — a sincere, enthusiastic laugh that sounded like a load of little Christmas bells when you ring a bunch of them all at once. Arnold stopped growling at the sound of it. “Yeah.” She grinned a smokey grin. “Sweet dreams, Timmy. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

And with that she was gone — or had Timmy simply closed his eyes and fallen asleep? Timmy could never be sure.

The next morning, Timmy woke up feeling, for some reason, very excited. He couldn’t remember why, but something in the back of his mind made him feel like something very big and important and not average was going to happen to him. What was it… what was it…?

He woke up, ate his cereal, fed Arnold, and left for school just like any other day. But it wasn’t just like any other day, and he soon remembered why — when something in his backpack went BUMP.

He knew that BUMP.

With a gasp of sudden realization and excitement, he whipped his backpack around in front of him and unzipped it. There, staring up at him with great green eyes and rubbing her smokey head with one hand, was the miracle from his toy box.

“Hello!” he cried.

“Hey, you,” she said, wincing at the sound of his loud voice. “Close your mouth. You look as if you didn’t even know I was going to be here.”

“Well, I… I didn’t. I’d forgotten about you.”

The miracle’s green eyes blinked. “Oh. Of course you did. Shoulda known,” she said ruefully, more to herself than to Timmy. “Everyone always forgets me. Just hoped maybe this time it’d be different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing!” she twinkled, suddenly bright and cheery. She grabbed Timmy by the wrist and cried, “Come on, off we go! We’ve got an adventure to go on!”

“But what about school?”

“School?” she said, grinning. “School’s an adventure for another time. Maybe later.”

“But… but…” Timmy spluttered, struggling to pull out of her strange, smokey grasp as she pulled him off the sidewalk, across the road and into the woods that surrounded the town park, “But I can’t just skip school, Mother and Dad will be angry!”

They’d reached the opposite sidewalk now. The miracle stopped and turned around to face him. “Don’t worry. You won’t miss school. I’ll take you on an adventure or two, or three, or ten, and then we’ll be back here in time for you to catch your bus.”

“But that’ll take hours!”

“Will not!” she chirped indignantly. “I should think I have a bit more power that that. Now, any more buts for me to argue with?”

“N-not really… but… what’s your name?”

The miracle’s green eyes brightened, her mouth opened up in a misty, swirling smile. “I’m Mitzy Bunkler. Now come on, let’s go!” And with one final yank on Timmy’s arm, go they did… Deep, deep, deep into the forest.

************************

Timmy blinked. He had expected the inside of a forest to be dark and green and filled with shadows and scary noises. He hadn’t thought it would be so white and fluffy. “Where are we?” he asked Mitzy.

“Take a guess,” she replied.

“Um… We’re in a cloud?”

“Nope, but good try,” she laughed. She scooped up a handful of the white stuff and held it out to him. “Here, taste it.” Timmy blinked again. Mitzy rolled her eyes. “No really, have a lick!”

Tentatively, Timmy stuck out his tongue and lapped up a bit of the stuff. His eyes lit up and he smiled hugely. “It’s cotton candy!”

“Exactly!” said Mitzy. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like to be the smallest thing in the universe?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Well, you aren’t going to find that out any time soon, because it’s impossible to be that small, unless you’re the smallest thing itself. But this is the closest thing.”

“That’s amazing!” cried Timmy, “But… if we’re standing in a giant heap of cotton candy… Won’t we get eaten?”

“Not yet!” she cried, leaping into the air and flitting from one pile of cotton candy to another, “They haven’t even colored this stuff yet. Once they turn it blue or pink, then we’d better think about moving on.”

“But that could take ages!”

“I don’t think so!” said Mitzy, wagging one smokey finger. Even as she said it, Timmy looked up, and there, hanging in the air above him, was a giant vat of strange, sticky-looking, bright blue liquid.

As Timmy watched, invisible (probably giant) hands tipped the vat over, and a flood of blue gunk crashed over his head. Timmy squeezes his eyes shut and held his breath, but the stuff still got in his mouth and made him feel sticky all over. “Eurgh…” he groaned, smacking his lips and wiping the liquid from his eyes. “That’s gross.”

“Not when it turns into cotton candy,” said Mitzy, grinning. She tapped him on the shoulder and, just like that, all the blue was gone. Timmy gave a sigh of relief and wiggled his arms about, pleased that he could do so freely. “Come on,” Mitzy twinkled at him. “We’d better get going, they’re going to mix up the stuff into actual cotton candy now.”

Timmy looked up at the gigantic bucket that was now being pulled back away from the fluff they were standing in. “It’s so big…”

“Not really,” said Mitzy. “I mean, think about it. If we were the size you normally are, it wouldn’t seem very big at all. It’s not big… we’re just small.”

“Or maybe we’re not small, it’s just big.”

“It’s not like being small’s a bad thing,” chirped Mitzy, annoyed. “Here, look.” She grabbed Timmy’s hand. There was a whooshing sound and a blast of wind on Timmy’s face — he felt rather like he was spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut and held on very tight to Mitzy’s hand. When the movement stopped, he opened them to find that they were apparently perched on the highest branch of a very large tree. Spread out beneath them was, Timmy realized, a huge carnival, with ferris wheels and roller coasters and cake walks and games. He gasped in awe at the twinkling lights and the biggest of the spinning ferris wheels. It was all very pretty.

Mitzy tapped him on the shoulder. “Look there,” she said, pointing one twisting tendril of a finger.

Timmy looked. Mitzy was pointing at a very young girl, younger than Timmy, who was walking with her mother. One hand had disappeared into her mother’s, the attached arm lifted so high she had to walk on tip-toe, dangling happily from one ride to another. The other hand was holding very tightly to a thick, fluffy, delicious cone of light blue cotton candy.

“Is that the same stuff we were in just now?” he gasped.

“Sure is!” Mitzy replied. “Watch this.”

Timmy watched as the little girl took a large bite out of the cotton candy. Her face lit up in a very big smile, and she looked up and said, “Cotton candy is good, Mommy. You should have some.”

Mommy smiled distractedly — the line for the last ride of her day was getting longer, and she really wanted to get a good place in line so she could just get this whole carnival nonsense over with. “Mommy’s fine without it, dear,” she said wearily.

“But it’s good. It makes my tummy happy. See? Here, taste it!” She reached up as high as she could, waving the cone in front of Mommy’s face.

Mommy paused for a second, looked at the cone, glanced uneasily at the steadily growing line, and then turned back to her daughter’s pleading face.

“Please?” the girl begged.

“Oh, alright,” said Mommy reluctantly. As quickly as she could, she bit out of the cottony mound.

“Isn’t it good, Mommy?” the little girl asked.

To Timmy’s surprise, Mommy began to change. She looked down at her daughter, and her face relaxed into an affectionate smile. She bent down with her hands on her knees, looked the little girl in the face, and said, “Yes, sweetheart. It’s very good. You were right, it made Mommy’s tummy happy.” And with that, she picked her delighted daughter up off the ground and carried her to the end of the now extremely long line, where they stood, laughing and chattering and taking turns biting at the cotton candy.

“You see?” asked Mitzy happily. “It’s not so bad being small. All those tiny pieces of sugar probably thought they were to tiny to matter… But all that mother had to do was taste a few of them, and they made her day a bit happier, and her happiness in turn made the little girl happy.”

Timmy nodded. “And we never think about it, do we, us being so big?”

“Hardly ever,” agreed Mitzy. “But actually, compared to a lot of things, we’re not big at all.”

Timmy looked at her. “You’ve just shown me the smallest thing in the universe, or something close enough. So now you’re going to show me the biggest thing in the universe.”

“Or something close enough,” twittered Mitzy, smiling hugely. “Watch this.”

Timmy closed his eyes and held on tight to Mitzy’s hand again. This trip was much, much longer then the last two. When he opened his eyes this time, however, he immediately closed them again, because he found himself almost blinded by an onslaught of brilliant, fiery white light. “WHERE ARE WE?!?!” he screamed to Mitzy, his volume rising steeply with his shock. He could still feel her wispy hand clasped in his.

“We’re in space,” she said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not that bad now, take a look.”

Hesitantly, Timmy opened his eyes. Mitzy was right — the light had dimmed considerably, but it was still very bright, and he had to squint to see what it was he was looking at, and even then he still didn’t know. “What is it?” he asked.

When Mitzy answered, Timmy knew that she was smiling. She sounded almost proud. “A supernova. A star, that’s exploding. It’s dying.”

“It’s huge,” cried Timmy.

“That’s a bit of an understatement, Timmy,” said Mitzy, waving her arms about wildly. “It goes on and on and on.”

Timmy looked. She was absolutely right. Timmy suddenly felt very, very small. He tried to open his eyes as wide as he could, to take in all the yellows and oranges and reds, even blues and pinks and greens, but the explosion went on forever. There was no sound, and Timmy and Mitzy felt no heat, but there it was, happening right in front of them. A star, huge and old and very, very important, was dying. It was bigger than anything Timmy could ever have imagined. It was the biggest thing anyone had ever seen — and Timmy realized he was the first one to ever get to see it.

He turned to Mitzy, suddenly aware that his arms and legs were shaking furiously. “What now?”

Smiling in a strange, old way, Mitzy reached out her hand for Timmy’s. “Take a guess,” she said.

Timmy did. He was right.

The Forgotten Legend of Mitzy Bunkler: A Bedtime Story by Lauren Elizabeth (Part 1)

Nobody knows just who Mitzy Bunkler is. Not anymore. Because here’s the thing: Mitzy Bunkler isn’t real. She has never existed. Not ever, not in the whole of history and space and time. But to one little boy who lived in a little country in a little town that sat on the edge of a little hill, Mitzy Bunkler was the most very real person in the entire universe, and all the universes beyond.

Mitzy Bunkler, you see, is a picture. Not the kind you find in a museum, but the kind you might see as you’re walking down your sidewalk. You’re looking straight ahead, not paying much attention to what’s around you, and as the wind picks up or a fly or a bit of dust swirls itself up into your face, and you blink, which is only natural. But just before you blink, something in the corner of your eye, something you can’t quite see and don’t even quite know is there, moves. It just moves for a second, not even that — more like one trillionth of a second — and then it’s gone, you’ve opened your eyes again and the shadows in the corner of your eyes are just shadows again, harmless shadows that don’t move unless the sun does, and within another trillionth of a second you’ve completely forgotten about it, because you’re used to this. This happens every single time you blink.

Try it. Blink.

There. You just saw Mitzy Bunkler. She was there, just barely, ever so slightly there. But you don’t remember. You’ve gone and opened your eyes, and now you’ve forgotten again.

The thing about pictures like Mitzy Bunkler is that there really aren’t any. She’s the only one, there’s nothing like her, and remember, she doesn’t even exist. She’s the kind of picture that moves when you see something shift behind your reflection in your mirror. That shift that wasn’t there anymore when you turned around, that was Mitzy, that was her existing for just a little while.

Mitzy Bunkler: the loneliest, most wonderous, and most beautiful picture that no one, no one except one little boy, has ever seen.

That little boy’s name was Timmy.

Timmy was average. That was what everyone said. Of course, Timmy, being only six, wasn’t exactly sure what “average” meant, but he didn’t think he liked it very much. People always said it with an uncertain shrug, an uncertainly cocked eyebrow, an uncertainly crooked mouth, as if they weren’t quite sure of who exactly Timmy was and couldn’t think of another word to describe him besides “average”.

“Yes, Tallulah is a miraculously brilliant young child, not to mention pretty. Todd is doing wonderfully in his PE classes, but his math and reading could use some work. And Timmy… Timmy, Timmy… Who…? Ah yes, Timmy,” the principal of Timmy’s elementary school might say, nearly missing Timmy’s name on the list of student’s in Timmy’s class because he was busy trying not to spill a drop of coffee on Tallulah’s name, “How is young Timmy?”

“Oh,” his teacher might respond, her shoulder’s shrugged, her eyebrow cocked, her mouth crooked, and her mind focused on something else, “Oh, average, I suppose. I wouldn’t know. Doesn’t really talk much.”

That part, Timmy knew, was true. He didn’t talk much. He sat in the back of his classroom with the other T’s (except for Tallulah, who sat in the front row because she was pretty and got all A’s on her homework assignments), dutifully coloring his skies blue and his grasses green, answering on his math worksheets that a one and a one make a two and sometimes another one, but never a three, writing his name in neat cursive handwriting, remembering which hand was on the left and which was on the right, reading “A Cat in The Hat” during quiet time, when the teacher would sit behind her computer screen and laugh very loudly at whatever it was she was looking at and snap if any of the children made a noise, and occasionally answering a question when the teacher called on him during lessons. He never spoke out of turn, never forgot his homework, never cut in line, and always ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a sliced up apple for lunch. Everybody knew he was there, but nobody seemed to notice that he existed. And who could blame them, wondered Timmy. He didn’t exactly stand out from the crowd.

Timmy lived with his mother, his father, and his pet dog, Arnold. His mother worked part-time as a nurse at the doctor’s office, and then came home at the same time as Timmy. His father taught an art class at the little town college and came home for dinner, his hands, face, and clothing spattered with paint and clay, to wash up and play with Timmy and Arnold for a while before sitting down to eat whatever Mother had cooked. Then Timmy would do his homework while his parents cleaned up dinner, and then the four of them would sit in the living room (Timmy and his parents on couches, Arnold on the floor because for him couches were out-of-bounds) and watch a show on the television. Sometimes they would watch a film (his father called them “documentaries”) about something important like Ancient Egypt. Other times they would watch a movie, a real one, with a story and characters and morals. When they watched these, Mother would always quiz Timmy about the morals to see if he could spot them. Timmy liked it when Mother quizzed him. It made him feel special.

Then, once Mother and Dad were sure that he had understood the morals of the movie, Dad would scoop Timmy up onto his back and carry him up the stairs to the bathroom, where they would brush their teeth together and see who could get their teeth the whitest. Then they’d have a race to see who could get into their pajamas fastest. Dad always let Timmy win, and then he’d tell him a bedtime story as a prize. Dad’s stories were all about people who went on grand adventures and saw marvelous sights and defeated terrible foes. Magical, wonderous, beautiful, completely impossible stories that had Timmy sitting up in bed, his knees and covers pulled up to his chin, his eyes huge. And then Dad would kiss him goodnight, tuck him into bed, and go to send Mother up to Timmy’s room. Mother would sit on the edge of Timmy’s bed, ruffle his hair, check his knees and elbows for bumps and bruises, tickle his armpits to make him laugh, and then kiss him goodnight. As she leaned in to give him a kiss she would always whisper, “Never forget that Dad and I love you very much.” and Timmy never did forget it. What if he was average at school? At home, he had the best parents and the best dog in the whole world. When Mother left, Arnold would leap up onto Timmy’s bed, and Timmy would put one arm around the big dog and bury his face in Arnold’s fur. Timmy didn’t care much whether or not Arnold smelled bad.

Then the next day he would go to school and Mother and Dad would go to work, and he would be quietly average again. Quietly Average Timmy. That was him. Whatever “average” meant.

Timmy didn’t like being average very much.

One day, Timmy felt so very invisible that when he came home from school, he didn’t play in the yard with Arnold, or wrestle with Dad, or eat Mom’s dinner. He didn’t even do his homework. He got off the bus, walked through his door, marched up the stairs and slammed the door. Mother was worried about him. She tried to get him to come out and talk to her, or to let her come in so she could talk to him, but he wouldn’t do it. Eventually Mother decided to wait until Dad got home and went downstairs to make dinner, so Arnold took her place by the door and whined his worries at Timmy through the wood. But Timmy still wouldn’t come out. When Dad got home, he tried, too, but to no avail; Timmy was going to stay in his room all night long and he wasn’t coming out. So Dad and Mother and Arnold talked it over and decided that something was definitely making Timmy very sad, but they couldn’t make him talk about it. So they decided to let him have his space, and ate dinner and cleaned up without him, but they left his plate on the table.

Eventually, Timmy came down. Mother heated up his dinner for him in the microwave, and she and Dad went into the living room to watch television shows until he was done. When he finished, he washed his plate, standing on tip-toe so that he could reach the sink, did his homework, and followed his parents into the living room.

He stood in the doorway for a minute, not sure what to do.

“Dad? Mother?” he said finally.

Dad turned off the television. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, he and Mother turning around to look at him. “You finish you dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Wash your plate?”

“Yes.”

“Do your homework?”

“Yes.”

“Had enough quiet time?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Dad patted the space on the couch between him and Mother. “Let’s talk.”

So Timmy talked. He sat in between Dad and Mother with Arnold on the floor in front of him, and told them everything: about sitting in the back of the class, about not talking much, about blue skies and one plus one and cursive handwriting, about the teacher’s computer and the principal’s coffee, about Tallulah sitting in the front row because she was special, and most of all, about “average”. His parents and Arnold sat and listened. They didn’t say a lot, they just watched him and listened to what he had to say, occasionally glancing at each other with expressions that Timmy didn’t quite understand. Finally, he finished. He took a very deep breath, and then looked from Dad to Arnold to Mother, wondering what was supposed to happen next, and hoping that whatever it was made him feel better.

Mother put her arm around Timmy’s shoulders. She didn’t say anything at first, or look at Timmy. She and Dad were both staring at the black television screen, looking very thoughtful. Then Mother turned her head to look at Timmy, and she said very quietly, “Timmy, you aren’t average. There’s no such thing as average. Average is a made-up thing. It’s imaginary.”

“But it isn’t,” said Timmy, surprised. “It’s real. Teacher talks about average grades and test scores all the time.”

Dad shook his head. “‘Average’ means what happens often. An average grade is the grade that most kids in a certain grade level are likely to get on a test or something. ‘Average’ can apply to things like tests and grades, but when people try to use it on other people, the word becomes imaginary.”

“You don’t happen often, Timmy,” said Mother. “You happen only once. You can’t be average because there are lots of people in the world, but only one Timmy. Only one you.”

As if to prove what Mother and Dad were saying, Arnold barked and nestled his nose in between Timmy’s sneakers. He sniffed them, and barked again.

“There’s only one Arnold, too,” laughed Timmy, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Only one Arnold,” agreed Dad, smiling and scratching Arnold between the ears. “Arnold is not your average dog.”

“And I’m not your average Timmy,” replied Timmy, smiling back.

“No, you’re absolutely not,” said Mother. “Timmy, you know those stories your dad tells you every night? The ones about knights and dragons and strange worlds where magic happens?”

Timmy nodded.

“The people in those stories might seem incredible, but at the beginning of the story, everybody thinks they’re pretty average.”

Timmy blinked. He hadn’t noticed that.

“What I mean, Timmy, is that no matter how average people think you are, no matter how invisible you may seem to others, and no matter how much you think you blend in, wonderous, beautiful, and miraculous things can still happen to you. You can make them happen to you. You don’t have to seem special to other people to make the world magical.”

Timmy went to bed that night feeling much better. Dad told him a story, Mother checked him for bumps and bruises, and Timmy went to sleep feeling peaceful and happy.

That was the night that Mitzy Bunkler appeared in his toy box.

Don’t worry, reader. I haven’t forgotten Mitzy Bunkler, though everyone else has. Mitzy Bunkler, the strange, lonely, just-out-of-sight picture was about to become Timmy’s first wonder.

It began at midnight.

BUMP…

… went the toy box. Timmy and Arnold didn’t move. Arnold snored.

BUMP…

… went the toy box again. Arnold started, lifted up his head, and gazed at the toy box uncertainly. Were Mother and Dad just moving around? Or was there really something in the toy box?

There was a long silence. Arnold put his head back down.

BUMP, BUMP!!

Arnold leapt to his feet, scowling at the toy box. He growled at it, his fur bristling. Something was in there…

Timmy stirred, rubbed his eyes, and sat up, blinking and squinting furiously.

“What? Arnold, what’s wrong –”

BUMP, BUMP, BUMP!!!

Timmy gasped and grabbed onto Arnold’s head. “Arnold, what is it? What’s in my toy box?”

BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP!!!!

Timmy started to call for Mother and Dad, but the toy box bumped again, and this time, he heard a tiny “ouch!!” from inside it.

And for the first time, the thought occurred to Timmy that whatever was in his toy box might not want to be in there. Maybe it wasn’t a monster trying to scare him. Maybe, just maybe, it was trying to be somewhere else, but it was stuck in his toy box.

Something magical was trapped. In Timmy’s toy box.

Timmy decided, then and there, that he was going to let it out.

And that’s when the miracle started.

Sweet 16

Today, I am 16 years old. This is weird for me.

For one thing, changing ages is always weird. You don’t feel any older, because the aging has been happening so slowly and steadily over the past year that you haven’t really noticed it; so then, even though you think you still feel like you did when you turned 15, or whatever age you were before, you have to get used to telling people you’re ___ years old. You’ve never had to tell people that before, so it’s a hard habit to get into. And, just when you’ve gotten used to telling people your formerly new age, you have another birthday, and have to do the whole thing all over again.

And for another thing, well… I’ve always felt like 16 was sort of the halfway point between childhood and adulthood. Like, once I was 16 I’d suddenly be mature and womanly, and hundreds of boys would realize that I was a woman now, and little kids would look at me and think about me the way I always thought about teenagers when I was a little kid. I never really put it into those words before, it was just sort of this idea I had of what being 16 would be like, and maybe it will. Probably not, because I don’t actually know that many guys and the likelihood of them all falling for me at once is minimal.

But really, it feels just like every other birthday. Sure, I have different plans this year than any other birthday I’ve had — after all, it is my Sweet 16 — but I don’t just feel mature now. I feel just like I did yesterday, only there’s this weird knot in my stomach that wasn’t there before. Not a nervous knot, not a tense or unhappy knot, just a thoughtful knot that shows up and makes my face go all screwy whenever I get extra-thoughtful.

The thing about this birthday is that, maybe I am closer to being a woman. Maybe I am more mature. But I’m still me. I’m still the same me that I was on my seventh birthday — maybe even on my first birthday. Sure, I’ve gone through some stuff, both good and bad. I’ve changed. I have scars, both inside and outside that I didn’t come into this world with. I have new friends, I’ve lost old friends, and I have friends that have been here forever and will probably be here forever, too.

But I’m still Lauren Elizabeth Smith. I still live in a world populated by princesses in twirly dresses, knights in shining armour, dragons, dungeons, rescue missions; fairies, elves, dwarves, hobbits; animals that talk, some that are nasty and some that are kind; children who can fly; people who glow, and others who don’t; bedrooms that snow, stairs that become bumpy slides, and floors that are made of lava; wizards, guides, guardian angels and Jiminy-Cricket-style consciences; mad hatters, march hares, Cheshire cats and Queens of Hearts; toys that talk and move when I’m not in the room, that listen with big open eyes whenever I need to pour out my heart into someone’s ears, and who never, ever, ever tell my secrets; trees whose roots go so deep that they know and feel everything, and who let their knowledge and feelings slowly seep into me as I lean my head against their trunks, and who are always there to calm me when I feel like my heart’s about to burst; rivers that laugh and want to do nothing but play, even though they know full well that I am NOT going to stick my feet in their water; castles that look like playgrounds, but are really strongholds of a kingdom that’s been put under an evil spell that I can break by just pretending; clouds that are made of cotton candy; mysteries that must be solved; battles for death or glory; monsters that must be defeated; mountains that must be climbed; enemies who must be conquered.

I have friends, real ones, who love me unconditionally; I have a family who loves me unconditionally even more; I have a God who loves me unconditionally the most of all. I’m catching up on schoolwork; I’m thinking about college; I’m working on getting a driver’s license and maybe even a car. I have a social life, which mostly consists of people who I perform with; little kids really do look up to me, but more like an older human being who still remembers and understands exactly what it was like to be their age and less like some magical deity that they’ll automatically grow up to become. I’m thinking about what jobs I’d like to have; I’m planning for and working towards my future career; I’m writing, drawing, singing, composing. Every day I’m learning more about myself. This seems fairly adult-like to me.

Sp yeah, maybe I am closer to being a woman. Maybe I already am one. But no matter how old I get, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a child. That part of me will always be there, buried under the years, surfacing when people who I trust and love are around, and when I’m by myself, wondering which of my many stories will I write down today. I may be 16, but I’m still a kid. And I think that’s going to make this next year all the more fun.

Happy birthday to me!