One true thing . . . All I gotta do is write one true thing . . . That was the assignment Mrs. Becca gave us. What a ridiculous assignment.
“The sky is blue. There,” I told her.
She told me to write it down. But, the way she looked when I told her that made it seem like the sky being blue isn’t a true statement. She acted like it was a lie. So, I think there must be more to this assignment than what appears on the surface. Just once I’d like for English to be literal. Is that too much to ask for? Everything is so damn symbolic. You know what I mean? Everything in English has to be so deep. Everything in this damn class has to be a metaphor.
I suppose the sky can be gray at times . . . . And at night the sky can be all black and twinkly. I suppose I should account for the moon and all. The moon is probably important. I’m pretty sure the sun is important, too.
I suppose the sky can be pink, and orange, and even red during a sunset or a sunrise. Yeah, I suppose that’s true.
“Water is blue,” I wish I would’ve told her that . . . Yeah, but, is that really true? Is it? Is water clear? Or green? Or murky? Are these colors unreliable? Dammit. It’s not true, is it? Dammit all.
“Everyone dies.” There. That would've worked, right? I know that to be true, don’t I? Doesn’t everyone know that to be true? Can Mrs. Becca dispute that? Well, can she? I sure as hell don’t know anymore. I think it’s true . . . But this assignment has me doubting everything that I thought I knew. God, I hate English. I hate stories. All of these American novels we’ve been reading for the last four years have been so damn depressing. They’ll make you crazy, if you pay attention. So I don’t pay attention. I don’t really read them, I just pretend to. All stories are the same, really. It’s true, they really are. From Beowulf to Billy Shakespeare, to Hemmingway and Fitzy; all their stories are basically the same. I feel like that’s probably true.
“Everyone reads a text uniquely different, don’t they?.” Is that true? Is it? That’s the postmodern philosophy, ain’t it? Well? Is it? I’m pretty sure that’s what they taught us in history class . . . No?? They didn’t? They don’t teach that stuff?? . . . Really? Well, I don’t know where I learned it from, then. Maybe from my buddy, Jacob. He knows a lot of things. He really does. I think he knows more than most of the teachers here do. He’s read a lot of books, but he is shit at fighting. But, damn, the guy is an 'antagonizer' if I ever saw one. That's what I call him. He gets a kick out of poking bears. He really does. I always end up jumping into a fight to help him, because it would be a damn shame if one of those gorilla’s took some of his brain cells. It would be a damn shame, honestly, it would be. He is a smart guy, for being such an idiot. I think I like him because he isn’t pretentious, yet. Yeah, he’s grounded still. He’s still poor—he drives a shittier car than I do. He lives with his mom . . . His dad wasn’t so great . . . I should ask him if he knows one true thing . . . I wonder what he would say . . .
“I can’t stand most of these damn kids here.”
That’s pretty true. And I think that’ll stay true for a while . . . Nope. It’s not true. I am indifferent to most of the kids here. That’s probably more accurate. Can someone's opinion be the truth? What a complicated question this is. What a pain. Golly, Mrs. Becca, you really are cruel, ain’t ya? Are you a secret masochist? Or are you a sadist? I'm always confusing those two kinks. Do you know the difference? Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that you like all this depressing shit, don’t ya? I don’t get it. I really don’t. Why think so deeply? Why use metaphor for everything? Why use complicated words that fella’s like me have to struggle to understand? Huh? Why do some of these writers just vomit symbolic imagery and mix it with a depressing ass story? And then why do we all point to those stories and call them ‘classics’? Huh, Mrs. Becca?? Why do we do that??
Anyway . . . this is more than I’ve ever written before . . . Hopefully this is enough for you. I don’t really know what else to say . . . I don’t really know what is true or not. Maybe everything is just opinion . . . And maybe everything is up for interpretation . . . I don’t really care, though. I don’t think I’ll lose any sleep over it or anything. I tell ya what, Mrs. Becca, I’ll talk to Jacob about it in the morning. Is that alright? Is that enough? I really will talk to him. So, don't flunk me, please. I can't fail another class here. I really can't.
CH 12/6/24
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