Ali Baba

Music class with Mrs. Tiffenbach was, at times, frightening. Her witch-like appearance aside, the little ditties we recited in our best singsong voices were not always the most comforting. The most scarring of these was about Ali Baba, a murderous giant whose rampages were thwarted only by some good dancing music. Oh how I feared him, larger than the hills around me. Calculating how many giant steps before he'd get me, I’d try to outrun him. Even though I know he isn't coming for me, I watched those hills until the day I moved from that house, just in case.

Feeding the Gilberts

Maybe because Daddy is never satisfied with my mom’s meals, or maybe because my mom grew up in a family who habitually forgets to eat, whatever the reason, my family hardly ever goes grocery shopping. But every two months or so, when we do go, there is a whirlwind of excitement that courses our veins like alcohol. Previously, I didn’t draw the connection between near starvation and the wondrous excitement of Shop Rite. Now, though, I can see how Libby’s knees giving out and her subsequent collapse to the tile floors in aisle three is not due to random joy, but rather because stale plastic containers of soy nuts won’t be our sole source of nutrition. Running through the aisles, we are like squirrels in autumn, gathering our food supply for the coming season. Hours later, we regroup only to have my mother rush off again, right as the cashier is scanning the last of hundreds of items. At which point, my sisters and I busy ourselves, trying not to show our genuine concern that my mother will forget to return. Eventually she’ll come back, pay the bill, and the wonderful ordeal is over, at least for a couple months.

The Gilberts' Goodwill

Every year or so when the house gets cleaned, we donate our clothes (which we buy second-hand) back to Goodwill. We load the car up within a week of bagging the clothes, a timeframe worthy of the self-congratulatory celebrations which often render us too tired to actually drop off the bags. And by the time we remember and forget they exist several times, the bags begin claiming squatters rights to our back seat. When we happen to be in the CVS parking lot, getting chocolate or whatnot, we realize the drop-off bins are only 3 parking spaces away, so we may as well finally do it. But by then, we need to go through them again to make sure we didn't get carried away cleaning out our closets. Which then results in my mother finding long lost sweaters and chucking them sentimentally back into the car, where they will again take up residence until winter comes around and she looks for something to warm her shoulders. She'll then wear it as she ventures into the spare-room where she keeps unused clothes to see what else she’ll find, and leaves the sweater behind. And so the cycle continues, a well-oiled machine.

Family Fun Day

We all remember the day that the forced outings ended for the Gilbert family. My grandma, "B", and my mom were heading off to a horse auction at Rutgers. Headed for safety, Libby ran to the barn, Sarah to the basset kennel, and me to the back fields. But we were wrangled nonetheless. In the fateful moment I was caught, my grandma leaped from her seat, looped around the car, spewing the f-word as my mother flipped me off. Convinced by this show of profanity from the matriarchs of my family, I joined my sullen sisters in the back seat. And off we went. But, hey! Isn't that the street B lived on for a month in college? And is this where she rode her bike that time? After countless detours into B's past, we arrived long after the auction had ended. To make the journey worth it, we bursted into private offices where B had allegedly worked once, and found B a sandwich, the rest of us marking our misery in hunger. And in this torment, the famous photo was taken on the sidewalk, representing the last forced outing as a family - three sneering children, two spiteful mothers.

Fist Versus Foot

Free-flying fists were common among my siblings. Though I deserved these blows as the youngest, I was no longer the weakest. Having overtaken Libby, the oldest sister, years before, Sarah remained untoppled. One celebrated day, the glory was not hers, even as she employed new weapons (mouthwash in the eyes). Floor-bound, eyes aching from the antiseptic, her knees in my chest, I bent my leg around, awkwardly placing my bare foot upon her face, squishing in her nose, pressing toes into her squinted-up eyes. Though retaliation surely is imminent, I consider myself the victor, queen of all that I see.

Inanimate Feelings

In the shopping cart, the victors revel, for they are the chosen ones. On the shelves, friends are left, rejected. Choosing the orange toothbrush, I snub the arrogant green brush, the favored child. In the cupboard, the last two granola bars hold on to each other, begging my appetite not to separate them. 
Such is the moral dilemma confronting me daily. Try as I might to suppress sympathy with the inanimate, I’m not patient-zero, my own father is afflicted, too: he mourns the backspaced letters who lose their chance at publication. So save the letters, love the orange, respect the inanimate!

Minor League Rebel

A minor league rebeI, I employ my gpa as a shield against punishment. You see, school rules don’t apply to everyone, at least not to me. I trot out on art class, on gym, even AP English in favor of a one-girl ice cream social in town. Carrying my head-high, floating on the privileges of the honor-roll, no one questions the girl who doesn’t look guilty. And so I walk out the front door, past the security guard with a smile: I am free. I am my own ruler. And so, I have learned: confidence is the key to freedom.