on vocation
Written by Elianna Tirado
Illustrated by Elianna Tirado
When I was younger, I saw fairies flitting through the woods packed around my house – in the dense, unending mass in the backyard, or between trees separating me from my neighbor. Trips to the murky York River glimpsed me the shining, slimy tails of mermaids winking beneath silver-capped waves. They sent beds of jellyfish to the shores to speak to me, with my little toes scrubbed with sand and a cheap plastic spade in my hand. I was too afraid to step into the water and meet one of them, step on their soft jelly beds and ache. I was a human; I was not meant to understand the soft whispers of the creatures around me, shimmering in the corners of my eyes like secrets kept forever away. In my youth I yearned to know the meaning of the hush voices in the trees. I so fervently believed the voices to be the beating wings of fairies spinning under the sun. Maybe, if I ran the bath long enough, I’d grow a mermaid’s tongue. My family didn’t quite appreciate it. I did not, in fact, sprout fairy wings, nor did I earn my mermaid tail.
Wherever I’d travel, I’d bring my stencil-doll fashion books. None of the outfits I put together made sense; I drew uneven orange stripes with off-putting green culottes and chunky belts bedecked with beads. All the girls I knew had yellow hair, so I colored all the blonde models in my book first. My mother – lighter than me, hair smoother and shiny and full of easy waves – noticed this habit and cried for me. I did not understand. In my mind, it was never a problem for little me and my brown-honey skin to aspire to look the same as Barbie in Fairytopia or Topaz from Trollz.
When I opened my front door, I saw its plexiglass screen like a glossy portal. One day, if I stepped through, my hair would fall straight and yellow down my back the way it would for the rest of my classmates. There were girls in my fashion book who looked like me,an ashen semblance of my complexion and had half-hearted lumps for curls atop their heads. I designed for girls who did not look like me. I did not understand who I was designing for. Girls who do not know their own reflections, who could only work their curls into tangles and crooked braids and lumpy buns – these were the girls I was afraid to stand with, to be found as. Like a wolf hiding among sheep, pulling tight scrunchies and hoodies over her head. I could not be a fashion designer. My designs disappeared into my closet.
When I was a nervous middle schooler, I hid amongst the other dorks and losers in clothes I didn’t know how to wear. I was getting bigger. My grandmother eagerly reminded me every time I got dressed for school. Avoiding being told I looked like “a sausage in tubing,” I covered myself with sweaters in eighty-degree heat. Jeggings were far cheaper than the jeans at Kohl’s, and my family told me I had Chamorro legs I should be proud to show, anyway. I wasn’t sure what that meant. I could hardly look in a mirror long enough to take note of my features. It was hard to see myself at all.
When I entered my bitter preteens, I laid in bed and read. Mother told me I got my love for literature from her. She wanted to be a journalist in New York City. Instead, she had me at nineteen and stayed in the dinky countryside. I did not have to reckon with difficult things like this as long as I read.
Reading was fun. I felt connected to the world, to the pages, and to readers around the world. When I found books that made me happy, I thought maybe I could write, too. What power and joy there was in creation! Perhaps, I thought, I could write! So I scribbled in every composition notebook and pretty journal I could get my hands on. I grew such an overwhelming love for writing that my family knew me as Notebook Girl. There was a new notebook for every story I could come up with. None of my family seemed particularly interested, but it didn’t matter to me. I was interested in what I was making.
In high school, when I learned what“ predominantly white and conservative” meant, I smothered myself. Laid damper blankets over things that made me happy since childhood. Stopped writing in notebooks and turned down all my music. Gave away one of my favorite anime shirts. Felt scornful when I saw her wearing it in the hallway and getting called cool for it. Learned what “is this a cute outfit or is she just skinny” meant. By senior year, I stopped caring about answering that question, too, and thought about my own euphoria.
When I entered college I decided to be happier. Spoke up more, smiled more, laughed more. Thought about orange stripes and off-putting green culottes and realized they’d go together with the right amount of yellow hidden under both. Sang loud in cars and in hallways and big rooms. Wrote my undergrad thesis while reminding myself that I was not a useless writer. Leaned inwards and felt my arms open up to myself in turn. I stopped minding. Started loving things fully and openly. Wore my hair down more. Stopped watching the ground and raised my chin like my Oma told me to. Treasured the gifts I was born with – my skin, my hair, my voice, my name, my legs, my rolls, my thighs, my ideas, my interests, my habits. Who else, after all, would scoop up the little pearls of joy I could feel in my muddy chest if I couldn’t even do it for myself? What a lovely vocation it is to be happy, I thought.
