There’s so much we have to catch up on since you moved away. I want to start first:
Theater became a battlefield. My tongue became a sword slathered in poison. And then my sharp tongue was dull.
After you left, the memory of you in the classroom distorted over time. False stories spread fast. This was nothing new to us. But I know you carried a different experience. This war was nothing new to you, either.
Eventually, you faded into the background noise.
And I was suffocating.
Hostility rose between classmates; betrayal hung in the air. Bitter rivalries took center stage during rehearsals. Our theater teacher’s favoritism remained unwavering, and the Thespian Council President held the crown. Her deference to the white students was nothing new to us.
Friends became foes. Friends stabbed each other in the back. They lied, praising scenes they had already torn apart backstage. And among their cliques, they whispered malicious words.
False stories spread fast — I’ve lost count of the rumors I’ve heard. I can’t remember all the menacing words I used to retaliate. I can’t differentiate between what was true and what wasn’t. Reality became false to me.
And I failed at staying away from their drama.
I couldn’t resist drinking in their poison; you would have told me not to get involved, but I felt violent and wicked, overwhelmed and underfed.
I bit back.
Many years have passed, and I’ve kept replaying the scenes.
I’ve written millions of narratives about this since. If I write everything down, maybe I can rationalize the past. Maybe I can move on. Yet nothing I’ve said has satisfied me, and my nightmares keep making me relive the memories.
I’m sorry if I struggle to tell you the full story. The words still catch in my throat when I speak.
Our recent trip to the park has given me some time to think:
I don’t know why I’ve kept finding myself back in that battlefield.
Maybe the drama wasn’t as debilitating as we thought it was — as I thought it was.
In my childlike mind, I kept trying to break the memories apart, trying to understand what happened. The things that, at the moment, felt so huge.
But sitting beside you, years later, I realized our lives continued, whether I was ready for it or not.
The theater is gone now. The rumors are quieter. The wounds have scarred over.
Yet somehow, we are still here.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
I am slowly writing my own ending.
MiC Columnist River Strasner can be reached at strasnrr@umich.edu.
