It seems as though my life has been taken over by others’ perceptions and interpretations of who I am. Essentially I am a mad libs page entitled, “The True Confessions of Mollie S.“ Most of the time I VERB or VERB, though some times if you’re really lucky I’ll run into a ring of NOUN, do a little trick and curtsy immediately following.” While this may just seem like the life everyone wants to live, the satisfaction that comes from watching people “fill in your blanks” is not all that it’s cracked up to be. Don’t get me wrong though, leaving your adjectives, verbs and sometimes adverbs up to a puppeteer does have its perks. For the most part, I have always been able to hide under an umbrella of white lies and imperfections; I’ve gone with the flow, swam with the porpoises. Until now. This does not please me anymore, nor does it settle my stomach. I have been stung by jellyfish and been bitten by sharks.
A true nonfiction account depicting a protagonist must live up the standards of said main character. Stating this, I feel as though “The True Confessions of Mollie S.” is just not cutting it. My life, my day to day routine, my mad libs page is written as though a seven year old child has come along and replaced every noun with the ever-so entertaining word, “poop.” This being said, I am changing the game, rewriting my action packed- or lack thereof dramatic thriller. I will go as deep as my spirituality, although saying this, I believe that my spirit is what I make of it. My spirituality is the people, places, and events that make up who I am as a person. I figure if I am capable of handling money or writing this sentence, I am capable of holding values, and sharing emotions. Henceforth, my memoir will be titled Twilight and I will tell you the story of the day I became a vampire… Only kidding! But in all seriousness, everything you will read or hear within the pages lying beneath this will leave you no doubt that I am no longer in need of an adjective. I am quite happy being Mollie S.
“Mollie S.” was in fact the name given to me at birth, and although I have shared my annoyance about carrying such a clumsy last name, I am only thankful for having it. At birth I was almost immediately handed two trinkets in which to bring with me along my “journey” through life; a blanket and harmonica. Well, maybe not a harmonica though now I know why I am not a blues musician. As most children do, I carried my blankie with me everywhere. I like to think of it as a broom, because in fact it probably did a better job sweeping cobwebs and dirt then an actual straw broom and dustbin would. My blankie was my security system, the way of ensuring to myself that I was safe. I have always been one to look for some sort of support system in which to confide in and somehow relate to because as an elementary school student I was often teased or at least, I had this innate fear of being teased for my weird personality, goofy smile, and frizzy hair. I quickly learned not to show emotion or even trust most, and to this day have a hard time relating to others for the mere reason that I am scared as to what people will think of me. My blankie was, as I thought of it, a being that was there to comfort, not judge my appearance or personality. To this day I sleep and seek refuge within the faded pink, green, yellow and blue strings that are my blankie, my own support system.

As much as I felt like I needed a security guard, I must make it clear that at one point during elementary school I did let down my guard enough to have best friends. Although, I am not nearly as in touch with either Mariah or Ivy as I had been in fourth grade, I like to think that at the time and even now they know how much of an impact they made on my life. It started with Mariah: a girl whose life ran almost parallel to my own. With two moms, a dog, almost impossible hair and a carefree attitude on life, we set out to have as much fun as possible. Now in fourth grade there is only so much fun to be had, but we were simply content jumping rope, or singing songs on the creeky, splinter-laden swing set. This was all well and good, until Mariah changed school, and essentially left my life for good. I did however find a friend after a few years, lonesome on the playground’s chalk-laden pavement.
My life as a fifth grader began, the fall of 2002, as any other would. I arrived in September fully prepared to complete page after page of irrelevant busy work, to gawk at the eighth graders- so easily relatable (as I was completely and utterly ready to graduate- even at the mere age of ten). What did happen though, was almost, as I saw it inhumanly possible: an establishment of a friendship. This girl’s name was Ivy and we were arguably the furthest from having anything in common. As I wore basketball shorts and huge tee shirts, the color of her attire changed hue by the minute, completely immersed in black by the end of the school year. What we lacked in common interest we made up for within the fact that both of us were pretty much both fifth grade rejects (and by rejects I mean, we did not live up to the established standards of the “typical” middle school student). By the end of sixth grade we were essentially one being. We thought the same thoughts, shared laughs over the same comic strip, and my wardrobe may have even found itself growing a tad darker. This was all peachy keen until I got word that she would be moving to the South American country of Chile the following year. Although we tried to maintain the same friendship as had once before been strong and blooming, there was almost no way that we could hold onto what we had. I didn’t even speak Spanish so any remaining hope that we could remain friends were slim to none. Now, I do not blame any of our broken friendship on this sudden move, but I do know that at that point I had given up on having a close relationship with anyone. To be frank, I’m slightly sick of friends. I think they’re overrated. I mean who needs someone who is just going to up and leave the second one attempts a friendship? I’m totally and wholly aware that I have this fear that if I became friends with someone else they will leave me soon after befriendment. In order to compensate for this weakness in which I have established, I have created a checklist in which if all applies to said “friend in waiting” I will try to establish an acquaintance. For the most part this checklist consists of concepts relating to one’s sense of humor. Without having the ability to make me laugh there is just nothing a person can possibly bring to the table besides a boring personality in which to laugh.
Recently I have found that my humor and even outlook on life is growing to be quite existential. I will never seek out a higher being, and although it would be cool to meet a medicine man, I don’t agree that a God or even gods exist. Perhaps my parents are to blame for this, I was raised with little to no religious belief system, but for the most part I have just never been able to piece together the relationship between humanity and the rest of the universe. Another concept in which I have never been able to piece together is the notion of hair.
A friend recently told me that until a few days ago she was under the impression that I was black. Now as much as this is charming, I blame this on my hair. At this point in my life it has never been clearer that my hair is some sort of freak accident hit and run in which both parties emit massive gas leaks while debris is thrown throughout the highway and into the adjacent neighborhoods in which a sleeping child is awakened only to be further knocked unconscious from the nuts and bolts used to hold together a 1996 Honda Civic thrown at said child. Besides the fact that I loathe my hair increasingly more each year, I have come to terms with my “disability” I somehow live in this alternate world in which I am African American. This is probably because my body needs something to tell it that I am normal: I have “nappy” hair because I am black. I am satisfied with this though because what could be better than a white Jewish girl who lives almost vicariously through a person of a different race? Although it seems imperative or at least others feel that it is imperative that I straighten or relax my hair, I do find my hair to be my identity, the reason I am different from most others. Straightening my hair is just a further way to assimilate into the Anglo-Saxon culture, and with a new, African American president I have a new outlook on life and white people just aren’t making the cut. Don’t get me wrong, I am white and of course am proud of my pasty skin and boy am I glad I don’t get ashy- constantly applying lotion is just not my thing. But still, I just find myself being more of an Al Sharpton rather than a Glenn Beck.
You see, my life, although sometimes uneventful, is my own. While there is much about me that people will never understand and even hear, I do not need any one to tell me who I am supposed to be. This being said, my memoir is not complete. I have only just begun to state the factors involved in making me into the person that I am. The establishment of my spirituality has only now become clear. My self-diagnosed loneliness, the dire need to be protected and sheltered, and the tumultuous struggle I have endured while dealing with what most call “hair” has made me who I am today. Chapter one is complete, my childhood illustrated. If not to spoil the extravagant events that occur within the next chapter, I will only say that within those lines is a story of passion, unforgiving circumstances, and a step in the right direction. Confusing, huh? That’s all for another time though, so as of now all there is to say is, the NOUN.