ERIN DONALD
short stories by ER IN DONALD
a collectin of short stories
T H I S IS K IN D O F LIKE A DIARY.
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THIS IS KIND OF LIKE A DIARY
ERIN DONALD
a collectin of short stories
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ERIN DONALD
I NTRODUCTION However, there is a way to find significance in the insignificant. There is a way to look back at the past and derive some sort of meaning from it, because life in itself has meaning. You’re living when you’re eating Cheerios for breakfast, and you’re living when you’re sitting in class thinking about the party you’re going to this weekend. You’re living when you wear graphic tees all through junior high, and you’re living when you freak out about going over 200 text messages on your flip phone.
a collectin of short stories
I’d kind of always wanted to write a book, I just never really knew what to write about. Nothing very exciting ever happened to me. I went to school, made good grades, had a couple friends, and did pretty normal things.
I thought I didn’t have anything to write about because nothing big happened to me. But I
don’t think anything big needed to happen, because small things have just as much worth as big things. You don ’t have to have anything tragic or exciting happen to have a story. You just have to live.
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ERIN DONALD
a collectin of short stories
Y O U R P A RE N T S W I L L EN D U P B EI N G C O O L MY PARENTS USED TO EAT LUNCH WITH ME ALMOST EVERY DAY. Not because they had to, but because I invited them to. I doubt it was for the food, considering they came to a kindergarten cafeteria to eat chicken nuggets and pasty, off-white mashed potatoes. It wasn’t like we were eating in a pristine environment, either. The walls were plastered with hand painted kids with large faces and odd looking eyes, doing kid things like playing hopscotch.
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The linoleum floors had seen better days, the chairs on the tables were an odd rotten-carrot orange, and the tabletops had probably seen kids’ food on the way down and on the way up. The ladies serving us in the line looked tired and worn out, exhausted from plopping peas and carrots on to the plates of hundreds of drooling kids. Five and six year olds were loud in every direction, throwing food at each other and seeing how many paper-wrapped popsicles they could eat before their heads hurt too bad to continue. They did experiments with juice, ketchup, and pasta to see what they could create, and a go-gurt tube was used to test the boundaries of physics before oddly colored yogurt flew into the air. But still, my parents came. My dad sat in a sea of children wearing his dress shirt and pants from work, somehow interacting with everyone after a morning of seeing patients. He sat on the tiny orange circle chairs that were probably far from comfortable, with his legs bent too far under the short table. As a kid, I guess I didn’t realize how much this meant. It didn’t cross my mind that my dad was the most frequent
visitor to my schools cafeteria. Nobody else’s parent came as often as he did, as other parents usually ate lunch with their friends or at home instead of with their kids’ kindergarten class. My dad was always around, walking me to class and coming to lunch, until something changed: I didn’t want to be seen with him. In sixth grade, we went to Medieval Times. As expected, my dad was one of the only parents to go. At this point, all of the teachers knew him. It was expected that Dr. Donald would be at every school event. But at this particular event, it bothered me that I couldn’t be my own person. Why was my dad the only one there? Why couldn’t he just go sit with the parents? Why did he have to sit between me and my friends? Why was he still acting like I was in kindergarten? I remember sitting there, grouchily eating my chicken and bread with my hands. I wanted to hang out with my friends on this huge field trip, not sit next to my dad that I saw every day at home. I didn’t want kids to think that I needed my parents all the time, or that I couldn’t survive without them.
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From then on, I shunned him. Until senior year of high school, my dad consistently showed up to every school function. Awards ceremonies. Band concerts. Rehearsals. Contests. Before, during, and after. He would take off work to see everything I did, and to thank him, I didn’t speak to him. I wouldn’t let him take pictures with me. I wouldn’t let him talk to my friends. If he came to give me a hug afterwards, I would look the other way.
What was it about sixth grade to freshman year of college that made me think my parents were so uncool? In my not-soinfinite wisdom, I believe it’s because I wanted to make a name for myself alone. I didn’t want to be defined by Donalds before me, and I wanted to be my own person. But I don’t think I would be that person today if not for my
I often wish I could go back to my sixth-grade self and hit her on her little head with the slicked back ponytail and horrible teeth. I would ask her to love her parents, and appreciate that they were there. I would want her to make memories with the people she wouldn’t have around forever, all in hopes that she would get a head-start on appreciating them in the future. I would hope that she would appreciate them sitting in the stands at every event, and I would hope that she’d go sit with them and take a picture without dying to run away to her friends. Because in the end, those friends won’t matter. The friends that were cool in third grade will barely be acquaintances on Facebook years later.
a collectin of short stories
It wasn’t until sophomore year of college that I can concretely say I wanted my parents around. I started asking for them to come visit, and I started asking them to meet my friends. I began to appreciate the hours they put into my life, and I realized that being the some of the only parents around didn’t mean they wanted to annoy me, it meant they loved me.
parents. This is like being a flower but denying that you ever were in the ground. You can’t shove away where you came from, and you can’t push away the people that took care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.
So if your parents aren’t cool now, let them be, because all they want is you.
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I T ’ S O K A Y I F Y OU G E T P I CK ED L AS T F O R SP O RT S
ERIN DONALD
S OME PEOPLE CAN’T RUN VERY FAST. I AM ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE.
Nothing has ever terrified me more than having to exert physical strength in front of people. For some, I think this would be comparable to going into a test over a book you’ve never even heard of. And not only do you have to take and fail the test, you have to get up in front of the teacher and explain every answer with a page number and a citation. Everyone gets to watch you crumble and fail, and you get to sweat and have that knot inside of your stomach the whole time. I’ve never known what it was like to feel comfortable
running in front of people, or playing basketball or volleyball or kickball. Going outside to gym class made me feel like it would be easier to vomit and hide in the bathroom, and standing in line waiting to get picked for kickball or dodgeball made me feel like I was waiting in line for some kind of torture. The weight room was my personal hell, and the playground was for walking around looking for flowers, not running after a ball. The idea of playing tag and being chased by someone made me so nervous that I found it easier to stand still and let them tag me rather than to ever run at all. In short, team sports made me feel alone. To me, there was definitely an “I” in team. And it was me, awkward and off to
a collectin of short stories
I was always the one at the back of the pack when we had to run warm-up laps in junior high. To this day, I have not figured out how to move my legs fast enough to keep up with everyone else.
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the side, trying to find a place to fit in. I never really felt like I was part of these groups, and kind of felt like I was the one that brought the team down. I would like to stay that this eventually got resolved, but the fear of having to be strong or fast in front of people has never really gone away. I was always picked first for spelling bees and group projects, but I will never forget the feeling of standing alone in line for dodgeball, in a large t-shirt and awkwardly baggy jeans. I fit in until I walked into the gym and was told to dribble the basketball down the court without looking at it, and then I stuck out like a sore thumb. I never really understood how I could feel two extremes in one day. In classes, I felt on top of the world. Everyone sat at my table and I talked to my friends that also had a hard time running a mile. But the next period, I felt suffocated and alone on the squeaky gym floor, surrounded by people that could somehow spring the warm-up lap without feeling like they were going to throw up or fall over. I tried out for sports teams and tried to get better, but I cried when I ran up to
hurdles and I came in last place in the only race I ever ran. I never could climb the rope in gym class, and I was always singled out for not running fast enough. I just couldn’t understand what was wrong with me; the other kids were doing something right that I couldn’t possibly understand. I was always the loser. IN THE END, WAS IT GOOD TO FEEL THE STING OF LAST PLACE? PROBABLY. People say that sports build kids up and make them better team players. This theory sounds pleasant and happy, but they made me feel silly and alone. But perhaps sports did make me the person I am today, even though I was terrible at them. I found out what it was like to be completely unable to do something, and I learned the feeling of choking up, especially when the kickball rolled towards me and I froze. I like to think that this motivated me to be even better in other areas. I studied harder and worked harder on projects and homework so I could have one thing I was good at. I strived harder to be good at just a few things rather than to make
ERIN DONALD
decent grades and also be picked halfway through for sports. I don’t personally think there is a wrong way to go about this. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the kids that could do both, and there wasn’t a single thing wrong with the sports team captains. It’s okay to be good at many things, and it’s okay to be good at one or two things.
So in summary, fail. Fail over and over and over until you’ve failed at everything. Strike out in baseball, miss the winning touchdown, and totally bomb a test. Mess up from the beginning so you have something to come back from,
It’s okay to be really terrible at things. It’s okay to sometimes be humiliated and laughed at and picked last. You will come out better and stronger and smarter. But do not ever let the things you can’t do influence the things you can do. Push harder on the abilities you do have instead of letting up and focusing on what you can’t do. Be your best at what you were made for; you can’t get distracted by the fact that you can’t make a grilled cheese with your freezer. Just use it for ice cream instead.
a collectin of short stories
It takes losing to know what it’s like to win, and being good at everything straight from the get-go won’t ever really let you feel the true satisfaction of coming back from a humiliating loss with an incredible win. Being the best basketball player and making straight A’s won’t let you feel the bitter sting of being paralyzed in the face of a task you are completely unable to do.
because something sweet is more satisfying after something bitter. It’s hard to know on extreme without knowing another, just as it takes being sad to appreciate being happy.
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ERIN DONALD
a collectin of short stories
YOUR LEGS PROBABLY LOOK OKAY. I USED TO WEAR JEANS IN JULY. YES, IT WAS IN TEXAS. YES, IT WAS ODD. YES, PEOPLE ASKED IF I WAS
I JUST HATED MY LEGS.
OKAY.
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your legs probably look okay
There wasn’t a single thing wrong with my legs at all.
“
I’M SURE IT WOULDN’T HAVE REALLY MATTERED IF I WORE SHORTS.
”
Fourthgraders have kinda funky gangly legs. Mine were kinda twiggy and pale, having never seen the sun. I hated them. Other girls wore cute shorts to show off their tan legs that were always in the pool. My legs were ghostly white and kind of weak, because I was awkward and never found a need to run anywhere. Walking outside during recess was like roasting in an oven, only my legs were baking in dark denim and tall socks. I suppose all kids are self-concious about something. But I’ve come to realize that I honestly don’t remember what other kids’ legs even looked like. I couldn’t tell you what kids in the class also had awkward legs, or who had the best legs. I doubt that anyone would remember mine. I’m sure it wouldn’t have really mattered if I wore shorts. I could have enjoyed recess without burning up and sweating like crazy. It would have saved me the trouble of freaking out when I wore something that showed my knees, and being so self conscious on these days that I would want to change immediately. I remember
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having a pair of green shorts that hit just above my knees, and I would only wear them on weekends so nobody from school would see me. I went to the park on a Saturday once and was incredibly concerned about seeing someone I knew, because they would find out what my legs actually looked like. At 8 years old, did this stuff matter? Did incessant worrying about my knobby knees make anything better?
The lesson here is to embrace yourself. Not only embrace like give yourself a hug, but embrace your body, even if you’re in third grade and you feel weird about your legs. It’s hard to realize that nobody notices your tiny little flaws, and harder to realize that some people might actually like them.
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NOT AT ALL.
The hardest person to love is yourself, and coincidentally this is the most important. But do it anyway, because you matter the most.
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holiday chokers
ERIN DONALD
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I H A D H O L I DA Y CH O K E R S . I W O R E
are TRENDY
a collectin of short stories
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THEM WITH PRIDE.
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holiday chokers are trendy
My favorite choker was a halloween one that was black and orange with a small spider hanging off of it like a dog tag. There it was, a teeny spider on a teeny web, drawing people in to stare at my neck in attempt to figure out it out. I wore it with pride like a badge, trying to say “look how festive I am, way more festive than your Old Navy holiday tees.” One day in fifth grade math class, the spider charm fell off my necklace. I was absolutely devestated and I probably cried. That weekend, I went back to Claire’s and replaced it with another black and orange choker, but instead of a spider this one had a skull. I was hesitant to seem “goth”, but I wore it with a bright orange shirt and a rubber bracelet that said “this is my costume”. At 10 years old, I thought that was pretty clever. In elementary school, I wore odd bright colors and ironic jewelry. In junior high, I wore huge beaded necklaces and scrunchies that held my hair back way too tight. In early high school, I wore striped arm warmers and angry graphic tees. I had several favorites; one of them was purple with a black dripping heart, another one had a rain cloud and an
umbrella. Nobody was holding the umbrella though, it was just floating there in the sky, somehow hovering in the blue abyss of the fabric that covered my slightly rounded stomach. I always paired these odd graphic tees with a different color of zip-up Aeropostale hoodie, light-wash flare jeans, and converse that I’d drawn on with a skinny sharpie. I was always trying to nibble on food and lose weight so my stomach would look better in these graphic tees. This was kind of before I realized that everyone’s stomach looks dumb in a yellow, form fitting graphic tee.
IS IMPORTANT TO NOTE THAT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WEARING ARM WARMERS AT CARTHAGE HIGH SCHOOL. I was the only one that thought it would be funny to walk around during the school day in just my socks. I was the only one doing a lot of things, but I guess this never bothered me. Somehow, the people that I wanted as friends were still my friends, and I guess that’s why I never felt the urge to change.
ERIN DONALD
The funny thing was that wearing the same clothes as everyone else, complete with matching jewelry, didn’t make me popular. I had the same friends that I had when I wore the striped arm warmers, even though I looked like I was way cooler than that. I wanted to be in the important part of CHS, and not an outsider that was intimidating and way too focused on grades. When senior year rolled around, I stopped wearing clothes that made me uncomfortable. I dressed fairly normally, and even though it wasn’t just like everyone else, I felt good about myself. Coincidentally, I didn’t lose friends. In fact, I finally ended up in the friend group I wanted to be in. This wasn’t the coolest
group or the most popular group, but it was a group that loved and cared about me. They genuinly wanted to be around me on the weekends, and I finally felt like I had a solid group of friends that wanted to see me more than just in classes. I don’t wear my holiday chokers anymore, but they do have a special place in my closet. I never break out my neon pink and white stripped arm warmers, however, if I were to need them for an early 2000’s themed party, I would know exactly where to look. In the end, wear whatever you want. Try to stick out or try to fit in, but remember that what you wear doesn’t make you cool or popular. Your friends will be your friends when you’re just being yourself. You can still have friends if you wear holiday chokers, and people will still talk to you if you wear arm warmers in the summer. Be whoever you want to be, because the people that matter won’t mind.
a collectin of short stories
Junior year, I started dressing differently. I went back to bedazzled flare jeans, Nike running shoes, and small t-shirts. I wore bright colors from the Dillard’s junior’s section and my shorts were shorter than they should have been at age 16. This was a complete turnaround from the almost-scene clothes I wore as a freshman, and I felt like a new person. This change was driven by the assumption that better clothes led to better friends which led to a better life.
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ERIN DONALD
WORK OUT
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some things don’t
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some things don’t work out
Sophomore year of high school, I wanted to go to college in California and go to medical school to be a neurosurgeon, or something really intense like that. Then I wanted to study psychology and work in a jail and talk to criminals, because I was under the impression that talking to them would make them not-criminals anymore. My grandmother also used to tell me that I had to hug her when I was little, because someday my boobs would get too big to give people normal hugs.
SOME THINGS DON’T WORK OUT. I like to consider myself a professional at making plans. In 5th grade, I made a business plan with a couple of my friends to operate a carnival out of my front yard. We would rent a bounce house and give pony rides and have tons of food to sell.
We were convinced that we would make a ton of money and then would have lots of fun things to do with the riches. Keep in mind that we made all of these plans at a round table in art class on a piece of construction paper. In third grade, I sat outside on a kickball by the trunk of the only tree in the playground and created habitats for grubs. I doctored the injured ones, hoping they would come back to life and return to their grub family. I wanted to establish a hospital for them, where all grubs could receive free care, food, and shelter. In 6th grade, I made a plan to end animal cruelty on a piece of notebook paper while I should have been doing my homework. I wrote out this fully fledged plan, convinced that somewhere nearby people were stepping on puppies and rabbits. I took this plan (and note to the Texas governor) and folded it into a small square to keep in the front of my fabric, zip-up binder,
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thinking that perhaps just by thinking about something it would end up happening. Junior year of high school, I organized a spirit-dance practice for band members, in which I led drumline beats and recruited people to come up with dances for each one. Four people showed up. By the football game on Friday, everyone had forgotten the moves to the dances.
I like to think that there can be admiration for effort. Ideas are important, and perhaps following through with them isn’t always necessary. I hated when people would tell me, “that’s never going to happen, it’s not worth worrying about it,” because in the end, I was happy about thinking about these
Sometimes planning to do something is half the battle and most of the fun. Perhaps it is far less important to worry about the destination as it is to create the map. It doesn’t always matter if you get to where you’re going as long as you have a good time trying to get there.
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NONE OF THESE THINGS REALLY WORKED OUT.
things. I was content making plans for my grub hospital, and I was excited about ending animal cruelty. These things were fulfilling at the time, and even though they didn’t work out, I’m not upset that I planned for them.
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ERIN DONALD
EVERYTHING HAPPENS WHILE WAITING FOR SOMETHING ELSE.
It’s a waste to sit around waiting on something momentous and important to happen, because the best things are small and seemingly unsignificant. All of the little small stories will add up to be your life, and everything you think doesn’t matter will hold the most value.
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CONCLUSION
Your life is just a series of little things. They matter, but they don’t all have to be the turning point of your story. Find importance in the small moments, because time is the most valuable thing you will ever have.
Don’t sit around and wait for life to happen to you; go out and make it.
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