The Tattletales of Youth

The allegory of the dumb kid

I often joke that starting on the day I was born, my parents believed that I would grow up to be dumb. My evidence for this begins with the spelling of my name - it is spelled "Briana" (one n) rather than "Brianna" (two ns) because (in my mother's words), she thought that I would need help writing out such a long name so she shortened it a letter.

In my earliest years, I didn't do much to prove their suspicions wrong. I had zero interest in holding a pencil or reading books, and only cared about climbing over the couch and laying down in Walmart parking lots.

When I was in second grade, my mother cried about my potential to my teacher, saying, "She doesn't even know how to spell."

To which, my teacher replied, "Don't worry, she'll have spell check."

(True story - that's just the American education system for you.)

In the end, my mother had nothing to worry about. I did a fine job academically and ended up with a Master's degree and a marginally better spelling ability. But when I read my earliest writing, I have to laugh at it.

Suddenly, I get why my mother was so worried. But that's the funny thing about life, you don't really know how things will turn out. People grow and blossom at different ages, and you can't truly predict it. Your kid who won't hold a pencil, may just grow up to be a writer.

My first piece of writing

But I'm getting sentimental, the purpose of all of this is to take a moment to share my earliest piece of writing, bad spelling and all. After all, I know you all want to see the reason I made my mother cry with my spelling.

My first piece of writing was a nonfiction piece. You see, my mother used to work on weekends and my father would watch us. During one faithful afternoon in September 2003, my brother and father committed a crime so egregious, that I took it upon myself to report their misdeeds in a note to my mother.

So yes, my first piece of writing was me being a snitch...

But hey, we all gotta start somewhere.

So here it is, the six page (!) saga and it's official modern translation:

Contextual Note - Alex is the name of my older brother.

Things to tell mom wene [when] she gets home

Bri siad [I cannot determine if this is supposed to be "Bri's Side" or "Bri said" - one has the feel of a tell all documentary, and the other, a third person self-narrative]

Mom I was playing with a ball and then Alex garkt [no translation, garkt is a verb meaning, "to take forcefully and unrightfully"] It away from me.

[Insert a self portrait of a tearful, seven year old metamorphosizing into a frowning child, who has suddenly learned that life is cruel and unyielding]

Then I crid [cried] and tod [told] dad but then it got wose [worse] Dad asked for Alex he siad [said] I was not playing with it but I was playing with it. DaD tok [took] it away from us.

[Insert portrait of an angry man - this is either my evil brother, or an early dissection of the pitfalls of toxic masculinity in a late-stage capitalistic America]

and then Alex blockt [blocked] me and I was triing [trying] to go to my bones room [Yes, a room with a collection of bones, and not the marker of growing up in a family where the playroom was called the "bonus" room.]

I open [opened] my math [mouth] and Alex fot [thought] I bit him [clearly I did not bite him] then Dad put me In my room I trid [tried] to tell him this stoy [story]

[Insert portrait of an angry face, or alternatively, insert a portrait of the unjust criminal system.]

and he would not even let me go to the bathroom lukule [look, I honestly don't know was "lukule" was supposed to be]

my time out nely ofr ["nely ofr" is a reference to playground slang of the early 2000s, it loosely means, "when my time out was over"] I ran out of my room to go to the bathroom.

[Insert portrait of murderous intention behind any governmental body who prevents humans from using the bathroom of their choice]

Then I wote [wrote] this sory [story] and I felt happy

Filing [Filling? - I presume this was empty space left to record any future transgressions that may have occurred during the time my mother was absent]

wene [when] Dad read this story he Feldt [felt] sad. [He probably felt sad about this attrocious spelling, and the realization that at this rate, his daughter would never graduate elementary school.]

[Insert portrait of a bald man crying: alternatively titled, everyone in the family politely ignored my father's balding head except his spiteful daughter]

[The end]

~

Concluding Thoughts

Yeah, I know. The plot was a little weak and the characters could have been fleshed out more. But even so, I hope you enjoy reading this beautifully bratty and eloquently misspelled piece. Although I no longer write passion pleas for justice to my mother, I find the self-righteousness of this piece to be illuminating and inspiring.

And though many things have changed, one important thing has not:

"I wote [wrote] this sory [story] and I felt happy."