In first grade I wore denim shorts to school every single day, even in the winter. I
was trying to prove something. My parents were divorcing, and I wanted to be
tough. So I wore my long denim shorts, hand-me-downs from my older brother, and
I wore my black Raiders jersey and a backwards baseball cap. It was a costume that
lasted a long while, a uniform that meant I wouldn’t cry or talk about my feelings.
And after a while of not talking about them my feelings went away, like gods
without any worshipers.
In high school my plan was to be a weather girl. I was pretty enough for it, or at least
my friends said so. Weather girls seemed polished and glamorous on television, and
they all spoke with such confidence about this storm or that stretch of sunshine.
Maybe wanting to be a weather girl was less about the weather and more about
wanting to know something, anything. Wanting to look up at the sky and