Schwarm 1

Through the Ringer

My mom likes making lists.

Grocery lists, things to do, tasks to accomplish, people to talk to, bills to pay, she writes

all kinds of lists. The subjects of these lists vary, but they all have one thing in common; one

thing that all of her lists need, and most of the list’s people make. That “thing” is that all of them

are about objects that are missing or tasks that have not been done.

They say you’re not supposed to tell people what you’re not because it will change how

they view what you are. You’ll become a sum of all your missing parts, instead of a person

formed by traits you have. They’ll never be able to look at you the same without seeing all the

characteristics you’ve told them you lack. Unfortunately, that’s just what I’m about to do. I’m

going to copy my mom, and write a list, with little boxes next to each item, waiting for an inky

black checkmark to fill it in. Because I may not know who I am, but I know who I am not.

I’m not the type of person who does every assignment early and has color-coded notes

that make reviewing easier. I’m not the type of person who runs every day and pushes my limits

until I can’t anymore. I’m not the type of person who wears tight clothes and spends over five

minutes on my hair. I’m not the type of person who can recognize the names of mainstream pop

stars or well-known chorus lines, without a little bit of help. I’m not the type of person that can

talk to anyone about anything real, or about anything about me. I’m not the type of person who

shares close things about myself or talks about my feelings or cries over movies. I don’t know

names, I don’t know faces, I don’t know people. That is the sum of all I am not.

Everything else? It’s all up for debate. I, and most people, am an endless spaces of

possibility. We’re made of stardust and stories about true love and about how our world is dying,

and we’re all okay with it; with being those people. Who we are, quintessentially, can never be

quantified, not by words or indescribable feelings or numbers.

 Schwarm 2

Which means the next paragraph is only going to sound weirder. Seriously, I’m

preaching about people being unquantifiable and I’m about to quantify me with a vague

approximation of “purpose”. A little ridiculous, really.

I honestly believe my purpose is as a storyteller with the explicit emphasis on making

others feel good. A lot of people forget, but storytelling, no matter how counterintuitive it sounds,

is mostly about listening, and that’s something I feel I can do rather well. I’m a listener, I like

hearing other people’s stories and getting to participate in their dialogue. When I enter a room I

tilt my head, as though bringing my ear closer to the people will make what they’re saying and

why they’re saying it clearer. I’m not only a sounding board, but also view myself as a guide.

And yes, I know that sounds a little “hippy-dippy”, but what can I say. I listen, yes, and that’s my

main purpose, but I also help guide the people who are talking. Guide them to peace. Guide

them to closure. Guide them to vulnerability.

My mom likes making list and so do my friends. Every single one of them. They like to

be organized and have plans for what’s going to happen and who’s going to be where. Map out

their lives and try to make sense of their minds.

I have this one friend, for the sake of the story let’s call her Bo, who likes making lists as

much as my mom. If she was mad at me, I’d get her post-it-notes, or a cactus to-do-list or

something of that nature and everything unspoken would be forgiven. She’d tote around a

flipbook full of premade lists, in a worn pink backpack that smacked loudly when she moved too

fast. Blonde hair, cut in a sharp 1920s style flapper’s bob, bounced around her neck, grazing

against her cheeks as she’d throw herself dramatically into a chair next to mine, flipping out the

lists with a charming smile and a “where did we leave off?”

She’s a reader, has something against dog-earing pages and instead stresses herself

out over remembering a bookmark. She’s a reader and is more likely to get lost in her head than

in someone else’s eyes. She’s a reader and one time, at the end of a class trip to London,

where we had finally (finally) become friends, we wandered into an airport book store.
 Schwarm 3

There’s something that happens in bookstores, in busy airports, where the rest of the

world’s deafening hustle and bustle falls under a hush. It’s a hush so profound that even the

shoppers don’t want to break it, so they speak in whispers and aborted sentences, catching

each other's eyes and making strange hand motions instead. We fell victim to the same spell.

A wiggle of eyebrows, a gesture at a book, and suddenly, my arms were full.

Three.

She put three books in my hands, letting her fingers dance across the spine of another

as she scrunched her nose up in consideration. She shook her head, and that was that. I was

lead over to the counter with a gentle tug at my wrist, where she then grabbed one of the books

from my arms and had the cashier ring it up. Her hands tapped against the counter as the total

was said in a droning voice. She slipped a ten pound note to the cashier, a man with sloping

features and a cynical twist to his lips. He took and handed back the change with a soft sigh,

then let his gaze shift to me.

“You sure you’re okay with buying both of those?” Bo asked at my side, propped against

the till with a carefree grace.

“Yeah, dude, of course,” I said back and had to fight down a heat in my cheeks as the

cashier impatiently cleared their throat.

I handed over the books and he rang them up. I paid. He handed them back, wrapped

up in a plastic shield. We meandered back over to our terminal, just as a teacher started calling

off names, lining us up like ducks in a row at an old fair game. We board the plane, hustling past

faceless checkpoint keepers.

It was easy enough to find our seats, it was neither of our first times on a plane, no

where close. They’re all the same after a while. We settled down along with the rest of the class,

air brittle and cold in that way unique to European airplanes.

Time passed and we were in the air, which is much better than taking off and landing.

Most of the class had dozed off, heads lolling backwards against seats and puffs of air escaping
 Schwarm 4

their open mouths. Flight attendants stalked up and down the aisles. A baby three seats ahead

of me let out a high-pitched gurgling sound as their harried mother hushed them.

I turned to Bo, ignoring the way the seats dig into my back and my knees ache for some

unknown reason. She had whipped out her sketchbook and is in her own world. I shrug, trying

to ignore the sinking in my chest. Bending over I rifled through the plastic bag, pulling out

‘Messenger of Fear’ by Michael Grant.

I cracked it open, the sound of a book being opened for the first time rolling down my

spine and a smile pulling at my lips in response. Letting out a soft sigh of contentment, I settled

in to read.

“Can you read it out loud?” Bo’s voice interrupts my mind on the first sentence.

Slanting an eyebrow at her I nodded, clearing my throat. I located the first sentence

again and scanned over it before I began. My mouth opened and the words tumbled out.

Different voices for different characters. Hushed tones so as to not disturb anyone else. I

listened to the story as it left my mouth, reveling in the intimacy I had discovered with

characters. I shaped their names on my tongue reverently, before letting them go out into the

world.

Sentences.

Dialogues.

Spiraling around us.

It’s another world all of a sudden.

And we’re the only inhabitants.

And it’s nice.

So nice.

To be alone in another world for once.

It’s nice to just be able to listen, and not have to be the one who thinks of a story. To

listen to my own voice, which usually grates on my nerves as it grows rougher, somehow, the
 Schwarm 5

more I use it. To have listened to the rest of the plane, off in their own worlds, and to have been

glad that I had someone with which to share mine.

I stopped reading when a sharp pain started pounding my temples. I blinked slowly and

she looked up from her sketchbook at my pause. A small smile tugged at her lips and she

reached out, lifting the book from my hands with a tsking sound and setting it over her still open

sketchbook.

Then she started reading and I let my eyes close, leaning my head back against the

headrest which was almost too high for my head to actually rest against. Her voice floated over

me, in time with the gentle roaring of the engines and the sporadic blasts of cool air to my face.

She did different voices too.

I don’t like talking about myself. I’ve developed a peculiar way of speaking where I

weave riddles without meaning to and trick people into thinking they’ve discovered my whole life

story when in fact I’ve discovered theirs. Just like a mirage in a desert appeals to a thirsty

traveler. A trick of the light. A trick of the tongue. A trick of the mind. Smoke and mirrors I

construct during a conversation as a deeply ingrained defense mechanism I don’t even

recognize happening until it’s not. If it’s not, I feel uncomfortable in my comfort.

I don’t know who I am, but I can guess at what I am. Widely generalize subjects that

don’t actually tell you anything you want to know but make you think that I’ve handed you my

soul.

I am the person who likes certain words because they “taste” good as they trip from my

tongue. The person who has done everything under the sun to my right ankle and rode an

elephant with a fractured wrist. The person who has ink on my hands, calluses on my fingertips,

and cuts covering my legs. I’m the person who has perfected being a ghost and forgotten what

it’s like to be truly seen. Because being seen means opening yourself up, and that is the most

terrifying thing anyone could possibly do.

 Schwarm 6

Following that sentence, it may make sense that I identify as someone who is supposed

to be there for other people.

I’m a listener and sometimes that hurts me.

How can the act of simply listening hurt someone? How can it possibly hurt someone if

the words aren’t even directed at them? Well, I have this problem. Not a hero-complex, not

anything like that, but I like being there for people, even if it’s detrimental to my health. I usually

don’t realize if it’s detrimental to my health honestly. In fact, I leave my ringer on at night just in

case one of my friends needs someone to talk them down.

One time, after an exhausting week in which my sleep schedule had been even more

abhorrent than usual, a soft descending chime went off in my room. It stirred me from a dream I

can’t remember now as I groped blindly across the ground. Another chime went off. Another as i

finally got my fingers clumsily wrapped around my phone. I lifted it to my face, flinching slowly

back as the light from the screen spread through my room, bright and angry and insistent.

I checked my texts, squinting with a furrowed brow at the words, slightly blurry, that

popped up on the screen. Half-hearted sentences and panicked confessions stared up at me.. I

blinked down at it, trying to sort out what was happening, why there was still ringing in my ears.

Oh. Bo was still texting.

Oh. I still had time to help.

Unlocking my phone with slow, deliberate movements I clicked into the messaging app.

Clumsy fingers type out a message of only two words.

Call me.

A moment later, my screen is taken over by a screen that says “My Wife... is calling”. I

picked up with a lazy slide of my finger, bringing the phone to my ear, letting my eyes slip

closed.

“Hey sunshine,” I hummed, voice sleep-heavy and rusted.

 Schwarm 7

A quiet sob on the other end. I opened my eyes a little bit more, then narrow them, as

though she can see the suspicious expression I’m giving the phone.

“Can you talk about it or do you want me to just talk nonsense again?” I asked, rolling

onto my back and ignoring my dog’s grumbling.

A deep hitching breath and then, “Can you just talk please?”

I can talk nonsense. It’s easy, especially in that special time when the starlight traces the

vaguest outlines of shapes outside my windows and the world is quiet and my mind is so

disoriented from lack of sleep that it forgets to throw up its barriers. I talk nonsense disguised

as rants on the art of courting, and books I like, and things that remind me of happy times. I talk

nonsense to make the nonsense in her mind shut up.

Eventually, snuffling and hitching breaths calm, evening out until I tease a laugh out of

the phone from a particularly horrible pun.

She said and, if I hadn’t just heard it, I would have known she was crying, “I’m sorry you

had to call. You should’ve been asleep.”

“Don’t worry I was up anyway.” I wasn’t, but it didn’t really matter.

“I just-I just don’t want to be one of those people you leave your ringer on for,” She

muttered, voice fading at the end so I had to strain to hear it over the snores of my dog.

How could I tell her that she was the main reason I left it on? That I was so relieved that

she knew she could text, or call, and I would pick up. How relieved I was when she said “I

moved the scissors to another room,” and how heartbroken, soul-wrenchingly anguished, I was

when she said, “because I was scared of what I would do.”?

So I didn’t tell her, because I can’t handle her heartbreak, “Don’t worry sunshine, I was

up anyway.”

And it wouldn’t even be a lie most nights.

 Schwarm 8

Her conscious eased we settled into an easy banter, my mand snagging and lagging

behind so the words that left my mouth ended up being a strange blend between entirely too

honest and completely nonsensical. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell you which was which.

I don’t remember whether or not I slept any more that night. I remember it didn’t matter if

I did. It wasn’t the important part. I wasn’t having an interesting dream, or at least, not one

interesting enough to stop me from trying to help.

So yes, listening is dangerous.

It’s dangerous because I forget to switch from listening openly, to deliberating. I jump

straight into the action. If anyone I care about starts complaining about a sleight against them?

Get ready for a sleight against those who hurt you.

I’m sure most people wouldn’t think this upon meeting me, or at least that’s what I’ve

been told, but I’ve been in fights. I grew up somewhere where I was a foreigner and had to fight

for the right to be accepted into that community. Honestly, I loved it.

I was that quirky scrappy kid who was always anxious and jumped around with a too

loud laugh and too quiet ideas. I say scrappy because I got in fights. And I won, more often than

not. I’m fast and when I’m angry, which is a rarer occurrence than you’d think, I don’t care

whether I get hurt or not. Which is unfortunate for the people I end up fighting.

The very last fight I got in was for defending my friend’s honor. We’re going to call her

“Char”, for the sake of the story. Char was something else, is still I suppose but we don’t see

each other often enough to really know. With wide, innocent blue eyes, a tendency to get over

excited, and the confidence of a rhino charging at top speed, she was hard not to notice. She

also had an accent, australian, that was weird back in Hawaii, and might have made her more of

a target than her light skin and blonde hair did.

We met through school, in fifth grade. She had just moved from Australia and was fairly

pleased with the development. My best friend had decided it wasn’t cool to be friends with a girl

anymore, and he had taken a lot of people with him. A girl in the grade had also decided that I
 Schwarm 9

was the perfect victim for anger she couldn’t express otherwise, but that was fine. We became

friends that year, playing make believe games and Pokemon with the guys that weren’t idiots.

Then I left.

I switched to a school on the other side of the Pali and that could’ve been the end.

Unfortunately, or not, we’re both insanely stubborn people when we want to be; A Capricorn and

Taurus, the most unyielding and the most stubborn of the star signs. If anything, the fact that the

friendship was harder to continue made us want to continue it even more. I would go to her

house practically every weekend, where we would swim in her tiny wave pool, coming up with

dumb stories to act out, and then troop into the house where her mom would make the most

delicious lemonade slushies known to man.

That’s not to say the friendship was easy. Char is prone to fits of anger, is unyielding,

and has no idea the effect of some of her actions. One time she got so mad at me for being

unbeatable at pillow fighting that she ran inside and locked herself in the bathroom. She

wouldn’t come out so I learned how to pick that specific lock to harass her and make her laugh.

It worked and everything was good again.

Since we were such close friends, she invited me back to the school I had left to go to a

seventh grade dance. We got ready together. I wore a green and blue dress with thin straps and

floaty material that swished softly as I bounced from place to place. Strappy sandals twined their

way up my calves and provided absolutely zero arch support.

We made it to the dance and I greeted all of my old friends, my old enemies, my old

indifferences, as we made our way through. There was shrieking as Kalani flung herself at me,

a gentle smile from Fiona as she patted my shoulder, and barely concealed anger from Sophia.

Jonah, James, and Riley all dropped in to say hi and make dumb jokes. My (ex)best friend

never showed up. Not that I wanted to see him.

Except I kind of did.

 Schwarm 10

It didn’t end up mattering. Char and I walked into the dance room, where early 2010s

hits were playing with vengeance and people violently swinging their arms and hips to the beat.

She started dancing, energetically and with abandon, she doesn’t really get embarrassed. I was

a lot more subdued, peering around the room, trying to recognize people and songs, mostly

swaying and jumping when the mood took me.

I didn’t notice at first when one of the Ethans, there were at least three, came up to Char

and started talking to her. I only noticed when I glanced over and her face crumpled like a balled

up receipt being stomped on by a pair of studded combat boots. My eyes narrowed and I pulled

back my shoulders, seeing Ethan 2.0’s spiky blonde bird’s nest disappearing into the crowd.

Without my knowledge, my hand wrapped around her wrist and I tugged her out of the

room, trade winds slicing up the muggy air outside enough that it was a relief. Fat pearly tears

started rolling down her cheeks as she furiously scrubbed at her face.

“Hey, hey, buddy, what happened?” I asked, my hands raised, halfway reaching out to

her, fingers trembling slightly as I tried not to curl them into fists.

She recounted that Ethan 2.0 had delivered a message from a new kid. Rugby, she said,

voice quivering on the name. What a ridiculous name, who names their kid “Rugby” of all

things? I can’t even remember what it was he said, I just remember a fire sparking through my

chest and mind before it was doused with a cold calm.

“Wait here, he’s gonna come and apologize,” I growled, and she nodded, going to sit

down at one of the splintered wooden benches.

That sorted out, I turned away. My brows drew together and my hands formed loose fists

at my side. I stalked through the people, eyes locking onto Suhana, who’s eyes widened when

she saw the storm brewing in my expression. She pushed the guy she was talking to, Rugby as

I would later find out, away, keeping her eyes locked on me.

Rugby, as stocky as a seventh grader can really be with hair gelled up into a single spike

atop his head, turned back with a bewildered expression. I continued on my warpath. Suhana
 Schwarm 11

finally convinced him to run, I suppose, because that’s just what he did, short legs loping

clumsily as he fled.

My target no longer easily accessible, I went up to Suhana, “Do you know what he did?”

“No,” She replied, taking a step back as I stilled, tilting my head at her.

“Then why’re you interfering?” I questioned, letting my brows furrow further.

“Because you look mad and you don’t get mad.”

“Suhana, I’m not mad,” She let out a breath just as I bared my teeth to her in a toothy

grin, “I’m furious.”

She took another step back, which would actually be quite funny if I hadn’t been so mad.

I don’t exactly cut a scary figure, after all. Then again, I’ve been told it’s a completely different

kind of terrifying when you make someone who doesn’t get mad, angry.

“So where is he?” I asked, picture of nonchalance as I tilted my head to the otherside,

grin still playing across my face.

“Bathrooms,” she breathed out, then scampered away.

I felt a little bad about scaring her, but I honestly hadn’t meant to. My ire was meant for

one person, and one person only.

My feet made barely any sound as I slipped through the students milling about over to

the bathrooms, the way still ingrained in my memory despite having been gone for two years.

Just as I made it, the door to the men’s room opened and a boy I recognized as Rugby slunk

out.

I darted forward and grabbed his upper arm, tugging him resolutely back toward the

crowd, resisting all of my urges to just sock him. I was going to take him to apologize to Char

and then to fess up to what he’d done to the principal. Unfortunately, Rugby had other plans.

He wrenched his arm from my hand and snarled at me, dropping his body into a stiff

fighting position that was obviously all bad movies and no experience. I raised an eyebrow at

him, feeling my shoulders relax even as I lifted my hands to be closer to my face.

 Schwarm 12

He threw a punch.

It was slow and sloppy and his entire body telegraphed the move before hand.

I easily sidestepped.

He grunted.

He tried to throw another.

I dodged again.

A growl rumbled out of my throat as I darted into his space, bringing my fist to his gut

before dancing back out of his reach. The sound was strange. A resoundingly hollow sound. It

hurt my knuckles a bit, but I didn’t care.

I repeated the action.

He doubled over with a grunt.

“Are you done?” I growled, holding myself back from hitting him again, because I’m not a

violent person, and I’m certainly not the one with anger issues in this family.

He grunted again and threw his hands out in a blind hit.

It clipped the side of my hips.

It kind of hurt.

It left a bruise.

It was too clumsy to hurt a lot though.

And I was too angry to care if it did.

“Seriously dude? Just give up now before I break that smile of yours because honestly?

I’ve never been this angry before.”

He let out a wheeze, which I think was just for dramatic effect, and it sounded like a

surrender so I grabbed his arm again. I yanked him through the crowd behind me, like a

prisoner of war, pushing through people and ignoring the looks and murmurs.

“Apologize,” I growled as I deposited him in front of a still sniffling Char.

“Sorry,” He said and actually looked a little sheepish.

 Schwarm 13

Char shrugged and offered a watery smile, which is more than I would have done. I

nodded, then waved the middle school’s principal over. We’d known each other from before,

and I knew he had a bit of a soft spot for me and my brother so I wasn’t worried about his

reaction to whatever Rugby would say. He was good people.

I don’t remember much from after that. I remember I didn’t get in trouble. I remember

Rugby did. I remember we left soon after. I remember being tired as we went to sleep over at

Char’s for the night and play another game of make-believe.

Looking back on it now, as I take kickboxing and struggle with directions, I’m aware that I

was probably lucky Rugby didn’t know how to actually fight. I can’t really bring myself to be

concerned with that though. He hurt someone I was listening to, he caused their story to shift to

something hurt and cowering, and I couldn’t have that. He was too afraid of getting hurt to

actually fight me. I was too angry to care about getting hurt. He was slow and I was fast. It was

simple and it was complicated. I’d do it again, even if I knew I was going to lose.

I realize that throughout this essay, I’ve made a list. A list about my purpose, and a

subset of points concentrated on what that connotes. A list of things that prove this.

I really don’t like making lists.