I wrote this piece for my school's literary magazine this spring. It made it in; and it has gotten pretty good reception from my family, so I thought I'd post it here.
In some senses it is a response to Don DeLillo's Underworld, which I recently finished reading.
Criticism is always encouraged.
I am the culmination of media outlets and marketing ploys.
A yellow ball bounces across the words, keeping me on track so I can sing-along. “Look at this stuff; isn't it neat? Wouldn't you think my collection's complete? Wouldn't you think I'm the girl—the girl who has everything?”
A whining reminder that I will be the only kid in school that doesn’t have an Easy Bake Oven. I need one, or I won’t be able to make friend. I need one. Mommy, I need one.
A desperate cry to fight against the mainstream conglomeration of pop music and MTV force-fed musical selections. I choose from this stream of marketing a white rapper who knows what I hate. Who hates me and reminds me of this while he screams curse words at me through a pair of old headphones. I memorize all of the words. He understands me. We’ve all got skeletons in our closet and we’re cleaning them out.
A magazine that shows me pictures of stick figure teens, giving one out of 184 pages to a black, an Asian and a plus sized model. A reminder that the eye shadow shade is blue for the spring. A reminder that I am not like the other girls: that something could be wrong with me.
A wardrobe making me a walking advertisement for the clothing I’m wearing. An eagle, a moose, an alligator, a monkey. I am defined by these stupid logos and words that have only the empty meaning of a brand name. Airmail. Last Name & Last Name. United States Bird.
A room that is mine. A mosaic of posters and moments I deem significant. A picture of Andy Roddick. A poster of Pirates of the Caribbean. A sunset. Did I take the picture? Does it matter? Moments stuck in time to be remembered, relived, redefined, reassessed. I live a life in repeat. I look upon the past at every moment because it stares me in the face. It will not shut up. It will never silence. The pictures always stare at me, and I am supposed to cherish them.
An obsessive refreshing. Check the Facebook. Did anyone like my pictures? Has anyone commented? Worth found through characters on a page in a server somewhere in Phoenix, or San Francisco or small town Wisconsin. A two thousand dollar metal box that reminds me that I have friends, or that I don’t have friends. A box that “opens the world” to me. A box that slowly but surely steals my soul if I let it.
A judgement passed based on physical appearance, belongings and income. Hairstyle assessed. Clothing assessed. Shoes assessed. Possessions assessed. Five seconds have passed. A judgement has been made.
Stuff. We are just stuff made of more stuff, a composite of shit we buy and sell, and deem valuable based on a slip of paper that no longer represents the gold it is supposed to. We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men. And we are stuffed with shit that doesn’t matter unless we make it matter. Or do we make it matter because it does matter? Could it be that I am just a stuffed woman—a composite made of marketing and television and Internet and clothing? Am I anything more than the offspring of capitalism—an offspring of the glorious United States of Stuff? Do I matter beyond what I buy? Or am I just a number stuck in a statistic of bought, recycled, burned, wasted, thrown out shit?
Look at this stuff. Am I anything more?
