YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL

About a month ago some people knocked on my door.
Told me they had to run some mandatory tests that would tell me some mandatory things

Asked me what I thought I was good at and what I wished I was better at and what I knew I wasn’t best at

I filled out some forms and I thought it was pretty easy because I thought I knew what I was good, and ok and not best at.  

Turns out the machine knew more than my list of “thought-I-knew”s

Printing... printing... printing...

Barely above average in soccer 

Middle of the pack in school 

Normal in looks, decent artist 

On point sock game 

Good at church

Successful eater 

and a big fat, Helvetica font,

RESULTS: YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL

have a good day

At first I was shaken and I probably called my mom. 

She probably told me I’m special and probably told me it’s ok if I’m not, but I am so don’t worry.

So it’s ok. It’s ok. You’re ok.

And moms are supposed to do that. Supposed to say that. Supposed to believe that.

But there I was with letters looking back at me and I couldn’t help but think about them.

Because there’s a lot of soccer players out there. 

A lot of artists and Mormons.

And there’s a lot of blonde, 5’4’’, smile big, 

good at school (sometimes), sock wearing girls out there.

And we can’t all be special.

So I stuck the paper on my desk and stapled it to my heart till forever.

Some days I held a pity-party for myself.

Handed out a lot of “I’m not specials” just to hear people tell me I am.

Some days I hid the paper behind my shelf

Put in extra time, running, working, studying, prepping, cleaning, being.

Convinced that the next time the machine came around I’d score 5 stars, a 4.0.

A YOU’RE SPECIAL

But turns out emotions are circles and our hearts are downhill and that circle is really good at rolling

Really good at making the last month a rollercoaster of I’m oks and I’ll prove them wrongs and I’m specials and why am I tryings

Because I want to stop rolling

Because I’m getting dizzy

Because I’m getting lost

Cuz I was always the soccer player

The senior class vice president

The smart one

The smiley one

The one who was going to Washington to do something great

And now the only one I am is a one percent.

A slice of a city that never sleeps

And I’ve been thinking a lot about that paper all day today and I think I need to do something soon.

So tonight is different. Because I’m telling the paper I understand. Telling it I know I’m not special.

Not the best at anything.

That that’s ok because tonight I remembered that’s not what life’s about.

I remembered the way I look at people around me. Listening to what they’re saying and hoping and thinking. Not asking for their paper or test results.

Remembered that the people that mean the most to me aren’t the best at anything either. They’re all just a bunch of average, normal, middle of the packers who mean more than the world to me.

Who are really really special to me.

Tonight I realized for the first time the words on the paper were written in pencil

Decided to pull out my eraser and stop focusing on that word SPECIAL and the YOU ARE NOT before it

Decided to replace it with a list of the people that have told me they love me and told me they believed in me

Decided to stop living life for a better test score

And just start living

BP

thoughts from the lobby of a freshmen dorm

Nobody tells you that college means a lot of “mom I’m not sure about this” on the phone kind of crying

Nobody tells you that missing people is a real thing and not just something you tweet about to seem relatable.

Or maybe they did and I was just too busy chanting “senior year” while complaining about high school, to hear them.

I’m down in the lobby of my dorm and there’s a bunch of sorority girls all dressed up and Asian guys speaking Japanese and some sort of study group going on.

And I really want to stand up and ask them if anyone has ever slept under the stars to make sure they stay there all night,

or if they’ve ever written something that became a part of them,

or if they miss having friends who got excited with them about the key change in “Love on Top” by Beyonce,

or if they ever go to down to the lobby just to write and check that they still get chills when they read a good line.

And I think the sorority girls would sit me down and give me a lot of “oh honey” looks and pluck my eyebrows,

And the Asians would be confused because they don’t speak English,

And the study group probably wouldn’t even look up because I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard an exasperated “due tomorrow” come from their corner of the room

But I guess I just would hope I’d see a random hand in the back

A hand that would be confident, but quiet and really really proud.

A hand that I could introduce to Paris and dance videos and slam poetry and cornelia and avery and navy and Harold

A hand that would make seattle feel a little less empty

But I’d also be scared that no hand would come up, and then I’d feel awkward because I’d be standing on a chair with a lot of confused people looking at me.

So maybe not today,

Or tomorrow

But one day, I really hope to have enough courage to find someone to share my Felicity with.

Because she’s getting lonely

And I simply owe her too much to let that happen.

BP

too long

I just barely typed in the letters

f..

e..

l...

to my search bar
and my blog didn't even come up as a suggested site

it's been too long


I'm living in another state now,
wake up at 5:30 every morning now
go to a class full of the eating-by-the-knight kids from every school across the country for four hours every day now
am almost used to it now

taught a boy what Brazil was last week
tried to explain why I stayed home from the frat party this week
haven't cried since that week
won't see my mom till next week

but I promise,
I have never stopped thinking about Paris
and I'm praying it hasn't forgotten about Felicity

because the people here are great
and the food here is fine
and my bed is pretty ok

but
I miss my dog
and people who enjoy my music
and words that have more than four letters

and the boy with blue eyes and the girl with my last name and the one with fire for hair.

because I started reading blogs and I almost started to cry
because I don't think things in slam anymore
and I haven't sent myself a text with a good line in  a while

And sorry to break it to you but
life isn't metaphors and flowers
it's not explaining feelings with colors and emotions with the weather

its smelly and hard and tiring.

And that's how it stays when you forget to day trip to Paris every once in a while

But I want it to be metaphoric and colorful and stormy

So I think I'm going to mark felicity sharpe as a bookmark
And I'm going to start thinking in blue and rain drops again

Because

maybe I'm a jock

and maybe I spend more time in the weight room than in my journal

(ha)

But also someone had to combine socks and sandals to realize how comfy it was

And Troy had to try out karaoke before he starred in the Spring Musical
And maybe I'll just have to do the same

I'll just have to combine the opposites and show everyone just how amazing it can be
to be so many things that so beautifully combine.


BP

final slam

I’ve only seen my dad cry twice

The first time was in the Emergency Room at 1 in the morning and I guess that one just made sense to me

The second was about two hours ago and I don’t think he’s wiped the salt off his cheeks yet.

I was crying too

So was mom

But that happens about twice a day

And it was all because of soccer

Now, in the past I’ve always avoided writing about soccer for some reason

Told myself that

Being athletics’ not poetic

The only chills sports can produce are the type that come from sprinting in the cold

But two hours ago my dad cried for the second time in 17 1/2 years

And I started to reconsider

I’ve been playing since I was three

Been in love since I was three

Been wearing grass stains on my heart since I was three

Been crying after games we lost since I was three

But tonight was different

Because my dad cried too

Tonight was different because when I took off my jersey my mom didn’t ask me when I needed it washed by.

Tonight was different because I knew the next time I’d be putting on a jersey it’d be purple and have a name on the front that is 1,100 miles away

And I’m trying to do the math and I think I’m at

21 pairs of cleats, 3 rec teams, 4 club teams, 14 years, 53 goals, 145 assists, 13 coaches, 521 games, 94 t-shirts, 7 you can’ts, and 19 you betters

And one sport that’s changed my life.

And maybe I’m way off here, but I think anything that makes you cry and sweat and bleed and desire and breathe so hard you’re not sure if you’ll ever be the same

Anything 
that changes the way your heart beats,

Is allowed to be poetic.

50 words or less

My phone keeps auto correcting the word love to live 

because I think it knows that when you're 

sweating,

breathing, 

feeling,

that when you're alive 

love can't be much further than a block away

and I think that's more profound than I could ever try to be

BP

heart hopes

I asked my mom what I should write about

Told her I was tired of writing about being a senior and then not being a senior.

She told me to write about heart hopes.

About what I’m crossing my fingers for my heart to tell me in ten years

I hope my heart has wrinkles.

The kinds that are found on the corners of worn shoes

The edges of embarrassing snorts

I hope my heart still pumps extra blood into that vein in the middle of my forehead every time I laugh

I’m wishing that there’s a “him” in my life

a good one.

A “him” that’s turned all the tears of the last month into the word meaningless on page 394 in the dictionary

I have a heart hope for midnight Ramen

For tandem bicycles

For vases and sunflowers

Push pops

New socks

Apple picking

5 o’ clock texts

Happy mornings

and lots and lots of sushi

BP

breathing nostalgia

I remember my first crush, Nolan.

I remember bus rides and empty seats everywhere

But not row three.

Row three was for him and me.

I remember that watermelon paper we made on my first day of first grade.

I remember how cool I thought it was that we were using actual seeds.

I remember the fourth new school in five years.

I remember when kids hoped our teacher would pick them to be my buddy while I was adjusting to the school

I remember when I finally learned what the word adjusting meant.

I remember Facebook chatting him “oh hey didn't see you there”

I remember thinking that was smooth

I remember meeting the girl who shared my last name

I remember knowing immediately that I should feel grateful to know Whit

I remember telling my mom my stomach hurt every day for a week to explain why I cried at recess

I remember praying I’d make a friend in Mr. Wimmer’s class

I remember meeting Natty the next day

I remember vowing I’d never wear makeup

I remember the first time I tried clam chowder.

I remember the first time I cried in public. She just sipped her sprite and laughed.

I remember telling my mom I hated her.

I remember it was because she wouldn't let me get a club penguin membership

I remember graduating from sixth grade and crying because I wasn't quite ready to have grown up responsibilities

I remember crying yesterday because I’m not quite ready to have grown up responsibilities

I remember when he told me I wasn't good enough to go anywhere in soccer.

I remember when she told me I understood the game so well that I could play at any college I wanted.

I remember laughing.

I remember thinking that I wasn't going to meet anyone worth dating in high school

I remember her pointing you out to me in US history.

I remember that football game.

I remember feeling grateful that my ride showed up last

I remember when remembering made me smile

I remember when the future was a little less tear soaked.

I remember when tomorrows included my mom and you and woods landing court and one more season

school year

tryout

I remember when chalk did more and decisions did less.

BP

if words were people

If words were people,

Definitions would be harder to believe.

We’d probably think more before we spoke

Or at least be more careful about how loudly and where we spoke them.

And a Dictionary would be the most valuable source in the world

I would get along really well with Nostalgia

I’d feel uncomfortable around Regret.

All together avoid Perfection.

Strive to be more like Content

Sometimes Today and I would be best friends, but other times I think she would get jealous of how much I talked about Yesterday and Tomorrow.

I’d apologize and she’d give me another chance.

That’s just the type of person she’d be.

My mom would tell me to stay away from Flattery

To be careful around Feelings

Not to avoid him,

But to be aware that he would the worst and the best.

That he and Frustration come from the same family.

Dad would hide in his room when Love came over and always remind me of the benefits of being friends with Ambition.

He’d compare me to her, but in a way that I knew meant he loved me.

Dreams would be pretty.

Reality, ugly.

You’re would feel misunderstood

Defiantly would get tired of feeling used for all the wrong reasons.

And you and I would be getting really sick of Confusion

right  

about

now

BP

bippity boppity

We all know the story of Cinderella

One prince, an evil queen, two step siblings and a pretty girl with prettier shoes.

I’d like to say that you’re the prince and I’m the pretty girl

That you'd search a whole kingdom for me

That I fell in love with your dancing and your smile

But 

that’d be lying

No.

This time around it turns out we’re the ugly step siblings.

You and I
we're working towards something more than a castle. 

And actually it's a whole lot bigger than a shoe
But it's just that Metaphors seem to be the only thing speaking my language lately

So
We're going after that shoe

And we've spent hours trying to figure out how to make that slipper fit

We've had letters of ideas

Nights of talking it out

And I thought we had it

I really did

Because you told me

If I just shaved my heel a little

And you just cut your toes down a bit

They’d fit

We’d win

It’d work out.

But honey I think you forgot that those slippers are glass

And I’m trying to remember why I gave myself this limp in the first place

Because when it was your turn to try on that shoe

It became very clear

That

Only one of us 

has any scars. 

BP

8-hurts a whole lot

When you are at the doctor's they ask you to rate your pain.
Tonight, the hormonal emotion filled dam inside of me would've said 8.

Tonight they made fun of how quietly I counted when it was my turn in the game

Of the fact that counting from 1 to 10 never sounded so painful

And oh boy

If only they knew how it felt.

It felt like an 8.

It hurt a whole lot. 

The thing about tears is, they demand to be noticed.

And if you don’t let them gain attention by falling, they shake your voice in hopes of creating earthquakes in listening ears.

And so a soft number 4 and an almost inaudible number 9 was really all I could manage.

Because being called shy or self-conscious just seems so much easier than emotional or needy.

So when they made fun of my counting I forced a smile.

And laughed with them.

It felt like an 8.

But Forced Smiles and Fake Laughs are beyond sleep deprived

And they’re actually begging for me to tuck them in and just let them sleep.

And as tired as they are,

I think sometimes they forget I’m the one plasters them there

I’m the one who has to strain the lid off the glue and wash the paint brushes every time

And my lid removing arms and glued hands are tired.

But as tired as they are,
I am,

All I can do is stay up late and think

   And cry

                    And write

                                    And laugh

          And wonder

And do anything but sleep

But maybe I shouldn't be sleeping anyways

Maybe I should be practicing counting without my voice wavering.

Practicing telling the doctor I'm feeling nothing but zeroes.

Practicing hiding the way I feel so I don’t ruin anymore games.

Because I’m always the first one to cry at funerals and I was always the first one found in hide-and-seek.

Because I was never very good at hiding.

Because the number 8 I was feeling may as well have been tattooed on my face right next to that fake smile.

But maybe it’s my turn to be the first

The first to leave.

The first to say I don’t care.

The first to count from 1 to 10

And act like 2-9 don’t even phase me.

Like I feel nothing but zeroes

ALL THE TIME

But maybe when you tell the doctor the number you're feeling on the pain scale it also reflects how much of anything you're feeling.

Maybe enough empty "no hurt" zeroes stacked on top of each other would start to look a whole lot like eights. 

But it’s late. And I’m done practicing counting.

I'm done nailing my heart to some scale in some doctor's office.

It’s late and the cooking channel is getting boring.

It’s late and I just finished tucking in Forced Smiles and Fake Laughs

And they told me they’re going to take the day off tomorrow.

It’s late

And

I'm done feeling 8's.

BP

thank you, felicity.

24 get-out-your-journal periods ago we were all asked to introduce ourselves.

We were asked to pick a friend. The type of friend that lets you hide behind them just long enough to get some things out there that have been locked up for too long.

I picked Felicity Sharpe.

She picked Little Red

He picked Charlie Laurent

They picked Heisenburg, Alta June, Walter Mitty, Beatrice McCandless, Avery Moon, Sonny Jean, A S Ketchum, Pepper Ivey.

We chose them and they chose us.

Felicity become my dear diary, 

my I-hate-boys Ben and Jerry’s, 

my ladder that reached just to the top of a wall I couldn't seem to get around.

She became me.

I picked her because her name sounded cool. Because I always liked the idea of having a name that people automatically had an opinion about.

What I didn't realize was that I was picking her for so much more.

And I don’t mean to be the creepy uncle at the family reunion,

but Felicity,

look how much you've grown up.

Look how much we've learned.

So I guess this is a thank you.

Addressed to Felicity.

For being a version of me that let me be so much more than just me.

And for teaching me that being me is ok.

Is great.

Is everything.

For teaching me that,

Brittney Porter,

Is allowed to make people feel things.

And to feel a whole lot more.

For the last time,

F. Sharpe

the mountains are for us

Last Thursday I said hello to unknown trails and well known silence

The green made me smile

The air made me sigh

It felt like a 90 degree type of angle.

A pen and paper kind of connection.

I looked around and felt everything.

Every time I passed someone, I said hello

Asked them how they were

Felt like I cared

Like it was for a homework assignment or something

As if 14 friendly hellos guaranteed an A.

But it didn't. And no one told me it would.

The mountains just make you kinder.

They take your heart and shape it into something beautiful. Something natural.

They make you breathe and feel

Make us feel like it’s ok to not be important

And that’s important.

Because there are 6 billion of us on this planet.

And there’s not enough time for us all to be told that we matter as much as we do.

Maybe that’s how the trees feel though.

Because last Thursday I went on a hike and I lost count of how many trees I saw at around number 1,087

But each new tree still caught my eye and held my breath

Shaped my heart to be a little kinder.

A little better

And I've seen 200 different mountains and never once have I thought one needed more snow or that it stretched a little too wide.

Because at the end of the day, every mountain has a sunset and every tree can be climbed

Every single one is named Beauty.

And I think

when we look at the mountains and stare at the trees,

God opens a window into what He thinks of us.

With all our flaws and every imperfection. With our broken branches and dying leaves

He still carves love into our trunks

And hope into our hearts

He wants us to know that He cares.

He wants us to know that He cares.

And I know that He cares.

Because He took the time to make flowers and rain, He allows rocks to hold stories and paths to have history.

I know

Because the mountains,

the mountains, were made

for us.

F. Sharpe

papers with heart beats

Because words aren't always the best way for me to express how I feel.