Ineffectual
I can’t rollerskate.
There are a lot of things I can’t do. I can't swim, can't dance, can't do Algebra.....but for some reason, rollerskating bothers me.
My elementary school had an annual rollerskating party, and it was big deal because it was when everyone made their moves. You know, the lights would dim, the dj would put on one of those “I Will Always Love You” or “Save the Best for Last” songs and purr “couples only” into the mic. We’d all blush, giggle, glance around shyly, dare each other to ask someone....and it ended in a pack of adolescent boys and girls rolling around the rink, palm-to-sweaty-palm.
Except for me. Now, the pre-pubescent Jr.High Violet was by no means a pretty picture. I was skinny and underdeveloped, with bad hair and skin, glasses, braces, and no sense of style. But the kicker was that I couldn’t rollerskate. My friends would be whirling around and I’d push myself with the toe-step and cling to the walls. A wallflower, literally. And to a 12-year-old as deluded as I was, it was pure hell.
No one, ever, in grades 1-7, ever asked me to skate. Now, that doesn’t sound traumatic in comparison to the shit other kids had to deal with at the same tender age. But ask any kid as ugly and geeky as I was, and they’ll tell you the emotional scars other kids can leave on you. By the time I reached high school, I had no self-esteem to speak of.
Which brings us to now. I’m older, and (thank goddess) better-looking, haircuts, retainers, and contact having done their work. My self-esteem has made a re-appearance, thanks to some good friends and a relationship with a wonderful girl (who will be embarassed as hell that I wrote that, ha!) So, last weekend, I decided it was time to rollerskate. I wanted to go back to that rink, hold my head up high, cling to my girlfriend’s hand as we skated to the strains of Whitney Houston.
I ended up falling on my ass to the strains of Hanson. Them little fuckers.
I really, truly, cannot skate, it’s like some kind of disability. No one could teach me, lord knows they tried. I just couldn’t make them understand that no matter how far I pointed my toes out, i still wasn’t moving. And with five thousand demon munchkins on wheels careening towards me at high speeds, i didn’t want to risk being a road hazard. It’s disheartening as hell to see 3-year-olds doing something you can’t do.
Now, I’m aware of how completely unimportant rollerskating is in the grand scheme of things, but it had a profound effect on me. I could just feel my self-worth plummet to the bottom of my wheels. Here I was, years later, the same stupid, ineffectual little nothing. Time hadn’t changed a thing.
And so I start crying, like a dumb shit, right there in the roller rink. (Never let it be said that Violet Nova didn’t freely express her emotions!) I could hear my friends saying “Oh god she’s crying” and “V, you don’t need to rollerskate.” When I looked up and tried to smile, one friend said “I think I smell an editorial here.” I’m not sure how I responded at the time, though I’d wager it was something along the lines of “fuck you.” But he was right. I really do use this zine to get rid of all the things that fuck up my head and make me feel ineffectual. Somehow, telling the world dissipates it into little bite-size pieces that I can deal with. It’s the only way I can accomplish a damn thing. See, I have this theory that women and girls (and grrrls!) can take power through writing (ala Bikini Kill’s “Bloody Ice Cream”). And I know it’s a sappy thing to say, but it’s true: if I get just one letter from someone who reads this zine and is encouraged by it somehow, then I know my rollerskating woes were not in vain.
In closing, I’d like to quote you all a little bit of Ani, because I feel the same way about my writing as she does about her music:
“...I just write about what I should have done
and sing what I wish I could say
and hope that somewhere,
some woman hears my music
and it helps her through her day....”
-Violet Nova, Nova #4, 1998