A crack in the perfect, singing
My red mug sings to me tonight, and I notice and laugh, because red mugs rarely do.
But this one does, after I pour the water and climb the stairs with it clutched tight. A noise sputters and hums and I look below the colored liquid and see a hole in the smooth enamel, down to the clay, where the steam must be laughing.
And the paper, laying beside it reads in messy black
What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire
The darling, beautiful singing mug that makes me grin while I check my emails, because it lost its perfection.
And they say to write about what you know, or don’t write at all. Well a red singing mug is my territory, because I know what it is to sing with a crack in the enamel.
I was the daughter of a couple who lived the gospel with skin, and left home to give that gospel, and I was raised outside of sewing circles and smooth church benches and volleyball on Friday night.
And I wore long skirts with clashing sweaters
and showed up to church in eight-year-old bare feet, when all the others had crisp white socks with the fringe of lace above shiny black shoes.
My hair swung tangled and wild around my shoulders
and some thought I was boy crazy, but it was only because the boys didn’t whisper about my feet or my hair and I could laugh without being thought of as loud.
And while others printed neat in notebooks and learned grammar I read till my eyes hurt out under the grass and drank tea with strangers and flew from one creative project to another until my room reeked of hot glue and the desk never lost its paint stains. I waded through black swamps until my skin was dyed brown and picked wild blueberries until my fingernails gave up ever looking pink again.
I was an expert at being imperfect and it was the music that made me alive.
Then, later, I was ushered into the world of “normal”, as they say. And while my awkward adolescent legs tripped around the foreign landscapes of church foyers I discovered that they did not understand and looked blank when I tried to explain what I knew as life.
And I was too loud for the girls and I didn’t understand their jokes and the boys were different from the ones back home, and they thought I was a funny circus show, but not something to stand too close to.
So I learned how to braid my hair neat and I became silence and all it took to intimidate me was one look across a room.
I fought hard to dress right and wore the big clunky shoes that were so in, even though I hated them.
And I lied more and slowly my life became an inner vow to never be the odd one and I forced myself to play volleyball, even though I cried in the dark afterward. .
For years I tried to be perfect. And that is the truth.
It’s harder to keep up a façade when others start to notice the lies.
And it’s hard because it kills you inside, and I was still too crazy underneath to die perfect.
And crazy, singing like a red mug, cubby on the desk with the hole in the bottom, is better than pretending.
Just so you know, my room is never neat rows of sticky notes, lined up straight, and I write essays the night they are due, and trip over my own feet, and hurry my prayers like TV dinners some days.
My hair is fluffy around my ears instead of pulled back straight and I wear slippers to church and don’t care if you like lattes, because I think they are overrated, as are Mennonite cupboards and neat sitting rooms with potted plants.
And sometimes I feel the familiar claw of intimidation grab my throat, when I stand in a group and feel awkwardness like a sign taped on my forehead. The old, “What am I missing that they have?” thought flashes.
But sometimes is not always, which is better than before.
And I laugh at myself and others more, because really, who did I ever think could achieve normal?
After all, isn’t a singing mug more chic than a silent one, even if it has Starbucks written on the side?
ESTA!!! You are so beautiful with your stained fingernails. Oh and there is a cat on my lap. Just thought you should know. I can never make up my mind about cats but what I like about you is that you ALWAYS know how you feel about cats.
Wow that may make no sense.
Your post reeks of YOU and I love it.
Ha ha the cat just crawled onto Dad’s lap. He is not impressed.
February 21, 2011 at 5:22 am
This made my day. You have no idea. You would know better than most if my posts are the real Esta.
I miss you
more than the cat
February 22, 2011 at 1:56 pm
I feel like I always say this, but this is beautiful. I just love reading your posts because of the way you write. The poetry and reality in your description is lovely. And your honesty is so refreshing. Keep talking about what you know as life; I like it.
February 21, 2011 at 6:56 am
Or maybe the question really is, “What have you got that they are missing?”
February 21, 2011 at 11:23 am
Oh Esta, your honesty is so refreshing! You probably verbalized what quite a few other people feel. Keep up the Schnupp tradition of transparency=)
February 21, 2011 at 3:47 pm
Love it.
I love YOU!
February 22, 2011 at 5:59 pm
Lovely, Esta.
February 22, 2011 at 8:00 pm
I so enjoy your posts. It is amazing to me to read “my own feelings” written out on paper.
I agree with some of the other commenters… keep being transparent.. “Real” is so much more beautiful than a starbucks mug. 
February 24, 2011 at 3:07 am
So, I’m at EBI and this is totally how I’m feeling. The girls wear their hair perfectly and the guys walk around with a swagger. Here I am laughing at myself tripping over my class clothes, while others walk confidently all dressed up. Today is Saturday though, and I’m barefoot and I’m much more comfortable. Thanks Esta.
February 26, 2011 at 4:50 pm
Ooh, this makes me smile endlessly.
Please always remain crazy. Please, please.
Normalcy and perfection are myths anyway… most people just don’t know how to embrace themselves for who they are. You do. And that’s why you’re beautiful! (:
February 26, 2011 at 6:37 pm
Yay for singing mugs! My co-teacher Matt sent me the link to your blog and my first response was “She writes beautifully! That’s why I kept scrolling down to see other posts. I love words but feel like I’m running out of steam in producing any, and so I love to enjoy others’ words.
My heart resonated with this post. Living to be perfect is not living. ~Anita
April 2, 2011 at 12:47 pm
Let’s step back a little and realize that when push comes to shove, none of us are really that unique.
No matter what your horoscope tells you and how many postcards from Grandma you’ve gotten over the years, deep down inside you’re pretty much the same as everyone else.
Before you get upset, recognize that if no one thought the same way, acted the same way, lived, loved and learned the same way, we would accomplish nothing as a society. We would be one big, rambling group of beautiful snowflakes floating around wishing that, “someone out there understood us.”
You would also be out of a job.
If you run a business, you rely on the fact that everyone shares a bond, that as a species we are uniquely similar to one another and because of that fact we need a lot of the same things to thrive.
If you create art, your work is to find those things that tie us together and express them in ways that matter. If everyone was “special,” if there was no common thread — music, writing, games, and film would be an elaborate, self-serving game of shadow-boxing.
We spend a lot of time embracing the qualities that make us different. It’s how creative types work, and it’s a good thing too because if you don’t think you’re special then pretty much no one else will. While it is important to keep this in mind, it’s just as important to realize that everything worthwhile, everything that works and grows, does so because it serves someone.
Don’t mistake this for “serving everyone.”
You don’t need to spend your life pushing out generic widget #27 to be successful, honestly, I don’t care if you are opening up an organic pomegranate juice bar as long as it’s fulfilling some kind of need.
What it boils down to is that you need to be honest with yourself about where you and your creative energy fit into the scheme of things, who you are really working for and how what you do helps to better the society that you are a part of.
Because let’s face it, as a great philosopher once said, “Of course you’re unique, just like everyone else,” so you might as well use it.
May 6, 2011 at 2:00 am
Pingback: a worthless race { from my perspective } « whisperedlongings
SO I found your blog this morning and just had to go through and read soem of the previous ones. This one had me almost in tears. I know EXACTLY how it feels to be the one that no one wants to be close to. Maybe because they thought it was contagious?? Anyway its good to know that I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t/wouldnt/didn’t fit in. Thank you for verbalizing what I didn’t have the words for.
August 16, 2011 at 1:14 pm
Shirley. If it is one thing I know, it is that awkward feeling of being “to much”. And it is always good to know that I wasn’t the only one either.
Bless you as you embrace WHO YOU are! 
August 22, 2011 at 10:30 pm
I think your post & writing is just amazing. All at the same time you make me feel that it’s okay to be uniquely me and yet I’m connected to others who feel the same way I do. It’s quite a gift you have. Thanks for sharing your heart to help me understand mine.
August 17, 2011 at 5:06 am
I treasure your comment. More than anything I wish to be able to put words to my own heart that others understand and feel like “yes” we’re in this together. Thank you thank you
August 22, 2011 at 10:32 pm