freedom-chasing and the high school girl

My birthday is coming up soon, and a lot of people have been asking me what I want. My answer is more or less the same each time: "I don't know, don't get me anything!". This happens every year. People ask me what I would like, and I blank; suddenly, I'm the most content person ever!! 

But the truth is, I'm not content at all. It's just that what I want, more than anything else, is freedom. And unfortunately, freedom can't be bought from Target.

The desire for freedom lingers in the back of my mind daily, as I sit at my desk slugging through my homework, as I walk home from school after seven hours of classes and passing-time and studying during lunch instead of eating, and most of all, I think of freedom as I lie awake at 1 a.m., wanting to drive far away from here. One of my biggest dreams is to drive to Taco Bell by myself late at night and order a burrito that I can eat by myself in the parking lot, while I play my own music in the car. That would be true freedom.

Speaking of dreams, I always said that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. I really don’t have a passion for anything else, despite all the science and math I throw myself into. To be honest, I think that I was made for art. My hobbies are drawing, painting, writing, and music. These things are infused into everything I do. Logic and theory don’t come very straightforward to me, and I am actually easily confused. So after chasing all these things that make me feel smart, I always end up returning to art: the only thing that brings me joy. 

Well, I’ve half given up. My mom wants me to be a doctor, and my dad just doesn’t want me to be broke. I’ve resolved to bury my head in the sand, endure a few more years of studying some STEM subject that I kinda like, and then drive far away to a school out of state, where I can maybe draw for fun sometimes. I'll sacrifice the freedom of pursuing my dreams for stability and independence.

In class, I read about the act of freedom-chasing, attempting to decipher Thoreau’s ravings about civil disobedience, and empathizing with Dennings-Behn’s quiet, slow triumphs under the heavy societal pressures placed on her. Like me, she was laden with expectations to succeed and make a place for herself here. But unlike me, she managed to break free and choose the things and people she loved. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be brave enough to do that. Achieving the freedom I desire just seems too extraordinary, too out of reach. In the face of the changing job market, AI art, and the nagging from my parents, I feel stuck. Like an ant in the mud. I do want to make my family proud. I do want to maybe not be broke. However, like I learned from that one time I tried sewing, I have never been good at following the pattern. I just want to run away and escape, to live my life the way I want to. But as each year goes by, I just plant my feet further into the ground.

I know for a fact that if Thoreau saw my complacency, he would be disappointed. But more than that, I know that if Dennings-Behn saw me, she would see the faces of her Cornell friends and biology worksheets. All those who were afraid to even face the current, who didn't even try to float, those who let themselves be dragged along by the water until they were lost out at sea. See, maybe her Cornell friends were perfect immigrants, welcomed home with open arms at every holiday. But she was just a little freer than they were. She could act on her own agency, choosing to pursue her dreams. They all technically "made it out", but she was the one who made her life.

That little bit of freedom is what keeps me up every night, swearing to myself that I'd give up everything for it. Then I'd wake up the next morning and know that I had lied.

Anyway, I have worksheets to do.

and there will be strands that are pulled down by gravity and those that are blown away by the wind and the eyelashes will feel them all from their fixtures on the eyes; drooping, heavy with the load of warm, salty dewdrops, yearning to be a strand of hair, 

To be light enough to have a chance to fly 

Of lips, i will think of her teeth when i part mine,

Of tongues, i will think of their jagged words when i bite mine, 

Of tears, i will think of that little girl with the floating bangs, that big and lofty smile, her loud shouts, 

I will think of her most prized possessions: her stubby legs, carrying her far across the shore 

Sand on her soles and toes, the earth pricking her to remind her 

That she is not yet a swallow, though she soars like one

Though she sings like one 

Though the breeze greets her like one

I will think of her when i cry mine 

They will fall from their place in the sky, pulled down by gravity

Making their slow chemtrails on my trembling cheeks.