(be)tween

We wore wide-leg jeans, baby-doll shirts, and Doc Martens (only when we found them on sale). Brown liner outlined our natural pink lips and Rave Hairspray sealed our big bangs in place. It was after elementary school, before high school. T.L.C. taught us about friendships and sex. Boyz II Men taught us about love. When Tupac died, we hugged and cried. Our generation lost an artist who spoke his mind. We had a connection to him. I remember bike rides to the park at dusk when we were too cool to swing. Instead we coughed smoke from our first cigarettes while leaning against the monkey bars. We were mallrats too. Kayla’s dad drove us there in his four-seater every Friday night. Someone always got hump. No one buckled. We hung out at the mall until it closed, getting only colored gel pens and butterflies in our bellies from holding hands with boys. We always let go because of the sweat between our palms. At school we used our new pens to write notes back and forth signed with messages like T.T.Y.S and L.Y.L.A.S.. Paper was folded into tiny triangles and squares and traded at lockers. Friends forever. On Thursday nights, the school held dances in the gymnasium under disco lights. The Macarana, The Tootsie Roll, and C’Mon N Ride it (The Train) were our favorite songs to dance to because we all knew the moves. We wanted to be included in something, even if that something was a song. When Biggie died, we hugged and cried again. Another artist gone. The violence couldn’t be comprehended by our young minds. There was the time my poetry book was stolen and shared around the school – assholes – and the time I senselessly and stupidly got grounded for dating a Mexican boy. We were in the middle – not children, not teens.

We didn’t care about who we were meant to be, because we were transitioning from what we were.

Photo courtesy of Brooke Cagle/Unsplash

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