16 ways of walking

16 ways to take a walk … hmm … ummm…gosh! I don’t know! What is it about the number 16 anyway? Why is that number so enticing? Why not 17, or even 18? How about 21? Or 5 or 10? Is 16 the average amount of things needed to jog your memory, make it move from one step to the other so fast that your mind does not have the chance to question? What about the number 32? … hmm … yes, I suppose 32 ways to take a walk would be asking way too much within this space of time … so, okay, fine, here are 16 ways to take a walk:

place one foot in front of the other, count 16 steps on the right foot, then count 16 steps on the left foot and you’ll get a total of 32 steps in the right direction. However if you’d prefer to move in the wrong direction then you’ll need to take 17 steps backwards with your left foot and 18 steps backwards with your right foot and then turn yourself around 16 times 16 times 16 and then you’ll be going exactly where you want to go!

Oh wait! Crap! That’s only one way! Well, I guess that’s the only way that matters!

16

16 years ago i was 16 years old. the year was 1994. i was a junior in high school and just beginning to realize my world did not need to revolve within the walls of narragansett regional. i did not know where i was going to go, but i knew i wanted to get out of town and go somewhere where no one knew me or my parents. going to the same high school as your parents sounds all comforting and nostalgic, but when you're living through it, it can be hell.
i can't tell you how many times i was told: your father sang in the chorus, why aren't you singing in the chorus? your father acted in the musicals, why aren't you in any of the plays? the one time i tried out for a play was a disaster! i couldn't keep my voice from shaking and my mouth tried it's best to form words that were just a jumble of letters printed on the page. it was within that moment of sheer, utter panic, i realized that years of dance recitals were not preparation for getting up on stage and speaking in public.

what i didn't know in march of 1994 was that i'd find a class that i truly enjoyed. it was a creative writing class and even though the teacher, mrs. koziol, went to high school with my father, she didn't place any of his accomplishments on my shoulders. there were no expectations other than the requirements of the class.

our first assignment was to write about our lives up until this point and the next class we'd read them aloud in class. i was utterly and completely truthful in this assignment and was very reluctant to read anything aloud, especially given my previous experience with auditions. when i expressed my reluctance to her, rather than insisting that i do it or fail the assignment, she let me stay after school and read my work to only her.

after the assignment was finished and i was riding the late bus home, i began to wonder if i shouldn't have been that honest, maybe i should have edited a few events, or just not mentioned others. if i had done that then maybe there wouldn't have been a need for me to stay after school and i could have read it in front of everyone. the days between handing in the assignment and receiving the grade were long and torturous.

i can't remember what the final grade on the assignment was but i do remember that she gave me positive feedback. she liked my honesty and she liked my writing style. it was in this class that i learned to write about my life, without editing of any kind, and it was in this class that i learned that i liked to write. this class was when i realized that a pen and paper where closer to my creative muse than any musical instrument, song, or play could ever be.

16 years later and i'm still writing!