I... I Don't Know Why Not More People Have Reposted This. Because While I Don't Recognise The Melody,

I... I don't know why not more people have reposted this. Because while I don't recognise the melody, the story, as my own, I recognise the beat. The rythm of finding out so many truths, so essential, in your life while elders tell you you're barely living. I beg to differ. These are my most vital years.

apparently teenagers don’t know a lot about life. I mean, its a fair argument. if I’m lucky I’ve still got a good 62 years left on this space rock. but just for shits and giggles, lets take a look at what i’ve learned so far.

when i was four, i learned that everyone does not, in fact, see blurry colors and shapes. i also learned that the level of fucked up my eyesight is can be measured in numbers. wicked.

when i was five, i went to kindergarten. in that first year of school, i learned that books are a way better way to spend my time than playdates.

when i was seven, i noticed that teachers really, really like me. and i really, really liked them too. turns out, elementary school teachers and i have a common love for whiteboard markers and “good job” stamps.

when i was eight, i learned that parents don’t always sleep in the same bed. I learned that sometimes dad’s voice gets really fucking loud and mom learned how to run when she was a kid too. i noticed that mom didn’t really get out of bed much anymore. she didn’t really do much of anything anymore. but she still let me sleep in her bed, so i didn’t really think about it anymore.

when i was nine, i learned that dogs have babies just like humans. i learned that puppies need more attention than even i did. i learned to love my puppies more than anyone else i was yet to meet. the runt of the litter died. by this, i was taught that the weak don’t make it far.

when i was nine, i learned that adults roughhouse too. but most of the time they aren’t joking. I learned that acrylic nails against a stubbly jaw ends with red and blue flashing lights and mom spending the night somewhere i couldn’t go.

when i was ten, i had to move from the only house i could remember. had to say goodbye to the room i painted into a blue sky. had to say goodbye to the pool in the backyard, where the first friend i made, had ever had learned my name.

when i was eleven, i met my first best friend. she was darker than me, but she held so much light. i remember talking on the swings and chasing boys through the multi-colored playground. i remember planning times to go to the bathroom so we could see each other between classes.

when i was twelve, my first best friend changed. she still had that light, but she used it to manipulate her way to the top of the popularity list. she wore too-tight shirts and white american eagle jeans. she made it clear that she wasn’t bringing a plus one to the top with her. she still came to my house, and when no one from school was around i could pretend that she hadn’t changed at all. that’s when i learned how to ignore the bad parts of people, even when they hurt you over and over again.

when i was twelve, i also learned that sometimes, people hate you for no good reason. after my first best friend, i met a girl. a-line blonde bob, jeans and tees just like me. she blended in, and i didn’t know who she really was until it was too late. i lost my phone in gym. my mom pinged the location and i heard it coming from a class down the hall. i opened the door, and there she was. my phone in her hand, her trying to turn it off. me biting my lip, running out to the bathroom to hide from my mom and her. she cut 6 inches of my hair off after we caught her. my mom got her expelled, and i learned one more thing that year. revenge isn’t sweet. it’s tasteless.

when i was thirteen, i learned that new situations are worse than the one you were trying to escape in the first place. I learned that the only time i felt safe was in the bathroom stall with my legs on the toilet seat. wanted so badly to be invisible. i learned that the only way to have a few minutes without anxiety, was to bleed. I learned to call the sting and the velvety warmth home, and since then i am uncomfortable without that burn.

when i was fourteen, i learned that writing is a better way to spend the time than much of anything else. with no direction i wrote short stories, bad poems, and journaled til i had a callus on my thumb. i smeared the pages with blood and never got more than halfway through a journal before getting bored of the cover. i learned to write and write and write until everything i had inside of me boiled down to hundreds of thousands of words.

when i was fifteen, i learned that no and maybe are synonyms to the wrong type of boy. i realized that even i wasn’t immune to the desperate persuasion that comes a guy who wants to get off. i started cussing a lot more. our movie dates ended with me crying myself to sleep, wondering why i didn’t say pull away when his hand found mine, why i let him use me like that, why i didn’t just walk out of the theater, why i didn’t fucking end it right there. i found the strength to later, and the revenge i got as tears streamed down his face was the same: tasteless.

when i was sixteen i learned that you can love so many people at once, all in different ways. a boy who led the group, kind when it matters and a great listener. a boy who made everyone laugh, with beautiful curls and honest hands. a girl who went to school in the town over, a voice that gets the birds harmonizing and me head over heels. a girl who supplies the music, mostly oldies she somehow got me to listen to and love. and this is how a romantic slowly meets their biggest weakness.

when I was seventeen I learned for the third time that you should walk away from experimental girls, girls who have a history of only being halfway interested, girls who say all the right things and give up when they win your heart. walk away from those girl friends that flirt when it’s fun. just because you give them everything they want doesn’t mean they will choose you when the dust settles.

I’m eighteen now. i’m learning that growth is something you have to work on every day, confrontation isn’t positive or negative, and not everyone is the enemy. i’m learning to love all over again (for the sixth time). it’s only been two months and i’ve already gained so much. here’s to the next ten.

Ginger bread bathtub

A friend once asked me for a sign

That the universe loved us.

I told her I had taken a bath today.

The water was green and the perfect temperature

The sky was darkening and the light was on

The room smelled like the ginger bread I had brought from the kitchen

Mixed with the eucalyptus of my bath oil.

A song played

It reminded me of a home we moved out of when I was eight.

It reminded me of my nanny teaching me how to paint my nails when my parents left the house

I would sit on a bar stool

My toes would barely brush the ground.

Oh, the universe loves us

The bath water was the perfect temperature today.

on endlings, and despair

Hey, y'all. It's...been a rough couple of weeks. So, I thought--better to light a single candle, right?

If you're familiar with wildlife conservation success stories, then you're likely also familiar with their exact polar opposite. The Northern White Rhino. Conservation's poster child for despair. Our greatest and most high-profile utter failure. We slaughtered them for wealth and status, and applied the brakes too slow. Changed course too late.

We poured everything we had into trying to save them, and we failed.

We lost them. They died. The last surviving male was named Sudan. He died in 2018, elderly and sick. His genetic material is preserved, along with frozen semen from other long-dead males, but only as an exercise in futility. Only two females survive--a mother and daughter, Najin and Fatu.

Both of them are infertile. They still live; but the Northern White Rhinoceros is extinct. Gone forever.

In 2023, an experimental procedure was attempted, a hail-mary desperation play to extract healthy eggs from the surviving females.

It worked.

The extracted eggs were flown to a genetics lab, and artificially fertilized using the sperm of lost Northern males. The frozen semen that we kept, all this time, even after we knew that the only living females were incapable of becoming pregnant.

It worked.

Thirty northern white rhino embryos were created and cryogenically preserved, but with no ability to do anything with them, it was a thin hope at best. In 2024, for the first time, an extremely experimental IVF treatment was attempted on a SOUTHERN white rhino--a related subspecies.

It worked.

The embryo transplanted as part of the experiment had no northern blood--but the pregnancy took. The surgery was safe for the mother. The fetus was healthy. The procedure is viable. Surrogate Southern candidates have already been identified to carry the Northern embryos. Rhinoceros pregnancies are sixteen months long, and the implantation hasn't happened yet. It will take time, before we know. Despair is fast and loud. Hope is slower, softer. Stronger, in the end.

The first round may not take. We'll learn from it. It's what we do. We'll try again. Do better, the next time. Fail again, maybe. Learn more. Try harder.

This will not save the species. Not overnight. The numbers will be very low, with no genetic diversity to speak of. It's a holding action, nothing more.

Nothing less.

One generation won't save a species. But even a single calf will buy us time. Not quite gone, not yet. One more generation. One more endling. One more chance. And if we seize it, we might just get another after that. We're getting damn good at gene editing. At stem-cell research. In the length of a single rhino lifetime, we'll get even better.

For decades, we have been in a holding action with no hope in sight. Researchers, geneticists, environmentalists, wildlife rehabbers. Dedicated and heroic Kenyan rangers have kept the last surviving NWRs under 24/7 armed guard, line-of-sight, eyes-on, never resting, never relaxing their guard. Knowing, all the while, that their vigilance was for nothing. Would save nothing. This is a dead species--an elderly male, two females so closely related that their offspring couldn't interbreed even if they could produce any--and they can't.

Northern white rhino conservation was the most devastatingly hopeless cause in the world.

Two years from now, that dead species may welcome a whole new generation.

It's a holding action, just a holding action, but not "just". There is a monument, at the Ol Pejeta Conservancy, where the last white rhinos have lived and will die. It was created at the point where we knew--not believed, knew--that the species was past all hope. It memorializes, by name there were so few, the last of the northern white rhinos. Most of the markers have brief descriptions--where the endling rhino lived, how it was rescued, how it died.

One marker bears only these words: SUDAN | Last male Northern White Rhino.

If even a single surrogate someday bears a son, we have erased the writing on that plaque forever.

All we can manage is a holding action? Then we hold. We hold hard and fast and long, use our fingernails if we have to. But hold. Even and perhaps especially when we are past all hope.

We never know what miracle we might be buying time for.

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libraryidealist

3 years ago

A war I didn't sign up for.

We're teenage girls, me and my friends. In every sense of the word.

We've got one who loves k-dramas, Tom Holland and makes great almond cake, we've got a tiny one who's sarcasm mutes me every time (to her great delight) and loves anime, we've got one who's the light and laughter of any party, who's soft safety and recently was diagnosed with depression, and we've got a childish and dreaming one who's beautiful, stunning. Everyone tells her. It frightens her.

I haven't seen my friends in a while.

No one's fault, just life. School, tests, a pandemic. So imagine my happiness! Our excitement! When a friend's friend invited us to a party, and we found time to meet up beforehand, to talk! Laugh! Eat pizza!

My friends came. And we laughed. I told them I've never been to a party, that I was pretty nervous. Soft And Safe grinned at me, told me it was fine, the boys that invited us were nice. And guess what? She had kissed one of them!! A drunken make-out, wasn't that cool??!

Then she stopped. Her smile slipped a little

Well, not that cool. She started, sitting there beside my bed.

Not all of it.

And sentence for sentence, Soft And Safe, who I grew up with, who I'd known like the other girls since I was ten, new in town and was adopted into their little group, hesitantly told me a story I'll never forget. Because it taught me life.

Because the boy she made out with was nice.

Until he asked her to kiss him on the cheek for a picture and she felt too uncomfortable and drunk to say no.

Until, when they were kissing alone in a room, he kept trying to put his hand under her shirt, even when she pushed it away.

Until he pulled her onto his lap, crotch pushed uncomfortably against her jeans, and held her waist down.

Until he barked at the girl checking up on Soft And Safe to get out.

Until he put his hand into her pants, and answered "everything is fine, relax", when she told him she didn't like that.

Until he pushed her over the sink.

Until, when she said she didn't want that and that they should go back downstairs, he got back claps and fist bumps from the other boys.

She got her best friend, whom she had rejected a week earlier, call her a slut. He said he could never see her the same way again.

We thought it wouldn't happen to us. But as we sat there in my room, staring at her forced smile, eyes frantic, we realised how she had done everything right.

And it had still happened.

It had happened to me three weeks earlier, at my gym.

And we realised

It wouldn't stop. We wouldn't grow out of it.

Being a woman would be a war we hadn't signed up for.

We went to the party. I saw him. I didn't deck him like I had planned. Because everyone would think I'm the one out of line.