Prompt #67
What kind of person are you?
Hello, Monday people.
For three years in the mid to late 80’s, I followed a column in the New York Times written by Anna Quindlen called “Life in the 30’s.” (Quindlen was in her 30’s back then.) Those were the days! I was also in my 30’s, living in New York City, working at a magazine in mid-town, eating cold noodles for dinner at Szechuan West. I wanted to write that column!
Here’s the start of one of Quindlen’s pieces:
I was a Paul girl. Still am, I suppose, at the core. It was one of four choices you had in 1964, when I was on the cusp of adolescence: a Paul girl, a John girl, a George girl or a Ringo girl, with all the attendant Beatle buttons, glossy color pictures and daydreams. Little did we know that in some broad way we were defining the sort of people we were on our way to becoming.
The girls who picked George as their favorite Beatle were self-contained, serious, with a touch of the wallflower and a bit of the mystic. The ones who chose John were aggressive, irreverent, the smart mouths, the wisecrackers. Ringo got anyone who was really determined to distinguish herself, the kind of girl who would wear wax fangs or weird clothes, who would choose the boy at the back of the band, with the big nose and the strange looks.
Paul got the little ladies—like me.
What can I say? I was also a Paul girl. Of course, I was. Paul was the cute one. Now, of course, I’m a total John girl. (Sorry, Paul.) But in my youth… Sigh. I was all in for Paul.
Other kinds of girls I was back then: I was a skinny girl. I was a brown-eyed girl. I was a girl who couldn't hold her alcohol. I was a smart girl. I was a smart ass girl. I was an unhappy girl. I was an anxious girl.
How about you? What kind of a person were you in the old days?
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write a story with a first person narrator.
Start your story with these words: “I was a ____ (girl/boy/kid/woman/man/person).”
Alternatively, start your story like this: “I was not a ____ (girl/boy/kid/woman/man/person).”
This is similar to a prompt we did last year when we wrote stories that started with “He was the kind of person who….” But this time, you’re writing in the first person. Feel free to start your story with the words “I was/am the kind of person who…”
NOTE: I’m slightly concerned that it’s possible I stole this prompt from someone or some book. I have a vague recollection of “I was a Paul girl,” being used as a prompt elsewhere. I could be wrong, though. I’ve read so many prompts over the last couple of years! Anyway, if you have seen this same prompt someplace, please let me know so I can credit the source!
That’s it. As always, 400 words max. in the Comments section.
I was the nice girl. I was obedient, orderly, predictable. Today, I am not nice and I thrive on confrontation. And although I have 370 more words, they are mine and I will not share them with anyone.
I was the waterboy. That’s not a euphemism or anything. My brother played third base with his gang. They seemed like adults, squatting and spitting in the dirt. Thwang went the baseball bat and the mess of them would dash across the grass, reaching for that spec to come down from the sky. After a big play they’d say: hey, can I get some water over here? Which was my cue to pull the red pale with the orange cooler full of icy water that Mom had filled up from the green hose behind the blue bathrooms at the other end of the field. I couldn’t play because they didn’t have any extra uniforms, which I know is a euphemism for: we don’t want you gumming up the game with your gimp leg and general squishiness. So I just sat and watched them run, waiting for my cue.
I’m not a waterboy anymore, though I do work for a drinking water municipality in the suburbs outside of Ontario. My brother died in a car accident back when they still had manual transmissions. My gimp leg was removed when I was in college, replaced with plastic and titanium. I hardly ever watch baseball, but when I do, and a big play causes the crowd to burst out of their seats, cheering, I tend to stay in my seat. I’m not a waterboy anymore, and frankly, there ain’t anyone worth cheering for anymore.