In his Book of Delights, Portland poet Ross Gay challenged himself to write one short essay each day for a year about something that delighted him–from the trivial and mundane to the overwhelming and world-changing. Three seniors respond with delights of their own, emulating his meandering, short-form style.
Beauty Sleep by Jamie Mack
I have a specific nighttime checklist. I confirm every light in the house is off. I do my skincare routine, staring at myself in my floor-to-counter mirror remembering once again that I need to clean the gray splotches of toothpaste that had rocketed out of my mouth while I was brushing my teeth. I prepare my black essential oil diffuser and remind myself that it needs cleaning as well. I prefer to drift into my dreams with the smell of eucalyptus or lavender filling my nose; occasionally, though, in an act of spontaneity, I will choose one of my two essential oil blends, called “dreamcatcher” and “be calm.” I strongly dislike the smell of both. Every time I pick one, I hope that either the oil’s smell or my taste will have changed since the last time I used it. I like to think people can change, so maybe my essential oil blends could too… There are other tasks I attempt to do but they have been degraded to second tier. I only have so many minutes before my self-imposed bedtime of 10:30. I try to stretch before I get into bed, pick out my outfit for the next day, read, journal, have a cup of tea (I prefer ginger or peach detox,) say out loud three good things that happened to me during the day and pick up any articles of clothing that found their way to my bedroom floor. I then plug in my apple watch and phone. I set my alarm on my phone for 6:15, 6:25, 6:30, 6:35, 6:40 and 6:45, and 6:25, 6:30 and 6:45 on my Google Home, making sure both devices are set to full volume. I am notorious for my deep sleeping ability. I fall asleep on the left side of my bed.
The newest addition to my routine is not welcome, a parasite if you will. With the start of school came an onslaught of stress dreams. I hate dreaming. I wish I could fall asleep to a deep, warm blackness and stay that way until my 6:15 alarm rings. I already think too much while conscious, doesn’t my brain need a break? It is textbook self-sabotage. In my dreams, I have been in a mass shooting, I have had the brakes stop working while driving my car, I have had dinosauric monsters manage to attack a wedding that I was attending. They may range in level of possibility, but they all contain the same levels of stress. It feels like running on a treadmill that keeps getting faster and faster. Right now you are getting by, but if it keeps going your face is bound to meet the floor. Additionally, I am not able to concentrate on the problem presented in the dream because the story lines are constantly shifting. In an instant, it will go from my friend’s sibling hitting on me, to me running late to a class. I never know when the floor will collapse beneath me.
Two nights ago, I was swinging my way into sleep, lost in a state of comatose that was so intense any position felt comfortable. I was hoping to skip the dreaming part of my routine altogether, when I heard a desperate plea at my door. My black and white cat, Oliver, scratched loud enough to make his presence heard, but not so loud that I could feel any variation of anger towards his interruption. I assume his gentle “meow” was due to the fact that he was worried about waking me up. He understands that you are more likely to get your way if you ask politely. He normally picks my parent’s room as the place of his beauty sleep: it is closer to his usual stomping grounds, has fewer alarms set for early in the morning and houses more bodies to drool on, which is ultimately his favorite activity. But on this particular night, he picked me. I was the body he wanted to drool on. My room being his choice is not completely unheard of, but incredibly rare. Like running into a classmate at the grocery store by your school; you know it is a possibility, but are always taken by surprise when it happens.
After letting him in, we slid our way back into bed. I got situated under the covers as he examined his next course of action. He tends to start out at the bottom of my bed until he picks his spot. While at the bottom of my bed, he bakes his bread on my knitted cream blanket. It is a flawless texture for kneading. On this night, he decided that my extended left arm was the perfect surface for his night’s rest; he saw it as an invitation. I got pulled into my dreams while his hair crawled its way up my nose and against my left bicep his gentle purrs undulated like water ripples after they engulfed a rock. A subtle light emanated from my diffuser while my eyelids got heavier and heavier. This moment of serenity did not halt my stressful dreams, but Oliver’s little purrs were a welcomed bubble of peace, unpoppable in my unconscious and conscious world.
Brand Names by Miles Greenberg
I frantically ransacked my backpack for writing utensils and notebooks shortly before my English class started our daily writing prompt. Instead of finding these desired materials, I found something of much higher value. Through the crevices of my old pack, I yanked the end of a chain-link through clumps of dried gum and broken pens. “YOOO,” I dramatically cried out. I held a silver Cuban link bracelet with the letters ‘GG’ embedded in a skull emblem across my palm. I stood up, pinched the bracelet between two fingers and shot it over my head for the class to see. I sat back down and examined the surrounding dashed-line pattern. It was coated in thick chunks of dried gum, covered in pencil shavings and terribly scratched up. The delight of finding such a reminiscent item was overwhelming. I hardly cared about its condition, but in motivation to wear it, I ran to the bathroom and rubbed the chain links with soapy water. Throughout the class period, I picked away little soot balls and gum chunks with a pencil. Once it felt sufficiently polished I put it on, and didn’t take it off to sleep that night.
When I got this bracelet I was in 7th grade. I bought it as a birthday present for myself after a long, treacherous bar mitzvah process. Back then, my identity was heavily aligned with the culture of my elitist private school. I had a short over-comb, smooth and slicked with gel, and I wore bright Nike athletic wear with hints of status symbols such as this newly obtained Gucci bracelet, along with ‘hypebeast’ brands such as SUPREME and BAPE. I was on the ‘A team’ Soccer team in middle school: a team usually reserved for 8th graders. As a 7th grader, this was a big deal. I carried my frequently updated Soccer gear in my leather backpack I bought in Italy.
My peers liked me but the administration didn’t: I frequently was in and out of the in school suspension room for mischievous behavior that I often thought I could get away with. Most of my behavior was a subconscious response to the judgmental culture of the school. In The K-5th grade, we had to wear uniforms. Once we hit middle school, we still wore uniforms, just dictated by students instead of teachers. Any dyed hair, jewelry on boys or clothes beyond athletic or streetwear was ostracized. I suppressed my desire to develop my self-expression to fulfill my persona as a Soccer boy. This desire became impulsive energy for me, and as a consequence, some particular teachers still don’t enjoy my presence on campus.
When I transitioned away from this preppy school, I quickly lost interest in buying brands for the status symbol and their surrounding culture. I don’t value these things as I once did because I cut ties to my polished middle school identity after I had a dramatic change in activities. These activities made me a grimy, free-willed person. Soccer and lacrosse transitioned to weightlifting and urban activities such as parkour and skating. Working on cars and self-employed landscaping coated me in motor oil and grease, gravitating me towards thrifting and away from brand names. My hands are cut up and callused, covered in gym chalk and tree sap. I’m still always up for chaotic mischief, but my change in activities and environment has made me calm down quite a bit since middle school.
I can appreciate nice things with function, such as expensive instruments and outdoor equipment, but buying shoes for their logo, or in this case, a bracelet for the brand name, is now irrelevant to me. Nevertheless, this bracelet I unexpectedly yanked out of my backpack is meaningful. I may not have been wearing this bracelet for the past four years, but knowing it was with me in my everyday backpack the entire time incorporates a symbolic aspect of self-growth into it. It’s been with me everyday during school, my road trips and international travels, my extracurriculars and sports. This bracelet is no longer tied to my middle school self. It is tied to the growth from my middle school self to the present.
War on Skin: The Delight of Fighting Back by Ingrid Lam
The sound of two agonizing shrieks startle me awake. The duality of piercing forces, only to declare victory once their cloak of blood covers the battlefield. I am a general commander, whose only vanquish runs through the hands of salicylic acid and tretinoin. Through porous skin and excruciating alchemy, the anticipated crescendo of blistering nodules form without warning and the battle subsists. The trudging of a commander’s uncertain toes clasping to the slivered wood floors oozing with uncommitted glue on an adhesive refuge. I plunge into an aquamarine chair of legacy, as I watch among my vast kingdom of skincare and cosmetics. A mirror glares back at me in revolution, critiquing the pores, redness and hormonal outrage. I glare back in reciprocation with an even heavier and deadlier frown. In spite of the somber darkness that often fills my mornings, a dim glow of white elixir fills my peripheral: a luminous shielding renewal. With the motherly hands of niacinamide, who ambushes bacterial resentment. A medicinal concoction of which rejects barbed rays that leave me battered and bruised.
Dermatologists and chemists alike manufactured sunscreen to repel the ungodly UV rays–of which cause innumerable amounts of sun damage and possible melanomas. These shielding properties remind me of how my sunscreen not only protects my skin, but it ingrains a sense of purpose for this battle. I acknowledge the fight and exhaustion whilst leaving me in desperation for an immeasurable amount of REM sleep. The chemistry of a dual functioning cream feels foreign, but I recognize it like the back of my hand. I carry authenticity in my palms as textures of bumps and pustules along my jaw and cheeks form. I follow the regimes across the internet and the words of an MD, yet a persistent cystic bacteria forms to inevitably force all eyes on me.
The reflection of a mirror: the self and body both aligned separation. A façade that lacks falsity. Staring into an undeniable twin that critiques every grain of my harrowing stare. An approach to a fresh morning without concealing any imperfection. My movements copy and paste onto this reflective glass plastered to a metal frame. I feel paralyzed. Yet the tranquility of the sshhoop sound echoing from the releasing container of “UV-clear broad spectrum 46” brings my heartrate down and my living truth forward. My sunscreen erases the robotic feeling and brings forth my reality. A smooth transition between hell and realism. I now see a reflection of human life and pumping blood.
I went to the dermatologist in 4th grade for what I remember was a plantar wart. The sterile air in such a voiceless waiting room felt humanized. Stepping into a room with a door-forced breath of air tacitly reminded me of my being. The doctor examined my finger in a sensitive and meditative process. Her unfurrowed brow soothed the anxiety and rested my previously paralyzed my limbs. The essence of a routine in any form unclenches my jaw, and the ever lingering reminder to wear sunscreen serves as an inhaler to my heliophobia.
The fight starts at midnight and reignites at sunrise. Obsessiveness and fear of the unknown embroiders my skin and crowds my thoughts. Every morning, my eyes flutter in a melatonined slumber and I subconsciously dismiss the peak of an overnight battle. I feel the raw burn and peeling of an irritated battleground. I often stumble to the bathroom in a dazed state, minutes after my alarm blares like sirens. Feeling the icey tiles against my ridged skin, another sense of reality overtakes my mind, and I breathe in the air that fills my lungs and replenishes my body. I cleanse the blood and glory that cover on my face, a refreshing reminder of existence. A valorous battle is not attainable without foundational planning and routine; timely cannons and vicious blows predestine victory, and sunscreen dilutes a sea of blocked follicles. The calm before the storm. The repellent 46 SPF sunscreen defines undeniable strength. To drown my warriors on the porous field with armor of repellence, mark my words this battle will cease. I remind myself of my existence as a front commander of the Skin v. Bacterium war: I am not a cloak over my skeleton in a dismissible globe. The war persists; the reflection of my golden analog clock mimics the rays of the sun, but the shadow of my sunscreen container blocks the blistering flames.
I imagine this sounds silly or even unimaginable, but my skincare routine lays out my day. The turn of events from sunrise to dusk follow the external transitions of my skin and the ritualistic application of an invisible shield. Nostalgia brings me back to that first dermatologist visit; I still remember the doctor’s meticulous observation and lotioned touch. The spark that started my dermatological aspirations. A reminder that there are things we cannot control, and the undeniable groundedness that a courageous fight brings. I still yearn for that white flag of surrender, but this war is just beginning. The uncertainty of victory perpetuates within my mind, but just the drop of the miracle sunscreen tonic reminds me I am not only of a war on skin, I am a human being.
