One of my fondest imaginings of my mother, Susanna, is of her marching down the high street in a pair of clunky Dr. Martin boots and a whimsy floral dress, with her yellow hair wild down her back. Another story I’ve been told is how she once dyed her hair one-half red, one-half green when she was around fifteen. As I discovered my independent sense of style during my teenage years, I was inspired on a foundation level by my mother’s don’t-give-a-damn attitude. I chose not to give a damn either, and despite the natural self-consciousness of being a young person, especially having crushes and relationships, I wore things that made me feel the happiest I could be in my own body and communicated exactly who I felt I was. I didn’t listen to pressure and actually looked like the odd one out a lot of the time.
Congrats! Your 24 year old self just graduated medical school and is about to start work. As a doctor. A real one in a hospital and everything. You’ll make it. Pretty soon, you’ll figure out that it’s just beginning, and that there’s a whole minefield of a world outside medical school, but that’s future us problem.
If I recall correctly, little baby 19-year-old Sarah in her lame band t shirts and lack of lipstick (that’ll change SOON) was spending the summer of 2012 panicking; what if you don’t get the grades to get into med school *again? What if you get in and immediately flunk out? You’ll read a blog called “The Secrets of Peninsula,” and freak the fuck out – what kind of medical school makes first years sit 5th year exams four times a year?
Throughout the month of June Boshemia will be publishing letters addressed to the most romantic month of the year. This letter is from contributor Taylor Wear.
My dearest June,
You are the stubborn, petulant daughter of the summer months, precocious and freckle-nosed, limber arms crossed over your little chest, one dusty sneakered foot in front of the other. You flatly refuse to be tamed–insist on everything you want.
You come around, June, but always in secret, and only in balmy, seductive weather. The dreary conscientiousness of wintertime just isn’t your scene. Give you barefoot nights, lightning bugs, lemonade. You appear in a firework, sit on my shoulder for a wondrous thirty days, a voice, in between smacks of bubblegum, that I can only describe as a raspy schoolgirl falsetto telling me to geez, just do it already .
You blow a saccharine bubble, it pops in my ear, and I make yet another poor, marvelous decision.
What on God’s green earth am I going to do with you?