Valerie

 

Where I Am From

I don’t talk about where I’m from on this blog. Not because I’m ashamed, but because the world sometimes is too eager to define you before you have the chance to do it yourself. But today I’ll make an exception. Not to tell you its name, but to make you understand me better.

It’s the kind of place where winter comes early and leaves late. People here don’t speak unless they mean it. There’s a silence that isn’t empty, but full of thought, of watching, of understanding. We don’t waste words, maybe because the landscape speaks for us. Mountains rise like the backs of sleeping gods, and the forests are so dense you could get lost for days and not mind. The winters are long, but they aren’t bleak. There’s a beauty in the way frost patterns bloom across glass, like tiny silver ferns, and how the world is quieted under the weight of snow. I remember waking up to windows covered in lacework frost, my breath fogging the glass as I traced patterns with my fingertips. I remember the northern lights splintering across the sky, green and violet veins streaking through the stars, dancing like they were alive.

And then there’s the language, soft and rough at the same time. It’s not the whispered Russian I keep just for me and old friends, but another one. One that tastes like wind and fire, like the crackle of ice beneath your feet. I grew up with its rhythms, the way it lingers on certain words like it’s savoring them.

I’ve always known that my view of the world isn’t the only one. I grew up with one house that is "home", and two houses that we can decide to stay in during the holidays (when we don't travel abroad). I go to private schools where the walls are white and the ceilings stretched high. I’m blonde like my family, with blue-green eyes that match my father’s, but I’ve always carried something else too, something quiet and tucked away. I hold onto it because it reminds me that privilege isn’t the same as permanence, and that where you come from is more than just where you live. It’s what you carry with you, even in silence.

Sometimes, I think not saying its name is my way of keeping it close. If I name it, it belongs to everyone. If I don’t, it’s still mine, still untouched by expectations or assumptions. It’s just home. My home. And that’s enough for me.

Salamander

I went to a party

I came in hot

Made decisions beforehand

My mind made up

Things that would make me happy

To do them or not

Each option weighed carefully

A plan for each thought

And then I walked through the door past the open concept

    And saw Violet bent backwards over the grass

        Seven years old with dandelions grasped tightly in her hand

    Arched like a bridge in a fallen handstand

Grinning wildly like a madman

With the exuberance that only doing nothing can bring

Waiting for the fireworks to begin

        And in that moment I decided to do nothing about everything

- Lana Del Rey

Tahna

“Positions”, the moderator calls out from his chair, but I was already ready. My eyes look up at the audience, and in a sea of white shirts, I see him. Elijah, who immediately looks back at me with a small smile. He nods, like he is saying “Go on”. “In a moment”, I reply with my eyes as I look over at my sister sitting three rows in front of him. Zaylee, with her arms crossed in her lap, and a blue shirt on. Buttoned to the top with a necklace from her husband glimmering over it. She stares back at me with no trace of a smile, but I did not expect one either. 

“Brando, serve.” 

The rush takes over as my last name rings through the air. Tennis is never about tennis when a Brando sister is on the court. Everyone knows it, yet we never speak of it. We only show. My body does the job, and my mind goes to another place. The feeling of hitting the ball back to the girl in front of me, who I haven't even taken the time to look at properly, is addicting. She has surely taken her time to stare at me. 

What was her name again? 

With a sly smile, my opponent thinks she has made a winner shot, but I do not let it last long. I run over, balance on my left foot, and strike back. The crowd goes wild, and Elijah stands on his feet. 

Oh, I see. 

I’m that girl. 

“Set break”, the moderator announces, and I lock eyes with my opponent quickly, and look at her first name on the board. Sarah. 

I sigh and sit down in my chair, picking up a water bottle. My legs are crossed, and eyes squint as I look up in the audience. Zaylee looks up at Elijah with the same emotionless expression as earlier, before she stands up and walks through the isles. My eyes follow her, almost invoulentary, as a bodyguard follows her away. 

Sisters are best when they're not rivals. Take notes, people! I lean back in my chair. When weren't we rivals? The 13 months between us has always made me the amateur, until times like these. Zaylee can handle a lot, but not this. A brand-new crush in the audience and flawless match. No, Zaylee must go home to her husband and kids, in her light grey car. She must twirl her short brown hair around her French tipped fingers and think deeply like she always does. Silence is her weapon.