16 April 2016

Dear Dr. Peter A. Konwerski, Dean of Student Admissions, George Washington University, Washington D.C.,
I know she means well. I know she does. I know she can’t help the fact that her mind doesn’t work like ours. I know she means well. But this doesn’t change the fact that she makes my every day miserable, and this surely doesn’t make my dad want to stay any more.
You know how in movies, when the main character hits rock bottom, and they just feel like crap and like they can’t go on anymore, and then they go on a Forrest-Gump-Run and everything is fine? Yeah, that’s kinda where I am, except I don’t have the physical energy to go on a Forrest-Gump-Run, or any run for that matter. 
I should probably introduce myself. Hello, I’m Margot Dayton. I go to Xavier High School, in the city of Laker, Minnesota (you guessed it! We have a few lakes around here!). I am 17 years old.  I have a mother with Rett syndrome, a type of autism that is severely cognitively disabling, and a father who isn’t a very good one. Sorry if that’s a lot of information coming at you, that’s just how it is. That’s all I know right now.
This whole thing started when I was 12. I would get frustrated with something and then instead of letting it pass like a normal person, I would scream and yell. I went to the doctor with my counselor because she felt that I was being overly angry with teachers and peers.  I then got diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, also known as ODD. The thing that surprised my doctor was my age.  This specific disorder typically starts in kids starting at age six and it ends when they are around ten. It created unbelievable frustration, in which my day could be ruined with a simple drop of a cracker at lunch. So here I am now: a seventeen year old with late-onset ODD and not enough money to get the treatment for it. 
Another thing you should know is that I have a dad who really sucks at his job. I don’t mean the job that he has repairing windows, I mean the job where he has to be my dad. He’s a big man who’s jeans could probably use a few washes. I remember how he used to try and take me out for my birthday, but then he would forget what day it was and take me out three weeks after. Then he just kind of gave up. He lives across town in a trailer with his girlfriend now, and I’m here with my mom. My dad was drunk when he met my mom and (for lack of a better word) created me. He’s been telling me that story forever, how he didn’t even think anything was wrong with her when he met her, that's how drunk he was. And then he would tell me that he loved me and that he was glad that I was in his world. Probably a lie. 
He thinks that I’m old enough now where he can leave me to take care of mom. He’s been waiting for the right time to move out for good, and this is what he’s been waiting for.  I’m old enough where I can toast my own Eggo waffles and I can walk to school by myself and give my mom her meds without accidentally mixing up Monday and Tuesday. I pretend like I don’t really care that he’s moving out. ‘Sure dad, I can handle it.’ or ‘Yeah dad, I’ll be fine’
I’m not fine.

School is hard because I am constantly battling the urge to get mad at everything. There is only one thing that makes me feel as calm as a lake in the early morning hours: Mitchell. My best friend since I was in 7th grade. We became friends when I was about to punch Sam Curry (who was purposely bugging me because he knew I couldn’t control anything), and Mitchell grabbed the back of my arm so that I wouldn’t punch him. Then he punched him himself. He offered me some wintermint gum in the principal’s office and we’ve been best friends ever since. He’s the one who comes over and feeds my mom when I have too much homework, and he’s the one who everyone thinks I’m dating, but ew.
When I get to school, my first class is social studies. Which is quite convenient because that is definitely the best class to get a little extra sleep in. Then I go through the motions of the day, fuming because math is hard, or holding back tears because gym class is like a whole new world of self-consciousness. My last class of the day is creative writing, and I’m only taking it because I needed the extra english credit. My teacher, Ms. Johannsen is the teacher that has an eye like a hawk for kids who are zoning out, and she is the person who pushes me harder than I’ve ever been pushed. The fact that I spend at least two hours per night writing poetry that I don’t even want to write makes me quite angry. She talks to us about channeling the troubles that we have in life into our writing, which I think is complete BS. The troubles that I find in life are just there. Writing about them will publish my terrible life to the world, which will create pity, therefore making my life even worse.
The year is almost over, and soon I can forget about all of these terrible people and move on with my life.
When I get home I feed mom and do my homework and I’m done by 7. I call Mitchell and talk about how stupid the world is. I watch late night TV and put my mom to bed, and the day goes by without any serious problems.

So now you see what a typical day is like for me, it’s not exceptionally exciting, but it sure is different than most seventeen year olds. Each morning I get up around 4:30 and I shower and get ready. I have long hair that belongs in a ponytail and no thought that goes into what I wear, so that doesn’t take me very long. I then get my mom ready by giving her a bath and making sure that she’s fed and ready for her day with the people who work with her everyday at the care center that she goes to. I eat an Eggo on a good day, and nothing on a day where mom resits her bath. I wait for her bus to come get her and take her to the care center where she learns more about social skills (information that she’ll forget tomorrow), then I walk to school. I feel like you know me well enough now to the point where I can start my story now. You know, the story that I’m writing this whole thing for.
It all started the day that Ms. Johannsen told me that I'm not putting enough of myself into my writing. Does she know how long I spend on this everyday? Who is she to tell me how much work I’m capable of. I want to show her that I can work this out. But before I fully realize what I'm doing, I find myself yelling and yelling at her. Who does she think she is? She just stands there at the front of the room nodding her head, looking at me like I'm below her. Who does she think she is? The bell rings apparently because people get up to leave, but I stay and I keep telling her that I put work into this course. I know I do. I know that I can work this out and I know that I can do this. She just keeps nodding and who does she think she is?! She grabs my wrists and tells me that I have to stay in her room “until I calm down.” I'm calm. Can't she see that I'm calm? Then she interrupts me.
“Margot. Stop. Margot listen to me. Margot.” She says, still holding onto my wrists.
“WHAT.” I scream at her. I need to stop yelling. Make it stop.
“Margot, sit down.” Her wrinkly face is so close to mine. I take a raspy breath and look her in the eyes. My face is probably still angrily scrunched but I can’t feel anything. “Margot, write me a

letter.” She hands me a piece of paper and a pen.
So I write. I write until my hand hurts and then I keep writing until it goes numb. I don’t care about the fact that the day has ended and the fact that I’m keeping Ms. Johansen here much past her teaching time. I don’t care that I’m telling her what a terrible person that she is in my letter, and I don’t care if she knows how much I hate her and her stupid class. I don’t even notice when she puts three more pieces of paper on my desk.
Three hours and twenty three pieces of paper later, I sign my name at the bottom of the paper, I stand up, and I leave.
I get home and I make mom dinner, put her to bed, and then the realization hits me that I have never felt this calm in my lifetime. I have never felt such a release as I felt in Ms. Johannsen’s class. I don’t even want to call Mitchell, and I dont even want to watch Late Night. I want to write.
So I do. This was the day when I realized what writing does for your mind.

That first night, I wrote 9 letters. One to my mom, one to Mitchell, to my dad, to his girlfriend, to Ms. Johannsen, to the girl that made fun of my clothes today, to Seth Meyers from Late Night, another to Mitchell, and another to my mom. I stay up until three in the morning and go through three fourths of a ream of paper. It was like a drug. I finally fell asleep on the kitchen table, and I woke up when my mom came trotting into the kitchen without any clothes on. I decide that she doesn’t need a bath today, and I get her ready and send her off. I walk to school and I notice the leaves and the cars and how pretty they are. I used to only be able to think about how annoying they were.
I got to Ms. Johannsen’s class in a state of annoyance because I had finally realized what terrible things I had said to her, I avoided her eye contact and took a piece of paper from her desk, and I wrote:
  Dear Ms. Johannsen,
  Sorry.
  From,
        Margot
At the end of the day she handed me the paper, and she had written:
  Dear Margot,
  Never apologize for expression. I can’t wait to see what you do next.
  From,
        Ms. Johannsen
Maybe she isn’t actually that bad.
Just so you know, I never sent my letters. Some of them I wished that I could, but I didn’t. This is the first one of the many that I plan to actually send.
The second night I get mad at mom because she keeps making a mess with the rice that I made her. I call Mitchell and he comes over and helps me calm her down and he feeds her. I tell him about Ms. Johannsen and the letters, and he asks to read the letters that I wrote. I let him read them, which I swore I wouldn’t do, and I go get mom ready for bed. When I come back into the kitchen Mitchell is smiling sitting at the table. To give you a visual, Mitchell is a six foot four man, and he does not cry, but his eyes are shiny, but he’d never admit that. I hug him for a long time without talking, and I send him home. This was the day when I realized that writing impacts the reader just as much as it impacts the writer.
The third day is when I decided that I wanted to write this to you. I was sitting at lunch with Mitchell and he asked me what my dad thought of me going to college.
“I have no idea what my dad wants me to do, and I honestly don’t care. I think I have to stay here and be with my mom anyway.” I was hardly thinking as I spoke.
“I talked to him.”
“You did what?” I turned to look at him to realize he wasn’t even eating.
“I went to the trailer and I talked to your dad about college.” Why would he do that? Theres no way my dad could afford me going to college, much less think it was smart to spend money on. “Did you know he has an account that he made when you were little so you could go to college?” He talked to the wrong dad. I know that Paul Dayton the window guy would never be responsible enough to make a fund for that.
“Why would you talk to him?” I asked, trying not to be angry that he messed with the business that I swore I wouldn’t mess with.
“I talked to him because I read your writing, Margot. I read it and its incredible. I know that you think you need to stay home with your mom, and I’m so proud of you for being that responsible, but you belong somewhere where you can show off a little.” He was getting mad too. Why was he mad? He had no right to be mad.
“Mitchell, college doesn’t work in my life. I know it would be great, but it wouldn’t work. My mom needs me.” He knows that I’m right.
“At least consider it. Please Margot.” And that was the first time that I’ve been so mad at Mitchell that I stood up and I walked away. I passed the front doors to the school and I burst out into a run. Not the Forrest Gump kind. The run that looks like there is something horrifying chasing you and you have no choice but to run. I ended up at the front of my dad’s trailer park. How I got there, I don’t know. Why I was there, I wasn’t sure of that either. It was little me, Margot Dayton, standing at the front of a massive trailer park. I walked slowly to my dad’s trailer, thinking that he probably wasn’t even home to tell me anything about this college stuff. I knocked on the door anyway, and his girlfriend answered.
“Hi. I was wondering if my dad was home?” I asked, trying my very hardest to remember what her name was. I think it was some name that could be cute on a person who didn’t smoke three packs a day.
“Yeah, he’s here, I’ll grab him.” She yelled inside for him, and he came out looking a little angry that someone had so rudely interrupted his quality TV time.
“Oh. Hello, Margot. You remember Tiffany, right?” Ah yes. Tiffany.
“Yes, I do. Nice to see you again.” I said, even though I didn’t really care that much. “Dad, can I talk to you outside for a second?” He nodded and came outside with me.
“Why did Mitchell talk to me about colleges today? You know I can’t go to college. Is this some kind of terrible joke? Because if it is, it needs to stop please.”
“Margot, I want you to go to college.” He said like it was as simple as ordering a cheeseburger. My expression stayed confused, so he elaborated. “Do you remember your grandfather?” I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t think so. He died when you were young. Anyway, he was your mom’s dad, who  worked his whole life learning more about what your mother had. That man hated me more than he hated anything, I tell you. Anyway, apparently he made good money doing what he did, and he left me a college fund for you. He locked it to me for the longest time because he thought I was going to use that money for my own things, and he was probably right. But just recently he unlocked it because he knew you would be going to college soon. It’s not enough to go to Harvard or Stanford or anything, but it’s enough to get you out of here for a few years.” He smiled like this was a simple conversation.
I asked the only question that I could think of, “What about mom?”
“I’ll take her while you’re gone. I owe you that much because of all that you’ve done for her the past years.” Who was this man and what had he done with my father? I then made a very rash, and a probably stupid decision: I ran away. I ran until I couldn’t breathe and I ended up at home, where Mitchell was already waiting for me. Apparently school had ended. I told him about the fund and about the idea of college and how I probably wasn’t going to do it anyway.
Mitchell is one of the calmest people I’ve ever met. Sure he punched Sam in 7th grade and did a few crazy things, but he has never, not once, raised his voice at anyone in an angry way. Apparently this was the first time.
He wouldn’t stop yelling about how stupid I was being and how ridiculous it was that I would pass up such an opportunity. The only thing that could possibly make him stop yelling arrived: mom. She came in and went to the couch so she could play with the playing cards, and Mitchell then looked at me and did something I never thought his heart was capable of: he offered to take my mom.
He told me that he would get a job at the care center, because he loved more than anything to work with those people, and he said that he would work especially with my mom every day.
I, Margot Dayton, never cry. Ever. Except in that moment with Mitchell and my mom and her playing cards. I was going to go to college. This night, I wrote one letter. This one. This was the night when I learned that everything works out sometimes.
With the money from my unknown grandfather, I have the opportunity to attend George Washington University, and I would like to change the world there.
I now ask you to allow me to work at your facility to create a way to teach children who have what I have. I want to teach them to use art. I want them to punch through a painting canvas to realize how beautiful a hole in your life can be. I want them to get so angry that they can’t even speak, and I want more than anything to show them that expression can change everything. Art has changed everything about how I see the world, and I want to do that for others. I plan to write kindergarten curriculum targeting especially at the students who lash out at everything, those with ODD, and I plan to teach them the beauty that comes with the angriest art of all.
I want them to know, as I learned, that expression is all that matters.
Please consider allowing me to attend George Washington University, and I can tell you now that I will use anger to teach the most important lessons of all.
Thank you for your time and consideration,
  Margot R. Dayton
  Class of 2023