Draft 1: Dear Mister Jusdge

Dear Mr. Judge,

By Alicia Proto

How do you do Mister?

My name is Alicia Proto and you have been assigned my case.

My father has just informed me that my legal troubles will be settled as of 9/11/2014. What an odd day to resolve a legal issue.

What an alarming date 9/11 was and still is. That will be a day in history to look back on for eternity.

Those numbers- signify help. That day was a cry for help if you ask me.

CURRENTLY it is 4:08 on this Sunday afternoon and I am standing here typing this letter with ease and urgency. Yes, I am standing as I type on my laptop. I prefer to write as I stand. When my body is perfectly aligned. I do my best thinking this way.

Now, you see Mr. Judge, may I call you that?

My father says its too informal- but I think being a little informal makes it more personable.

Well, Mr. Judge, I am not too good at being judged.

9/11/2014, to me, feels like Judgment Day.

I have never been good with judgment, really. My parents were never quick to criticize- rather they guided me through most of my early years of life. They were kind people, and good parents.

They never told me there was anything wrong with me.

So I never thought there was.

Until the day my big sister- Jessica- started bullying me.

Err- perhaps “until” is the wrong word.

Because I honestly can’t even remember the exact day I became aware of it.

All I know is that I figure she didn’t ALWAYS hate me.

Maybe she did, but she never REALLY let on until maybe we wereeeeee…. 3?

Or rather, it wasn’t until the 3 great tragedies of our young lives made me realize that my sister didn’t always like me.

Because when I look through all the old photographs, when I tape them to my wall around my mirror and STARE at them- I can see she loved me.

She’s always loved me. But the memories remind me that she also didn’t always like me.

She may have been jealous, she may have been misunderstood.

Thing is, I always loved her anyways. I always wanted to know what she was doing, thinking, feeling. She was just THERE when I arrived and I arrived totally adoring her presence. She was my pal, my playmate. My twin.

She was there waiting for my life to begin, she hers could also begin.

The life as my adopted twin.

“Noooo.” My mother says reading over my shoulder as I type.

“I ALWAYS told her the story. It was like I hit the lottery.”

I’m rolling my eyes.

Apparentlyyy…

People would stop her on the street and gush over Jessica and I together in the stroller.  They’d ask if we were twins or blab bla blaaaaa.

I love to watch my mother look at the pictures from that time.

“Look how radiant” she’d say as she looks touches the old photographs taped to my wall – majority at the time of our infancy. “It was the happiest time of my life.”

That may have been the age she was told Jessica she was adopted. Yea, my big sister Jessica is adopted.

My mother tried for like 9 years to have kids. At least that’s what she told me. She went like nearly a decade WANTING to have a baby and never getting anything but a bloody reminder that your spared a change in route for another month.

Mom always says that was some of the saddest years of her life. Though I know she was happy to have my father, her life partner, with her through these hard times, it was still an emotional struggle.

Yup- my mom desperately wanted me. She was overjoyed when she discovered she was pregnant just months after she started the process of adopting my big sister Jessica. She was ALREADY overjoyed about Jessica- because as Jessica always says “I made her a mother.!.”

But I can resist throwing it back at her. “Jessica, I was a MIRICLE child. Yes you made Mommy  a mommy- but it was nearly impossible for mom to get preggo and then leggo I ARRIVED!”

I chuckle just thinking about it. My sister and I always had such a playful competitive relationship. When it was good- it was a blast. When it was bad- it was trash.

She and I fought a lot too. She had a hard time growing up. My parents tell her shes adopted, right? And then hree tragedies happen in three conesutively over the span of 3 years. First our Grandpa Ben dies when we’re 5. Then our dad- Bob- gets hit by a car when we’re 6. THEN our Aunt Lisa DIES at the age of 34 when we’re 7.

It was like god reached into our lives and pulled our heart strings for 3 years. Testing my mother the most. She passed with flying colors. What an inspiration that woman is.

Now its 2001, September 11^th. I’m in 4^th grade at p.s.116 on 34^th between 2^nd and 3^rd. My sister was moved to a Jewish Private School on 68^th and Lex. She was at a different school for the first time in our lives. She had become a troubled child after our Aunt Lisa died. That was in 2^nd grade.

There’s a theory I’ve heard of where they say your life shifts every seven years. That was definitely true in this life. Our family was shrinking somehow. People were disappearing. Jessica’s heart was weakening. Mine was clouded with sadness. That was probably the first signs of depression being very present in all of our lives. All 4 of us, the Proto family, we were jolted. People were dropping like flies. There was sadness in all of our eyes.

But life goes on. The beat goes on- as they sing in that Beatles song.

So, back to the day of 9/11.

What chaos.

 But, no loss for us that day, the day that lost thousands. We didn’t lose not one.

We were spared loss that day.

What a relief that was.

9/12 and there after.

Now I have taken a seat on my queen sized bed because my lower back has been hurting me. Sitting after standing awhile is such a treat. To give your legs a rest and focus more now on writing has given me a boost of creativity that is now flowing out my mind, down my spine and out my fingertips.

Poetry.

As the years passed, Jessica got more and more bad.

She was rebelling. And I was hiding.

She would seek out outgoing people while I lingered in the background. Waiting patiently for her return.  

I liked to observe.

Perhaps I was a bit of a scared-y cat.

I used to prefer  watching t.v.

Everyone and anyone else’s life was more interesting to me then my own.

Perhaps I was sick of talking about myself.

I would watch a whole lot of different things.

Usually comedies. I liked to laugh. 

Jessica was more the explorer.

She’d go out, play sports and games. Meet new people.

Come home and share her knowledge of the outside world by acting like them.

She wasn’t much of a talker.

She got better with age. After years of my parents struggling.

She liked to draw.
 Or rather she’d color in.
She’d print out countless blank images and color them in with marker. She’d sit on the couch and do that as she smoked a cigarette. It was actually hilarious.

She reminded me of Tank Girl, who also usually has a cigarette in her mouth. She didn’t give a FUCK who didn’t like the smoke. It made her feel better so she did it. 

I guess in a way I respected that enough to let her continue to do it- as much as i yelled and complained.  The main reason was that I didn't want to make her feel worse. My mother always told me to be the bigger person because if I wasnt jessica would turn into a monster far more quikly then I would.