Taking Over

(Authors note: Just so you're aware, I'm not from the south, and I pretty much am only getting my information from a friend who did live in the south. So…if the information is wrong, let me know, all right? Also, the narrative is coming from the perspective of a 17 year old girl. We tend to have opinions that we won't do much research on.)

"Honey…?" Mia asks me, albeit a bit nervously. She knows what I'm thinking already. Well gee, I wonder how she'd know that in my head I'm thinking-

Oh boy, here we go again.

No, you don't know what it's like to move so much. It's not even moving! It's more like…okay, here's a simple way to put it.

Pretend you're a package, and you're perpetually stuck in the UPS system. You just keep on getting shipped around; it never ends!

"Cheyenne, you okay with that?" My mother asks me again, because now I'm staring at her incredulously. Ugh, sometimes her southern drawl is okay, but…well, you move all over and see what it's like! Everywhere I go, all I hear is Southern Fried Barbie! You know how much that hurts?

We aren't even from the South! Okay well maybe she is, but I'm not! Technically I'm not even a U.S. born citizen.

I was born in the oh-so ghetto fabulous nation of Sweden. Yeah, Sweden. I know, it's like they switched my personality at birth!

See here's what went down like, seventeen years ago. Maybe almost eighteen if you want to get technical. My dad was a lieutenant, and he fell in love with mi Madre. Sweet, right? Of course it's sweet! Except, then he got my mom pregnant-that's where I came in-and of course they got married because my mom, being from Austen, was living with people who expected better of her. So my mom gets married to my dad, and surprise! Turns out he's working for the military, and he's about to get shipped off to some heist in Germany.

So needless to say my mom went with him and they lived there for about 9 months, until all of a sudden my mom thinks the whole relationship is abusive because, and I quote, 'he was never home' (I really want to know why anyone would think that when their husbands are in the military). Okay, maybe it's a little selfish to say, but I really wish she had hung on a little longer. I would have liked to have at least been with my dad for a day or two.

Anyway, my mom deserted my dad, and she went to Sweden. Why did she go to Sweden? I have no idea. She won't tell me about that part. Her whole version of the story is a little compressed compared to the versions she told her friends, who in turn told me when they were drunk enough to.

But let's get back to what I was talking about. Basically one day I come home from school-okay, I wasn't really there, but what can I say? It was my second school of the year, and it was only October! I wasn't really interested-and my mom's sitting at the kitchen table with this big manila envelope in front of her. It's got this big red stamp on it that says 'open immediately', and I already know exactly what's going on.

See, Mia-that's my mom-doesn't really do well with long term jobs. Or…hard jobs, for that matter. We've constantly been on the move since I was little, and it doesn't really bother me. I figure, hey, at least I'll get to see places I would never see if we were filthy rich and living in the cursed suburbia world.

And if you've ever been in this kind of situation, you tend to get kicked out of apartments and such when you can't pay the rent. See, my mom had splurged on shoes and cute clothes-for me…I know, I should've been responsible and told her to pay bills instead, but I didn't know we were in that much over our heads!

She's also spent a lot on certain things like alcohol and drugs, because according to her they go hand in hand, and they really do now that I think about it. Is my mother an alcoholic? Probably, but I'd rather not talk about that. Is she addicted to cocaine? Sort of, but I don't keep track of that either. It's Mia's life, and if she wants to become the epitome of a burnt-out, poverty stricken military wife, then so be it. That isn't going to be me, though.

If there's one thing I love about my dad though-besides the fact that he's the reason why I'm here-it's because he promised my mother that when the time came, he would send me to a good school, and he would pay for it.

And that big manila envelope on the table? Yeah, I guess the time that I would be going to a good, nice school was about to happen.

"Your father's parents say they would be happy to have you." Mia explains slowly, emphasizing the 'happy' part. She's making a circle pattern on the envelope with one of her heavily manicured fingernails.

If you saw Mia, you would immediately think trailer trash. She's got the look of a typical trailer trash person, but I swear she ain't-I mean, she's not. She's got fried, bleached blonde hair and puts it up in the high eighties ponytail, like it's the best hairstyle in the world. She wears the dark blue eye shadow and too much mascara, as well. To top it all off, she wears the low cut tank tops and the low-rise jeans that you get from teen stores over her wrinkling, tanned skin, and the big gold hoop earrings. It's like she refuses to believe she's turning forty soon. Either that or she refuses to believe she looks like white trash.

But…this is my mom I'm talking about, you know? She could be the worst junkie in the entire South, but I don't think I would care all that much. She's my mom, and I love her. I don't approve of what she does, but she's still family.

You have to love your family, no matter who-or what-they are.

As for me, I'm pretty much the same as her, except…better looking? Nicer? Knows when to shut up? Knows when she's pressing her limits? I've got the blonde hair, but it's straight and it's not even all that bleached. It's more strawberry blonde than anything, which I hate. I mean, have you ever met someone with strawberry blonde hair? It's not, I repeat, not cute! It draws out the color in your face, and…ugh, it's just ugly! Apparently I can't blame the strawberry part on my mom though, because my dad had red hair.

He's the one who gave me grey eyes, too. My mom's pretty blue eyes aren't anything compared to my steely, hawk eyes. Oh no, they're adorable and doe-like and all the guys who she's been with love her pretty sparkling 'sapphires'.

And where my mom's tan? Yeah, I'm not. I try so hard to tan, but the fact is that I can't! I cannot for the life of me turn a darker shade of white!

Now, if you saw me, you would instantly think I was a wangster. Why? Oh, I don't know…I listen to rap, I live in the ghetto pretty much, I wear the Hoodies and the harsh makeup, I too display the big hoop earrings, and I wear the baggy cargo shorts. You know, the ones with the camouflage prints.

Would you laugh? Probably. I would then proceed to swear you out because you're one of those idiots who refuse to accept change. You ought to realize by now that rap is the rock and roll of our generation, and you can't change that, no matter how much you think you're a hippie.

But you'd probably laugh more, because I sort of developed the southern gangster accent a while ago. You would think I was the biggest phony in the world.

The truth is, though, that you've got no idea what you're talking about. You want to know what the hippies did? They pretty much let Nixon win. They weren't the suckers who got stuck in Vietnam. Oh no, they were the safe kids in college who's mommy and daddy were rich and paid for them to be safe. All those draft-card burnings? It's what leads me to believe that college is an idiocracy. What did they have to prove? No seriously, what?

That they didn't need the cards because they were the safe nerds?

I'm sorry, that gets me a little agitated sometimes…See, my family went through that. Mia's uncles are all dead from Vietnam. They didn't come from the wealthiest part of town, and that is exactly why they got drafted. It wasn't because it was sheer misfortune. No, it was because they had nothing better to do than get drafted. They had no money, no career waiting for them outside of the big Ivy League schools…

Nothing for their lives.

I'm probably confusing you, but I get sidetracked sometimes! You should know already; I ain't coming from the best English class here.

And coming from the South in general, it's the only reason why I know most of the rock and roll from the time. I don't think Vietnam was a good idea, but its part of our history. It scares me to think we could go through so much, for only a few reasons, and that people could hate us so much back that they would rise up just to send us packing.

That's why I think change is a good thing. It's why I listen to rap, and why I am who I am-a white gangster ghetto girl. I believe that whatever you like, you should do. Now, if you really don't like something about a culture, then don't go for it. I'm just saying…get used to it, you know?

The world is changing, and you can't stick to your hippie hypocrisy, full of old white guys and people who possibly believe that they can change the world by sitting in their room and shooting up.

"Cheyenne, you don't have to answer this right away, but I really think this would be a good change for you." Mia is still talking, desperate to get me to understand. Oh, I understand.

I heard the word 'change'. And since change is what I believe in, I find myself nodding my head to my mother.

"So ya really think gram and gramps wouldn't mind?" I ask her carefully. "Where do they all live, anyhow?" Mia rolls her eyes upwards, thinking real hard to remember where my dad's parents live.

"Well, the area code I called was for New Jersey, so…I guess they live somewhere around there." She concludes.

I look around the apartment we've been sharing for about a month. A month is pretty long compared to some of the places we stayed. Once when we lived in Miami, we had only been tenants for 3 days.

It's a pretty nice place, which says a lot about it considering it was one of the cheapest places my mom could find.

But…grandparents are usually rich, right? At least, that's what one of my friends I'd made in school said about hers. They probably lived in some penthouse or something!

Could you imagine me, a gangster girl, going to live with them? Man oh man, I was already wondering how I should pack!

It's a change, you know? Change is good, no matter what bad things happen in between. It's always a good thing.

"Road trip sound good?" Mia asks me in a sneaky way, knowing I'm falling for the bait. "I'll let you drive the El Camino…" I find I'm still nodding my head, but now I'm smiling.

See, Mia also believes in change. It's why I love her. We're two of a kind, and we both love to get up and go. I guess, in a way, I'm luckier than most filthy rich kids.

I've been so many places I can hardly keep count anymore.