Pirate, Ninja, Vagabond (UVA YWW Autobiographical sketch)

Every night I pray for senility because maybe if I was old and encrusted with wisdom I wouldn’t be so schizophrenic. Maybe then the pirate, the ninja, the vagabond would have exhausted their attempts to invade my brain. Within the confines of biological adolescence there is a margin that remains for multiple identities. I find myself personifying several types of wanderers. They are obscure and odd and beautifully disturbed and all vie for dominance of my identity.

The Pirate
My pirate ransacks riches. Crossing from sea to sea, she is a heart collector. She makes necklaces strung with rubies and sapphires to hand from my undeserving scruff. She’s a traveling saleswoman selling only to herself. She is dangerous and rocks an eye patch. My pirate has no manners. She drinks beer with the boys and sits with her legs too far apart, daring anyone to ask her if she’d mind being a lady for once. My pirate doesn’t really give a damn about anything except her pursuit for treasure and she stops at nothing to get it. My pirate’s got a drive.

The Ninja
Then the pirate comes to meet the ninja and the hysterical comedy of it all is enamoring, drawing me away from more menial things like being politically correct or doing the dishes. What my pirate has in style, my ninja has in cunning and with a swift kick to the spine she is God. She is mysterious and intelligent. My ninja operates precisely. She speaks in well-constructed metaphors and manages to be composed at the finest of dinner parties immediately after kicking ass in the back alley, using her stiletto as a weapon. My ninja is a piece of work. She operates alone. She is violently serene.

The Vagabond
My vagabond is the trashy one of the group. It depends on what part of town she’s in that night but she can be quite the whore. The ninja lets her have her hour upon the boards because she cant stand to even fight something so vagrant. My vagabond is guarded. She doesn’t wander for profit or to spread her creed but for the sake of defending and maintaining her silence. With geographical mobility comes a complete lack of connection to anything around you and then, my precious vagabond can’t be hurt. No one wants to know a tramp and therefore, she is allotted the space to be enclosed.
My wanderers stumble into each other sometimes in their journeys across my cortex’s and neurons and they set up battle in my frontal lobe, or over the synapse’s that initiate motor function. They fight and bicker and it gives me a headache, that bickering does. As I reach for the Motrin, I start wondering why the wanderer’s wander and what they’re wondering about. Why does one wear an eye patch instead of sensible heels? Or why can one do long division in her head while she throws nun chucks at people? Or why is one so defensive of her own silence that she screams at the top of her lungs so that everybody will listen to her hush.
By this point I am immobile, rooted to my dirty carpet, cursing these arbitrary fictional representations of my own conflicted identity. Then I find a pen and write for my pirate, my ninja, my vagabond. In the concluding silence, I’m reverent- my mind at peace. I have come to terms with the facts (if only momentarily) that the seemingly cockeyed wanderers spark essays like this one that just might get me into Young Writers. Then maybe, when I get there, there will be a nice dairy farmer or something to make friends with my pirate or my ninja or my vagabond.

Then, I get it.