After being evicted from our home in Winchester, VA, I began to develop a great resentment towards this enigmatic, secret organization that had been promising me a luxurious, exciting, and high profile life centered around science, technology, art, and fame. My enthusiasm and passion to work with a covert government project quickly transformed into disillusionment and disappointment. Depression began to take hold as I found myself evicted from my home.Soon after that, I witnessed the surreal drama of my car get hooked up to a tow truck and repossessed off the street.
I was incredulous! Where was the science themed reality show? Where were the acting and hosting gigs? What happened to my future as a national leader in STEM education? Wasn’t I the chosen one? . . Wasn’t I the test-tube baby engineered by the government to save our world from science literacy and bolster technology comprehension? How could they allow their top secret asset to flounder aimlessly in a location that could offer nothing but ensure the failure of such important goals?
Financially broke, completely confused, and incredibly angry, I left the languid, drowsy town of Winchester, VA to go live with my boyfriend’s parents in an equally lackluster community. I was moving to the ocean side town of Long Neck, DE.
I did not know my boyfriend’s parents. But after a brief conversation, I was sure they were also part of the secret mission and that they, along with their son, were assigned to protect me in their assigned roles. As with all agent interactions, I quickly learned that they would not reveal their true identities or speak truthfully to me about their involvement in the mission.
In frustration and protest, I called my own personal strike. I refused to get involved or participate in any thing with my new housemates. And to further demonstrate my objection to these oppressive conditions, I refused to help with anything until someone finally agreed to be honest and explain who they were and what was going on.
So I wouldn’t touch dishes, laundry, yardwork, trash, etc. I remained stationary on the sofa for days. I actually went out of my way not to help. I wanted them to know as long as I was kept in the dark, I was not a part of their team.
My protest did not yield any explanation or any new information. So once again, I turned to art to express my outrage and resentment. In a defiant declaration, I wrote a poem and explained to the group that the words symbolized my perceived role in this hostile domicile. It was a final, unfriendly, plea for help and information.
After my recitation, nobody offered a response to my claims or protest. They all remained silent, opting not to comment on the content of the poem. Actually, they all looked at me with a bit of concern in their eyes . . . and also like I had grown a third eye.