– Dylan Brannen

Kindergarten. I think it’s a German word, but that’s when you get your first taste of it, some people even younger, but it’s safe to say that EVERYONE did this from then until they graduated or gave up.

Straighten up.

Turn your head this way.

Big smile, now.

The big umbrellas sending light into your face, a smile missing teeth, and eyes with little diamonds sparkling and doing more to lighten up the picture than any flash bulb could. Every child gets one; it’s their inauguration as a member of a culture of Me. You’re preserved for eternity in a glossy eight-by-ten, for everyone to see.

Your school picture.

Your school picture, I’ve always thought, is so the police will have something to put on the TV news, the papers, and the milk cartons when you inevitably get stolen away by some psychotic pedophile and sodomized to death. They’ll need it to identify what’s left of the body, your remains. Even that’s self-indulgent; your parents assume that their little angel is so important that some coked-out sex pervert would take keen interest in you, their precious child, and a rookie card in the world of child molesters. But, no, you need that picture even more than the police OR your parents EVER would.

Your first professional head shot.

Your parents keep every picture.

Your parents make your portfolio.

You’re a star, it’s all about you, and nothing is going to change that. Reality be damned, you’re young enough to believe in God and Santa Claus unflinchingly. The Easter Bunny died on the cross so you could stuff your face with his chocolatey, rather than golden, idol. You watch TV and you don’t see anyone but yourself. You see yourself, the lights are bright and your words are spun gold. A clever retort slips out from between your lips, and the crowd roars with canned laughter.

Big laugh.

All eyes on you.

Everyone wants to be famous, and they are in their own little way, and there isn’t a single person who’s going to question that; otherwise, they’d be questioning their own existence as the protagonist.

The star.

The leading man or lady, showing off for the whole of their little world. If you’re American, really integrated into the culture, the world is a stage, and everyone is a supporting player; an invisible audiences laughs with you, jeers your enemies, and goads you into performing your melodrama of self-importance.

Me.

Me.

Me.

Your smallest problem is the world’s smallest problem. Your biggest fear is a weight on the shoulders of every man, woman and child in your life. All yours. No one else is like you. You’re a beautiful, important, singular sensation strutting around in front of the audience of make-believe. You wring your hands, fuss over your appearance, dole out sagely wisdom, make the cleverest jokes, and let everyone know who’s in charge: You.

You live and you die, and when you’re gone, the world may as well burn down because you aren’t there to make it wonderful and worth living in anymore. You know it won’t end, though, so you build yourself a mausoleum, not out of bricks and mortar, but out of every act of self-love you’ve designed to reign over everyone you’ve ever met, so you can live on as word of mouth, an obituary, a bridge named after you. Your own little religion.

You’ve martyred yourself so you can outlive your body and soul. Yours IS the word of God, your personal God:
You. Me. Him. Her.

You want them to talk. It doesn’t matter if you’re Pol Pot, Marilyn Monroe, or just some old lady who died alone and was then devoured by her dozen or so cats.

A big scene, you don’t care if you have a million mourners or a million people cheering for your execution. They’re as wrapped up in Them as You are in You.

Them.

You.

That’s all there is, so you perform for your audience of make-believe, even though you know everyone feels the same way. You are Them. The world is just 6 billion-or-so “You”s and a singular “Them.”

And Them is You.