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Montana S.’ 1st Place-Winning essay
Connecting the Dots

I can’t color inside the lines. I can’t keep my chocolate milk from spilling all over my brand new white sweater. All the margins of my notebooks are filled with doodles of stars and deformed, yet happy barnyard animals. I smudge photographs with my fingers when I hold them. I wrote Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Howl” in sharpie on my jeans and now my mother refuses to buy me new clothes. I have single handedly mastered the fine art of over-cooking Easy Mac. Back in 2001 I had a good hair day, but no one was there to witness it. My locker, if you call it that, is a nest of papers, books, and half eaten sandwiches. Some people might call it a filthy health hazard, but I prefer to use the word, charming. I can’t eat a normal piece of fruit—like a peach. Instead I insist on my daily tomato covered with sugar. For my last birthday I asked for a gorilla suit so that I could parade around town in it, perplexing the tourists. This is what it means to e Montana and it has taken quite some time for me to accept that being different is a strength rather than a weakness.

In a moment of either hysteria or brilliance, my father decided to name me Montana. Originally, my mother had a “woman’s intuition” that I would be a son, but when I turned out as a girl (and a human, to the relief of my family) my father took advantage of my mother’s weary child-bearing state and made the decision himself. When asked later why he chose Montana, he never had an actual reason. Way to go, Dad. In Spanish, the Montana means mountain and my parents like to say that I am “strong like a mountain.” I cringe at the idea of being compared to a land mass.

It’s hard to say whether I am different because of my name or whether my name is different because of me. Either way, being different was something that tormented me for a long time. When I was younger all I wanted was to introduce myself with a regular name instead of the oh-so-embarrassing “Montana.” Everything I did was messy and a little bit on the wild side. For me, the simplest way from one point to another is never a straight line, but rather a parade of extravagant ribbon dancing followed by lion-taming, and then maybe a quick stop at the destination point if there is time.

Over the years I’ve learned that fitting in just isn’t me. It has taken me years but now I know that being what I considered “normal” is not only impossible for me, it isn’t even something I want to be. I have learned that flaws, shortcomings, talents and eccentricities are all part of what makes an individual unique. Originality comes from struggle, not perfection. Now realizing this, I let my colors ooze and seep outside of the lines and off the page. I don’t connect the dots; I create them.

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