MERLE, Wren [D8]

GENDER
female

AGE
15

DISTRICT
8

L O O K S

My mother has always said that I look like a boy. With my short dark hair and flat chest, I'm easily mistaken for a lanky, adolescent male from far away. Hell, sometimes people even wonder when their up close, too. In the most motherly kind of ways, she always says that once I "develop my curves a little more" it won't be such an issue, but until I'm older, I'll just have to deal with it. Father likes to make jokes about how it will keep the boys away, so I should be thankful. He always laughs, but you can tell sometimes, after he's done chuckling, that he really is grateful I have kept my pixie-like appearance. It means he gets to keep his little girl for just a little while longer. He'd never admit it if I asked him about it, but I know he's worried about the day when I outgrow him and mother. They know that when my arms and legs start becoming not so disproportionately long to the rest of my body, that means I'm all the closer to leaving them behind.

That insecurity and their terrible need to baby me, is probably what earns me my daily tormenting from my siblings. My brothers and sisters sense my parents' anxiety and how they're always waiting for the day when I grow into my body. When Wendy says things like, "Hm, I think you might be getting some boobs finally, Wren," or how Westyn pinches my thin, frail arms and asks me what I would do if he wasn't around to protect me, they do it emphasize my place in the family. Because I am the youngest—and the weakest by default, apparently—I can't handle things on my own. But I can. I know I can, but the situation my life has boiled down to prevents me from ever appearing as anything other than scrawny.

It's hard to ever gain any kind of benefit of the doubt when you're named after a gaunt, puny songbird. It's even harder when you fit the bill so well. The only difference would have to be that I can't sing a note to save my life and my vibrantly pale skin looks nothing like the normally dark plumage of an actual wren. I can't help that being inside constantly while working in the textile mills has leeched all the color from skin, nor can I change that there is never enough food to go around so I'm practically light enough that I could fly, just like a bird, given a strong enough wind current. I look so fragile, so wispy, that I expect some people believe that I am perfectly capable of flying. I hate that too, considering it's such an infuriating idea that I can carry the same characteristics and name of a bird, but still fail to fly. I've been cheated. All the prerequisites to fly, yet no ability of the sort. And believe me, when I was younger, I was stubborn enough to try until I broke some of my hollow bones. Do you know that a bird dies if it breaks its wings? I was glad I wasn't a bird then.

I always had the craziest idea in my head that my tiny physique and weak muscles would all be justified, so long as I had the power to take flight. It would have been worth it if I could soar. But I learned to fly in other ways, learned to justify my small form with other prominent attributes. I've had to learn that one does not simply have to have physical strength to be strong.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

I guess growing up with three older brothers and only one older sister didn't really help my case when it came to behaving like a girl my size should. From the beginning, there was no doubt I wasn't up to par when it came to my physical abilities when compared to my brothers. Because I lacked the muscle they had naturally, I never really had the chance to even consider being weak if I wanted to hang with them. What I lacked in bodily strength, I was determined to make up for in sheer willpower. That's how I grew up to be as thick-headed as a boy. My weaknesses made it to where I had to find and develop my strengths from an early age. If that included acting tougher than I was and refusing to face defeat, I managed to do it. I faked it until I made it seem like I was just as tough as my brothers. Even during the most testing times, like when my brothers wrestled in the mud and I was pinned every time with my face in the muck. I accepted my losses every time and when I was on the brink of crying because I had a mouthful of gritty sludge, I put on a face and let it go. Heated by my hatred for my frail body, I managed to create a tough mask that has stayed with me until today.

I'm a little rough around the edges, I'll admit, but it's better than being a pushover. Patience is not a big virtue of mine and I don't tolerate what I don't have to. It's strange that the combination of my parents' babying me and my brother's always being better made me so impatient. Why should I ever tolerate people who wallow in their own misfortunes? It's one thing to have flaws, but completely different when you let them define you. Life's hard and you face your hurdles and pick your battles, but you have to keep moving. That's what I've learned. I'm 15 years young and I know that, but some adults who've lived half their lives still can't grasp that lesson. I find those adults, who say they are so 'mature', the hardest to stomach.

Maybe that's why I am so driven to prove I am more than my weakest point. When my brothers ask me to show how weak I am not, I'll do whatever they want. Once, when I was 12 and new to the reaping, my brothers made a pact that for every year they all stayed out of the arena, they would climb the abandoned textile mill just beyond town center. Hardly anyone ever noticed it anymore and had become such a basic part of the scenery that even I had trouble remembering what it was they were actually talking about. Even so, as I was also in the reaping, I was required to join in on the deal, otherwise I was a "sissy". And sure enough, we all made it past the reaping and as planned, made our way over to the abandoned textile mill. I remember staring up at the crumbling building as if the key to never being weak again was kept like a hidden treasure at the very top. Us group of Merle kids were bound by our pact to make it to the second story by scaling the weathered bricks no matter the fear we felt so alive in our chests. When I started climb, Wilt and Wyatt by my side as Weston led our group, I remember thinking that my little arms would never get me far. We passed the first story and while my fingers hurt and my arms shook as I struggled, my face did not reveal anything. I'd worked so hard to carve a place for myself among my brothers, I wasn't about to let trial ruin it. I knew if I wussed out, they would never let me live it down, or worse, never treat me the same again.

When we passed the second story, Weston crawled through a busted window and began to pull us in. If one of us fell, it probably would have broken a few bones, maybe killed us if we landed on the rubble. I remember thinking how it would have been awful to die that way after surviving my first reaping. That was why, when Weston reached over to me to pull me in, I grabbed another handhold and began my ascent past the last floor towards the roof. By the time I made it to the top, my arms trembling at the weight of my thin body, my brothers had already scaled the steps in order to be on the roof for my arrival. Weston was furious as he pulled me up. I still remember him yelling at me about how it was unnecessary to risk the rest of the climb. He kept repeating how pointless it had been, but I think he eventually figured out why I did it. I am capable.

My parents, on the other hand, have never needed convincing when it comes to my strength. They coddle me in a different way than they would if they thought I was weak and needed protection. Both my mom and dad fear my independence, not my ability to protect myself. They're afraid that their last child, the baby of the family, will outgrow them too soon. They're both scared that I'll lose my innocence, just like my other siblings. I don't think they want to face the possibility of having an empty nest, once we're all on our own. They think they can stop me from maturing, which only worsens my desire to be grown.

H I S T O R Y

Weston, my older brother by three years, always had a knack for pushing me down the tomboy path. It wasn't hard with my two other brothers helping him. I don't think Wendy ever stood a chance against Wyatt's persuasive tongue, even if she was older than him by a year and had a little tea set made out of old thimbles. The boys, with their mud fights in summer and eccentric snow forts in winter, were always my allure. I learned to behave the way I did from them, which ultimately did not help to separate me from the mistaken identity as a boy. Often times, other kids would see us and come running to join, only to have their parents yell after them, "You play nice with those Merle boys!" And, at first, I'd grin at them, my face covered in mud or snow, content with how seamlessly I fit in with my brothers. To me, there was nothing better than being just like them.

It wasn't until I hit the older age of 11 or 12 that I figured it wasn't exactly a compliment. While I wanted nothing more than to be 'one of the guys', I knew that I couldn't go on as a boy forever. So one day, while creating a lopsided snow fort in the grip of winter, a boy named Rikki from down the street called out the command, "All boys get ready to fire!" and I put down my snowball. I remember feeling my face get hot when everyone, including my three brothers, raised their eyebrows in surprise and stared at me. They waited until I explained.
"I'm not a boy," I finally managed to get out. My brothers simply shrugged. While it was unspoken, they all knew it to be fact, even if it was easy to forget.
Rikki responded with the typical naivety of a dull, premature boy, "If you want to be considered a girl, start wearing dresses." He moved to pick up the snowball I had just put down. "And girls don't play with boys, so you can leave," he laughed. My brothers did not. I raised my small pale fist, decked him right in his mouth, and collected my snowball as Rikki cried.
"Boys don't cry," I remember snarling the words before hurling my snowball at the opposing fort.
No one forgot that I wasn't a boy ever again. Parents now called out, "You play nice with the Merle boys and Wren!" and I would thankfully nod my head in respect. Life with my brothers was simple after that. I was still one of the boys, just not truly a boy, and I was fine with that.

Around the same time as my fiasco of punching the boy from down the street, I faced my first reaping and scaled the abandoned textile factory with my brothers. It was one of the greatest days of my life, but I quickly learned that my tests were not over. On numerous occasions, my brothers would come up with crazy schemes and games and as part of the group, I was expected to follow through and play to my best ability. The norm was that I was a made into some kind of distraction or sacrificed for the betterment of my brothers so they could make it further in the game. When playing hide and seek, all bundled behind the rubble of old houses, I would be the one to flee when the enemy got close. It was always me that lost first, whether I wanted to or not. My sacrifices were rarely recognized by my dim brothers, but that never kept me from celebrating and hollering just as much as them.

There was only one game where I ever reigned as anything other than a pawn. Capture the flag. Where as my brothers faltered with slow steps and ungraceful movements, I soared. The times we played were numerous simply because if the other neighborhood kids needed an opposing team, we were always ready. The first time we played, I remember my brothers uneasiness. They had never liked the idea of stealth, nor were they necessarily light on their feet to begin with. It took only about half an hour for Wyatt and Weston to get caught, leaving behind Wilt and me to win. To say the least, my brothers were not confident we could procure a victory. I remember watching their faces as they stood in the enemy's makeshift fort that had been built with old bricks and scrap metal. Weston's furrowed eyebrows and Wyatt's crossed arms gave off an aura that they were defeated, done with the game that couldn't be won with brute force and endless energy. I knew I had to figure something out, so I pushed Wilt out from behind the rubble and hissed, "Your turn to be the distraction!" After stumbling for a few minutes, Wilt finally found his feet and managed to make a run for it as soon as the opposing team's boys began to close in. They'd left only one guard behind to deal with the little girl who ran with big boys.

I was quiet enough and fast enough that he never saw me coming, never saw the ragged red cloth that had been their flag snatched from it's podium of stacked bricks. He never noticed a thing until Wilt started to whistle and cheer as he came to a stop, the other kids still hot on his heels. Weston and Wyatt hoisted me onto their shoulders and we all screamed. I remember their strong arms holding me up, showing me off to the rest of the participants. I can still feel the flag in my fist and the burning feeling in my throat as I shouted out the sound of our victory. Sometimes, when I'm working in the textile mills with Wendy and I find a red piece of cloth in my work area that looks just like that flag had, I pretend I'm in that moment. I pretend that I never gave up my games and adventures for the stillness of long work days. When I try really hard, I can make myself believe that my brothers are outside the windows, scaling the building with passionate purpose, instead of hauling cotton bales from the delivery trucks all day.

LYRICS
Something Good Can Work by Two Door Cinema Club