Dear Princess Twilight,
What are you supposed to think when you’re only truly seen by your enemies?
Okay, I s'pose enemies wouldn't be the right word, but still. Dragons aren't exactly a welcoming bunch, let alone accommodating. So, why do I feel more comfortable around them than I do my own friends?
Maybe one day they'll both come to the Dragonlands and see the pony I've become. I hope they'd be proud of me. It's certainly not the most glamorous job, even by CMC standards--thanks, Sweetie Belle! But it's an honest living; daring work, some might say.
Though, I'll be honest, now that there's peace again, the animosity of the dragons seems to have come back in full effect. Gone are the fistbumps and in are the punches to the shoulder.
I'm not sure what I should've expected, really. When the chips were down, everyone pitched in. But now that none of our lives hang in the balance? Creatures seem fully content to just go about their lives, without a thought in their head about helping anyone but themselves.
I hear them talking about me sometimes. Sometimes, they'll even talk about wanting to hurt me. I guess I am kinda the Equestrian rat, by their standards. We’re only here to keep the communication lines open, but you try explaining that to dragons who never got a formal education. It's harder than you'd think.
"I'm gonna sock that rooster right in the jaw! Teach 'em to eyeball me."
Ah, that's right, they've taken to calling me ‘rooster’ here. Not something I really expected, and not something I really mind. Not exactly sure why, but it doesn't feel like a hot needle in the small of my back the way ‘chicken’ did.
And ‘em,’ huh? Yeah, ‘em’ sounds good. Not sure what about it, but it feels... almost like a weight taken off, when I hear it. Celestia only knows why.
That's another thing, Princess. Does it upset you that creatures still use Celestia's name as an expletive? I feel it doesn't really have anything to do with you, just that they see her as some kind of powerful figure.
See, now that sounds insulting. I should just stop talking about her. Moving on.
I gotta say, it has been comforting that none of the dragons have ever treated me as someone to be protected. I realize that they mostly just don’t like me, but there's something about not being seen as someone to be babied that just feels so… confirming? Almost like my power is recognized, even if only being recognized as a threat to them.
And maybe that is the true essence of power, at least as we know it now. In this land, you don't get any respect unless you present or display some sort of ability to defend yourself, or attack another, if it comes to that.
I believe it all stemmed from one moment. One of the dragons here was eyeing me one day. Normal stuff, usually, but this one was different. All of a sudden he came up behind me and put me in a headlock, while he just laughed to his friends and frazzled my mane.
I'm not exactly sure why he did it; possibly just wanted to show off, and possibly some sort of hazing ritual they do when a new envoy comes along. Whatever the reason, I kicked back and seemed to hit him right in the liver.
Now, I'm no doctor, but I have heard something about the liver being connected to the brain, and when the liver gets hit like that, the brain goes into shock and disrupts the body's motor function. I had no idea about this at the time, but I am very glad it's true, or else I’d probably be singing a completely different tune right now.
Once the dragons saw me do that, they seemed to take proper caution around me. They're still far from afraid, and most of them could still definitely outmuscle me, but they know I'm strong enough to cause quite a bit of damage to them, should a fight ever break out between us.
That's what the most basic level of respect is, I think: the assumption that one can cause significant harm. Physical respect, respecting someone's strength. It strikes at a much more instinctive chord to the dragons.
Thank Celestia (again, sorry, Princess) that it wasn't Sweetie Belle in my position. I mean, I love the filly, but what would she've done, sing at him till he stopped? No, I'm glad it was me. Working in the Dragonlands isn't a job for a pony that isn't willing to deal with some roughhousing, and shouldn't be taken lightly even by those who are.
That reminds me, it's been ages since I've seen Sweetie Belle. She must be doing her thing up in Manehattan right now; singing, dancing, maybe even appearing in a play or two. She's a talented mare, and one I'm glad to call my best friend.
Last time I saw her I was at one of her music lessons, about five months back. AB and I were waiting for her to finish off so we could have one last night on the town. We were only together for about two months of us all being legal drinking age, but boy did we make it count.
I remember her teacher was trying to tell her about different musical genres. Sounds like the bare basics, but it was really interesting.
"Genres are categories we use to denote different types of music," her teacher said.
Which is true, we all know that. "Right. So, what would punk music be described as?" Sweetie asked.
"Well, typically, very inspired by rock, a big focus on distorted guitars, percussion, and lyrics depicting some sort of counter-culture message..."
Sweetie looked confused. "So what about punk that doesn't have any sort of counter culture-message? Is that not punk?"
"Not exactly, Sweetie. See, genres can't account for every single edge case, we can only ever define them by the attributes we typically know them for."
"So two bands can sound absolutely nothing like each other and still be punk?"
"That's right. And furthermore, there’s some music that you or I would describe as sounding just like punk, but it isn’t. It’s all about how we engage with the music and how it’s presented to us." She was a really good teacher to Sweetie Belle, and always spoke in such a nurturing voice. Especially nurturing for a glam metal mare.
I didn't really understand any of that stuff back then, but I think I do now. We sort things into our own little boxes for the sake of identification, but as soon as we try to explain what those identities mean, we can't. All we can really do is try our best to provide examples of what they would be, in whatever context they're in.
Her teacher went on to say, "You know, there are subgenres as well, for punk. Hardcore punk, art punk, glam punk."
"And these are all punk?"
"They are! All punk, and none more or less punk than any other. Subgenres help us further identify what type of music we'll be hearing, and though they may be wildly different, art punk and glam punk are both equally valid types of punk music."
I suppose we do that a lot, don't we? Try to fit things into boxes as much as we can. Then, when things get muddled and complicated for us, we make another box within that box to put things into. We really like grouping things together, being able to identify things with only a few words.
But what do you do when you're trapped inside the box?
What does one do when there exists no box for you to fit into? Do you just live your entire life outside that box? Do you try to fit into the box you're already in, and hope you can keep stomaching the pain?
Nothing hurts quite like being invisible. And not invisible in the sense that they can't see you, but invisible in the sense that nobody can see beyond the mask they've built for you to wear.
I don't want this mask. I can't breathe through this mask. Its only saving grace is holding back the tears when they finally come, so that I can maintain the illusion that I am myself.
It's easy to live in pain; after all, I've been doing it for years. But, sometimes the pain of being who you're not outweighs the fear of being who you are.
I didn't know for the longest time, back in Equestria. I mean, how could I? Nobody taught me anything about it, all I had to go on were some vague notions in my head and an unrelated music lesson my friend was getting.
But I'm learning.
Maybe the day will come when I finally figure things out, or maybe I'll always be learning. But I’m not in the dark anymore. I see myself, and I am powerful. A triumphant rooster, hear me roar.
The first time I thought something was up may have been when I first cut my tail. It was short, not stubby, but certainly shorter than the other mares. Some ponies would look at me funny.
I didn't cut it for the same reasons the stallions did. I did still take care of my tail, and wanted it to look good. I just wanted it to look... me, if that makes sense.
I understand that nopony has really been taught anything like this before, so maybe it's a bit unreasonable to get angry at this, but it does burn me up. I dread the thought of talking about who I really am to somepony, and them responding, "I don't get it."
If you don't get it, that shouldn't be my problem.
But it is.
The dragons always seemed to understand who I am, or maybe they just never understood who I used to be. Whatever the reason, they're the only ones I've met that see me, and don't just see the mask I've been made to wear.
In truth, maybe it'd be best if I didn't move back to Equestria once my station period is over. I mean, I have all I need here; food, water, entertainment. I don't have friends like I do back in Equestria, but that shouldn't be too hard, I’ve already made one here.
I remember the day I met Thorn, at the saloon--or what the dragons called the saloon, anyway--and he seemed to be the exact stereotype of a dragon ponies are used to.
Thorn was brash, abrasive, said whatever was on his mind and didn't care what anyone else thought of him. Most see him as unlikable, and honestly, he is, but I'm pretty fond of him. It's an admirable quality to be able to be exactly who you are, without fear of how others see you.
At the saloon, I was sitting in my usual spot, at the back, behind a bed of rocks they called 'a booth,' and drinking my flagon in peace. Thorn walked in, and he was the type of guy who didn’t need to announce his presence every time he entered a room. It was really annoying, but eventually you got accustomed to it, and it even started to get exciting when just relaxing, and all of a sudden, "Guess who?!"
He's a character.
He has a habit of immediately introducing himself to every new face he sees, even if that new face isn't in the mood, in my case. Thorn came over and sat next to me, and started asking me all sorts of questions. Questions I didn't want to hear, and ones I definitely didn’t want to answer.
"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?" Was one of his favourites. Due in big part because it annoyed me.
I said, "No."
"I dunno, you look pretty familiar. Maybe we went to school together?"
I wasn't even convinced dragons had schools, let alone with a pony that looked anything like me attending them. "No," I said, again.
"No, no, I know who you are. You're that rooster I keep hearing about."
There was that word again. ‘Rooster.’
"I am. What about it?"
"You think you're better than us? Big rooster, nesting up in that big embassy you built for yourselves?"
My temper was getting short, I'll admit. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just me getting fed up with him. Probably both, honestly. "I live residential, same as all you." The sternness in my voice must’ve perked the ears of every dragon in the bar.
"Is that a fact?" He smiled, almost as if he knew that. I kept wondering what kind of game he was playing, but his face was unreadable.
Everything was still for a moment, both at our booth and the bar around us. Neither of us moved a muscle, but tensed up for a reaction from the other. Then, after a few more seconds of glaring at one another, we both loosened up.
Once the tension was unwound, he took a big swig of his beer. I consider myself something of an impressive drinker, but Thorn was something else. He lifted the flagon back and poured its contents down his open throat like it was a drain.
And if you didn't already know, yes, alcohol is flammable.
Thorn burped and let out a large waft of flame. Luckily for me, it was more a mist of embers than anything else, but still enough to singe the fur on my nose and the end of my mane. Red-hot rage pounded from my heart to my whole body. I was already inebriated, but this felt like an all-too-personal slight.
I took my mug in a rage and threw it at him, drenching his scales in beer, and leaving him more than a little dumbstruck. I immediately felt a pang of regret. Despite what he'd done, it could have been an accident.
Thorn got up and loomed over me. I wasn't scared of what he'd do, but I was scared of what might happen if news of this got back to the embassy. Would I get scolded by my superior? By you, Princess? Would I lose my whole job?
"This rooster is something else, fellas," he said, chuckling to himself as another flaming burp came out of his mouth--this time, directed upwards. "I'd like to buy 'em a drink!"
And that was it; ‘rooster,’ ‘em,’ It wasn't that they thought I wanted to be referred to as something. That's who they saw me as. To them, I was the rooster. ‘Em’ is me. Despite me throwing a drink in his face, he saw me for who I really was, with no mask clouding his vision.
And maybe that is something. Maybe ‘rooster’ doesn't exactly fit, either, but maybe it's just that it's so far away from ‘chicken’ or ‘hen’ that it's comfortable. Maybe I'm not a rooster, but maybe it's more comfortable to be a rooster than to be anything else known.
Maybe ‘em’ is what I am. What I was, always.
My station in the Dragonlands has been really good for me, I think. It's given me the opportunity to find out who I really am, in a completely new environment.
I do want to come back to Equestria, Princess. I do want to see my friends again, and I’ll never abandon the home I had, even if the Dragonlands becomes my new home. But a filly left Equestria, and that filly won’t ever be coming back.
-Scootaloo
Author's Note
Check out the blog to go along with this story.
