Ditto

I hate being made of glass.                                                                            

I hate being so reflective, so superficial.

Sometimes, I hate what I am.

No, sometimes, I hate who I am.

~JackInTheDark

Remember the Pokémon craze a couple years back? Heck, I was one of those little kids who thought the world spun around Pokémon and an overachieving maniac named Ash. I could name all one hundred and fifty Pokémon existing when I was six, and obviously had a choosy list of favorites. But I never told anyone about Ditto.

Ditto is – essentially – a pink blob. It’s a Pokémon that can morph into its opponent’s form, and in doing so, is therefore capable of mimicking its techniques. When I was little, I remember first watching Ditto in action (on TV) and thinking, Wow! I’d hate to have to fight something like this!  Doesn’t it get annoying when all your moves are copied? Disgusted, I regarded Ditto as a creature of little talent who flourished off the gifts of others. End of story.

Yet somehow, I liked Ditto. I was a little uncomfortable about it, but being six years old, I naturally didn’t care much. In the back of my head, I subconsciously added it to my list of favorite Pokémon.

Eight years later, I’m a freshman who’s tried her best to gain something close to a reputation. If you asked about me, you might get different answers. 

“Oh, that girl?  Isn’t she the happy, bouncy one?” 

“Yeah, I heard she was pretty good at drawing.”

“Ooh!  She’s the one who draws those really pretty letters!”

“Isn’t she that girl with the super big ego that just copies her friends?”

That last quote–guess who said it?

Me.

Why? Because it’s true. Because who would know me better than myself? When you really get down to the bottom of it all, instead of finding a cheery, artistic girl that most people recognize, you’ll discover an arrogant, pink blob. My name is Ditto.

I didn’t start out as Ditto. I started out as plain old “me.” “Me” was an average kid with an average face and an average life. “Me” didn’t have much. She had hopes, certainly, and an amateur sense of art, though it was far from admirable. Guys could draw better than her, although her head was always brimming with sparkling, brilliant dreams waiting to burst into reality. Sadly, there was nowhere for them to go, for “me” had little talent to set them free.

Then, “me” met “her.”

“Her” was “me’s” best friend. They met when “me” was eight, and “me” was fascinated. “Her” was perfect…loving, cute, sensitive, thoughtful, musical, dramatic, gentle, calm…and most importantly, artistic. “Me” fell hopelessly in love with the artistic genius of “her.” Almost immediately, “me” added another selfish fantasy to the swirling pool swimming with her dreams: one day, she would capture that kind of genius. One day, “me” could be like “her,” who glittered so brightly in the light that it burned “me’s” eyes with jealousy and frustration. The light was so beautiful that “me” wanted it all for herself, just so she could outshine the rest of the world like “her”…

That light was called, glory.

“Me” slowly melted into Ditto. Ditto loved “her,” because they were still best friends years and years later, but gradually, over time, Ditto realized something.

She did have a talent. Copying.

It was a repulsive talent, but it was a talent, nonetheless. It didn’t take Ditto very long to observe “her’s” every move, especially every stroke of the pen she pressed into paper. Ditto practiced and practiced, teaching herself to mimic those moves and manipulate them into something she could call her own. Soon, Ditto had mastered that artistic genius. A small part of her could now appear as “her.”

“Her” never noticed. Or at least, if she did, she was too kind to point it out. She was too kind to rebuke Ditto for stealing her creations, her techniques, and showing them off to the rest of the world, begging for praise and that light – glory. “Her” loved Ditto too much.

And Ditto loved “her” as well. Unfortunately, it seemed the only method Ditto could ever prove to be an adequate friend was to at least match up her skills, which she found near impossible. Ditto had no skills.  All she could do was copy. Ditto was intelligent and observant; one needed to be smart in order to catch the way a master performed their art. So Ditto excelled in school, and always got top grades, but intelligence wasn’t a skill. Ditto didn’t want good grades; she wanted two things: one, to be “worthy” friend of “her,” and two, to attain that overwhelming, beautiful light. Ditto dreamed of being praised and complimented every which way. She wanted to be adored and admired by others, the way she adored and admired “her.”

As she became more familiar with “her,” Ditto realized the list of skills needed to become the ideal “best friend” had swelled, and began to tower over her. Not only was “her” talented in art; “her” possessed a prodigal gift for music. She could play, sing, interpret, improvise, compose, and conduct any piece of music. When she touched the piano, the tune that trickled from within nearly broke Ditto’s heart. And then, there was acting. “Her” could make anyone’s day brighten up, as she filled the mind with jokes and skits and laughter. Sometimes, when she danced – oh yes, who could forget the dancing? – “her” would almost leap into the wings of a bird, or melt into the sheen of a ribbon. “Her” would pull Ditto up on the stage, and ideas would explode from her head; Ditto became a doll, as “her” pieced the ideas together, taking random movements and gestures and creating a breathtaking piece of art with the body.

But Ditto couldn’t dance. Ditto couldn’t, just couldn’t, copy the way “her” moved her slender limbs to depict the wings of a butterfly, or the rushing winds. Instead, Ditto stumbled and tripped, being nothing more than an awkward, clumsy blob. She couldn’t sing or compose or act. But “her” loved Ditto anyways; she always told Ditto what a priceless friend she was as she hugged her like a teddy bear. It made Ditto happy to hear that, but deep inside, she cried because she knew it was all just a lie. Ditto would never be a “great friend” until she achieved that “light” – it was the only way.

Ditto grimaced at her selfishness, but kept pushing herself to achieve her dreams. It seemed like that was all she had left too-her selfishness and her love for her one and only best friend. Ditto’s “black and white” sides were all she had left to embrace as she took one step at a time. Ditto struggled through piano; Ditto sweated over her piano theory; Ditto bit the ends of her pencils as she scratched furiously at failed musical compositions; Ditto practiced singing; Ditto danced in the mirror; Ditto learned to morph into the perfect smile. Soon, Ditto learned about everything there was to learn in her epic race for perfection, in her race to become the “best of the best” friend of “her.” It had to be Ditto, and nobody else, she kept telling herself. She had to be “her” best-est friend in the whole wide world. Or else…or else, Ditto had to admit that shuddering truth-if she wasn’t doing this all for “her,” if all her efforts weren’t because she loved “her” so much, that meant she was doing it for only one other thing. The evil, black side. Glory.

But Ditto wouldn’t believe that. She just kept holding her breath, drowning in denial as she waited and waited for that special moment where she would know for sure that she was “her’s” greatest friend. Meanwhile, life moved on, and Ditto found herself cornered every which way, as the flaws in her copied life began to trickle between the cracks of her actions.

By then, Ditto found that her efforts were being rewarded, as she was praised for her fancy lettering talents, which caused people to believe she was artistically talented in all areas. Everything going exactly as planned. And then, as she leaped into a life full of pasted smiles and false laughter, Ditto found her social circle expanding beyond her imaginations. Suddenly, after careful experimentation, Ditto discovered that by simply mimicking “her” uplifting, always-cheery attitude, Ditto could attain a world of more friends than she’d ever possessed her whole life. In full swing, Ditto began to literally puppet every move, every expression, every reaction. “What Would Jesus Do?” became “What Would She Do?” 

But, Ditto met some new people. Some really new people. In Band, Ditto met musical geniuses almost as talented as “her,” who easily outranked anything Ditto had ever achieved. In Chorus, the girls could effortlessly sing notes that Ditto couldn’t bear to hear. In the Drama Department, there were comedians who could crack jokes at every sentence, leaving Ditto witless and speechless. In class, Ditto met two individuals who eventually became her closest friends at school-A and B. 

The problem with A and B was that although they were her best friends, they were her worst rivals. A was a prodigy in art–lines meant nothing to her as she sketched out animals and faces and just about anything you could find on this planet with lazy perfection. It was true that she was less fluent in drawing letters, but that was hardly a setback in light of everything else she could do. B stung in a very different spot. Ditto was smart, and she got top grades. She depended on that as her last source of pride, her sole skill that was not a product of “copying.” But in less than a month, B had blown Ditto away. Grades were never her concern as she somehow aced every test and every assignment and every measly shred of paper that was ever turned in. She breezed through projects that killed most averages, including Ditto’s, and always kept such a calm, stable disposition that sometimes drove Ditto mad with envy.

And just like that, every single one of Ditto’s fragile hopes to achieving “her’s” greatness were torn, ripped, shredded, crushed, and smoldered. All she had left was the plastic smile, which contorted her face more and more as she bore it in weariness day after day.

Then, one day, “her” came to Ditto’s rescue.

“Hey Hope, look at this story I wrote!”

“You write stories?”

“Yeupp.  Here.” 

“Her” plopped down on the carpet, and patted the floor beside her. Ditto quietly followed suit. Opening a worn, blue spiral notebook, “her” began to reveal her secrets.

“‘Don’t let the girl escape!’ ‘Catch that Indian!’ ‘Do whatever you have to so she doesn’t get away!’”

And so, just like that, I was opened to the world of writing.

It wasn’t like I’d never written anything before. In fact, I’d written mountains and mountains of poems and fables and stories on scratch paper piling in my desk. But it was all junk, so I never really bothered to develop in writing. But as “her” voiced the stories of her characters in their sometimes larger-than-life adventures, it finally convinced me to try to get out of that pink blob that I had been trapped within for so long. When Ditto heard “her” story, she immediately aspired to copy that. But when I heard that story, it reminded me of all those ideas I had abandoned in countless trash cans. Of course, the real me was too scared and too feeble to fight Ditto and merely sat in the corner, pondering over ideas for stories that had been left to gather dust.

Soon after, Ditto pulled out a piece of paper, and started writing. She continually pieced her plot together to match “her” story centered around love, loyalty, and romance. After all, that was the only way it would turn out well-copy “her.” But something went wrong, and Ditto became disgruntled. It jiggled her pink blobby self in frustration and found that she could not continue the story no matter how hard she tried.  She was about to give up and resort back to an empty life of dead hopes when the real Hope stepped in.

“Can I try?” asks Hope.

“You can’t do anything.  Why do you wanna try?” Ditto hisses.

Hope cringes. She considers backing away, but tries again. “Well, I just want to try something.  I’ll stop if it’s bad.”

Ditto glares at Hope, but turns around disdainfully, leaving Hope with the tattered sheet of paper and harassed pen. Hope blinks in surprise, having finally conquered Ditto, but is immediately immersed in words and an explosion of innovation.

That was probably three years ago. As each of those three years passed, Hope picked up the brittle pieces of her life that Ditto had left behind. She tried her best in music, singing, dance, art, school, life-but did not go looking for perfection. She stopped fighting with her envy when she spent time with “her,” and instead, she found that she really did love “her” just the same without all those stupid skill things getting in the way. But the best part is how Hope brought out her one most valuable, precious talent. It came from herself, and no one else, not even Ditto. Not even Ditto could copy it, because it belonged to Hope and Hope alone.

Writing. Words became her strength, and everyday, Hope worked and worked with her writing, taking pride and joy in each sentence strung together by her own hands. For the first time, Hope could feel that bright, glowing light warm her numb fingertips. Ditto had dreamed of this kind of glory-but Hope was the one who had been strong enough to get it. Hope is me. I am Hope, not Ditto.

I’m not exactly sure where Ditto went. I think she’s still there, but she doesn’t feel a need to come out anymore. Despite what Ditto did to my life, I kinda miss her. Without Ditto, I probably never would have become so close to “her.” Without Ditto, I probably never would have even considered trying out all these other areas of artistic expression, like dance. But most importantly, without Ditto, I would have never realized how unique my own writing is and always has been.

Hopefully, from now on, people will start to know me better. Instead of saying, “There’s the girl who draws really well,” they’ll say, “There’s the girl who writes really well.” I can draw, yes. I can do all those things pretty well, I guess. But writing is greatest of them all because it is the daily reminder of how Hope dared to fight Ditto so she could have her life back–and how she won.