Parents fall into categories. There are the huggers and there are the hitters. My dad Earl is a hitter. He has been abusive towards me since I was a kid. I am eighteen and still too scrawny to fight back, not to mention too terrified. Earl is a big guy. His white tank tops make up a large part of his wardrobe and I cannot forget to mention his musty denim jacket. That jacket is worn too many days through out the year. Off his scalp grows his long bleached blonde hair. This hair is not clean. In fact it is so dirty that it forms thin greasy dread locks. He has big hands decorated with scars from drunken accidents. He beats me up like its going out of style and every day I worry about my little sister Seven. Just the thought of her growing up witnessing such violence from her makeshift high chair. I live right down the street from my school, Oakland High. Each and every day I run home from school during my lunch and free period to check on her. Earl is supposed to take care of her, but it has not been out of the ordinary for me to come home and find Seven all alone wailing away in her high chair. On many occasions I have to miss class to stay with her. She has always come first. I would never leave my baby sister home alone, especially when she needs to be fed. Some days she goes hours on end without eating because Earl never comes home as planned. I am used to missing school, not being able to go out with friends, or having a life of my own. This is okay with me though. Seven is my little companion and deserves so much more than I can actually give her. She doesn’t have a mother, well neither do I, but she needs her more than anyone.
Our mother was hit by a car when I was seventeen. It has never been the same and I lost much of my youth because of it. From then on I have had to take care of myself. Make all of my own meals, get a job, clean the house, and take care of Seven. I couldn’t rely on Earl for anything. He was always so flakey and inconsistent, but I could count on him for one consistency. His beatings, they were like clock work. Every night he drank too much and then I became the outlet for all his rage.
One night I was in my room doing my homework while cradling Seven. I had been trying to get her to fall asleep forever. I knew Earl was up to no good in the living room. Since our apartment is so small you can hear everything through the paper thin walls. He was yelling because the stove was broken and he couldn’t make his Ramen Noodles. I tried to drown it out so Seven wouldn’t get startled and I starting singing a soft song my mom used to always sing to me. I heard him coming. I put Seven down in the little bed I set up for her and left her with the doll I made.
--Z!!! You broke the stove didn’t you?! You idiot. How stupid do you need to be in order to break a stove?!
-That happened last night when you smashed the frying pan and knocked off the knobs.
-Look at you, trying to blame me for your stupidity! Your not going to get anywhere in life. If I had known you were going to be such a problem I would have left you on the side of the road.
I am sorry you feel that way, I will try and fix it.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me out to the kitchen. Arriving in the kitchen he shoved me up again the wall and hit me, again and again and again.
That next morning I woke up to the smell of pancakes! My dad was whistling in the kitchen to Christmas tunes on the radio. “Z! You awake? Grab little Seven and lets eat breakfast together!” he yelled. I found Seven cuddled up in her crib in clean clothes and a fresh diaper. Dad had already bathed and changed her! Upon my arrival to the kitchen my dad began telling me about a trip we were going to go on. “ Were going to Mt. Shasta and staying in a cabin I reserved for us! Were leaving in a few hours.” I was so excited! We all ate and then packed our bags. During our weekend trip I took so many pictures! I had the best time I had had in years. The night we arrived home I downloaded my pictures to the computer. They were on the desktop in a folder named, “Mt. Sashta Weekend”.
My eyes slowly opened. I had an extremely bad headache. Seven was next to me in her bed beginning to cry. The smell that filled the room was a clue as to why, she needed to be changed. I laid there thinking to myself. We had such a great time on our trip. I can not wait to show him all the pictures I took. He is going to love them. I got out of bed to see if dad was awake and to look at the pictures. I sat down at the computer chair. The pictures I took were no where to be found. I wondered if dad knew. I thought it was very likely he could have deleted them by accident. I got up to go ask him if he knew. I turned the corner to find him passed out on his recliner chair, he must have fallen asleep there.
-Hey dad? Where our are pictures? I had them on the computer last night.
He didn’t move a muscle. What is up with him? Dad didn’t drink last night when we got home..he doesn’t do that kind of thing.
Hello? Dad are you okay? Your scaring me.
His hand was bloody. My head began to throb even more. I went to the bathroom to get some tylenol. When I looked in the mirror I saw why I was in pain. I had a black eye and a bloody lip. Dad couldn’t have hit me? We went camping, maybe I fell and just don’t remember. Dad and I get along so well. He loves me and Seven...he would never hit me.
I stood there as if I were paralyzed by the realization. Then my hands began to tremble. The pain increased by the second and my heart was pounding harder than ever. This couldn’t have not been real. The trip was not a dream, it couldn’t have been. The camping trip was real! We went to Mt. Shasta. The pictures were probably just deleted. No..no. This is not what I think it is. This is not paramnesia.
I tried to think back to the night before, when I was doing my math homework. I walked back to my room sat on my bed and held on to Seven’s tiny hand and took a long deep breath. My memory now was becoming clear allowing me to recall more of what had happened. My dad had grabbed me and brought me into the kitchen to show me the broken stove. Then what..?I know there was more, there had to be. Oh right.. In his rage he threw me up against the wall. His dirty, long fingernails dug into my skin. They went deeper and deeper as if they were tiny knives cutting into cake. His right hand dragged up my arm until it reached its final destination, my neck. That is it. That is all I can remember. Nothing else happened after that. Z, don’t lie to yourself. Something did happen, something worse than ever before. Close your eyes, breath, and think. I looked into to his eyes. I had never looked into his eyes while he was in his rage. As his grip became tighter and tighter a smile appeared on his face and became wider and wider. There was no use for me to yell at him for being a sick bastard, the noise would frighten Seven. I couldn’t fight back, I was too weak to beat his rage and I was slowly becoming unconscious. Black blotches soon overcame my vision.
I knew right away that I had to leave. Earl had knocked me out. Who knows what happened to Seven while I was unconscious. I needed to save her and myself. Earl was not going to stop his abusive ways. It has been this way since forever and he clearly had no intentions to stop. I bundled Seven in her pink fleece blanket, packed her clothes and her one doll. I left everything I owned behind except for my savings that I stowed in a bag under my bed. I grabbed the car keys off the kitchen table and took a look at Earl. He was laying on the torn up recliner chair, his bloody hand was dangling a few inches above the grungy carpet. I opened the door and turned back one last time. I clenched the car keys in my hand, kissed Seven on the head and then closed the door behind me.
12.18.2008
12.15.2008
William
Fires incinerated the lord’s manor. The stench of burnt corpses consumed the air. A baby’s cries were heard by the local peasants who rushed to put out the blaze. The body of the lord’s wife, Mary, was found along with several guards. French assassins no doubt, thought the peasants. Matthias, a lowly peasant, lifted a baby boy out of a burning hay cart as his companions watched the manor crumble. The boy was no doubt William, the lord Henry’s son. Henry had gone to the Holy Land on some crusade for the Pope. “Now look at what your religious zeal has done to you my lord,” thought Matthias. Looking down at William’s horribly scorched body, Matthias thought he would not survive the night.
Matthias kept the boy’s heritage a secret, even from his wife, for if he were ever to be discovered the assassins would return. With the passing of time, William grew to be immensely strong and resilient. Pain did not affect him for the burns that covered his body caused him more pain than anyone could possibly imagine. At the age of twenty, William was a marvel to look at by the peasants. Standing six and a half feet tall and covered in bandages, he was an intimidating figure. William eventually learned his true heritage from his peasant father and resolved to stand before the Pope in order to discern the reason as to why assassins destroyed his father’s estate and the location of his father.
After many months traveling to Rome, William finally arrived before the gates of the Vatican. The Knights Templar who guarded the gates denied him entry. William became outraged and slew all the guards who stood in his way. Finally William fought his way to the Pope’s chamber and asked him why he could not have peacefully had this audience with the son of Henry. The Pope responded cunningly, “Young William, I have made many enemies by calling this crusade, forgive me. I knew your father well, he was a good man. However, upon receiving news of your apparent death and the death of your mother at the hands of the infidel assassins, he took his own life. Now William, I will give you your father’s holdings in the Holy Land near the port city of Acre. There gather an army and drive the infidels out of Judea. If you accomplish this, I will see to it that God allows your mother and father access into Heaven.”
With this news, William left will all speed to the Holy Land. He ordered an Arab blacksmith to fashion a war hammer encrusted with precious gems and an enormous tower shield almost as large as he was. With these tokens of war, William marched on Jerusalem with the Crusader army.
The Muslim and Christian armies stood facing each other outside the walls of the great city. All the Templars viewed William with fear and apprehension for he towered over them and his body was nearly fully encased in steel armor. Suddenly, William began walking towards the opposing army. He ordered his own force to attack only if he appeared to have fallen. Believing William to be a messenger, two Arabic horsemen rode to meet him. As they drew close to him, the young lord smashed his shield into one, knocking the horse and rider to the ground, then just as swiftly brought his hammer to the side of the other horse’s head. One of the men’s necks had been broken in the fall while the other swept out his scimitar and struck. The blow glanced off William’s right shoulder plate and the man lost his balance and stumbled. William took this opportunity and brought his hammer crashing down. This event prompted a wave of thousands upon thousands of arrows to fill the sky. The hisses of the arrows drowned out all sound. William calmly lifted his shield high and continued walking towards the Muslim army. Arrows bounced off or stuck into his shield. The enemy cavalry did not attack him in fear of the Crusader cavalry to maneuver and flank the infantry. The sight of one man, seemingly impervious to harm with a white cross emblazoned on a black tower shield, caused the Muslim force to believe God himself was protecting him. Meanwhile, the Crusaders looked on with awe and believed this to be the perfect opportunity to advance. With a thunderous charge, the heavy Templar cavalry engaged the Muslim cavalry and the enemy infantry fled into the city. After a ten-day siege, the Crusaders took Jerusalem.
News of William’s victory spread like wildfire throughout Judea as well as Europe. The Pope gave William his own castle and appointed him commander of the Crusader army. Victory after victory caused the Crusaders to control all of the Holy Land, most of Egypt, and Persia. It seemed there was no stopping William in conquering the known world. The Pope himself became jealous and fearful of the warrior’s influence. He had become an emperor adored by all of Christendom. Sending forth his spies, the Pope determined that William could be replaced by a successor who would answer to him alone.
As the emperor slept in his vast castle near Acre, the Knights Templar launched a surprise attack and set fire to the keep. Caught at unawares, William secretly fled to Jerusalem. While hiding amongst his loyal guards, he uncovered that the Pope had devised the plot for his assassination and that the Pope had proclaimed William was a blasphemous devil who worshiped Satan. Of course, everyone had to believe the Pope or be excommunicated. Furious at this treachery he sacked the Templar’s headquarters at the Al-aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and returned the city to Saladin, the Egyptian sultan.
No one had heard of William for many years after the “fall of Jerusalem”. Although the sudden and mysterious death of the Pope shocked Europe, a few English knights raised their tankards in honor. A host of knights arrived at Matthias’s farm. After hearing rumors about the return of William to his father’s estate, the new Pope had sent these men to uncover whether these rumors had any truth in them. “It’s not him, said the knights after viewing him in the fields and spitting on him. It can’t be.” The Pope never received the message.
Matthias kept the boy’s heritage a secret, even from his wife, for if he were ever to be discovered the assassins would return. With the passing of time, William grew to be immensely strong and resilient. Pain did not affect him for the burns that covered his body caused him more pain than anyone could possibly imagine. At the age of twenty, William was a marvel to look at by the peasants. Standing six and a half feet tall and covered in bandages, he was an intimidating figure. William eventually learned his true heritage from his peasant father and resolved to stand before the Pope in order to discern the reason as to why assassins destroyed his father’s estate and the location of his father.
After many months traveling to Rome, William finally arrived before the gates of the Vatican. The Knights Templar who guarded the gates denied him entry. William became outraged and slew all the guards who stood in his way. Finally William fought his way to the Pope’s chamber and asked him why he could not have peacefully had this audience with the son of Henry. The Pope responded cunningly, “Young William, I have made many enemies by calling this crusade, forgive me. I knew your father well, he was a good man. However, upon receiving news of your apparent death and the death of your mother at the hands of the infidel assassins, he took his own life. Now William, I will give you your father’s holdings in the Holy Land near the port city of Acre. There gather an army and drive the infidels out of Judea. If you accomplish this, I will see to it that God allows your mother and father access into Heaven.”
With this news, William left will all speed to the Holy Land. He ordered an Arab blacksmith to fashion a war hammer encrusted with precious gems and an enormous tower shield almost as large as he was. With these tokens of war, William marched on Jerusalem with the Crusader army.
The Muslim and Christian armies stood facing each other outside the walls of the great city. All the Templars viewed William with fear and apprehension for he towered over them and his body was nearly fully encased in steel armor. Suddenly, William began walking towards the opposing army. He ordered his own force to attack only if he appeared to have fallen. Believing William to be a messenger, two Arabic horsemen rode to meet him. As they drew close to him, the young lord smashed his shield into one, knocking the horse and rider to the ground, then just as swiftly brought his hammer to the side of the other horse’s head. One of the men’s necks had been broken in the fall while the other swept out his scimitar and struck. The blow glanced off William’s right shoulder plate and the man lost his balance and stumbled. William took this opportunity and brought his hammer crashing down. This event prompted a wave of thousands upon thousands of arrows to fill the sky. The hisses of the arrows drowned out all sound. William calmly lifted his shield high and continued walking towards the Muslim army. Arrows bounced off or stuck into his shield. The enemy cavalry did not attack him in fear of the Crusader cavalry to maneuver and flank the infantry. The sight of one man, seemingly impervious to harm with a white cross emblazoned on a black tower shield, caused the Muslim force to believe God himself was protecting him. Meanwhile, the Crusaders looked on with awe and believed this to be the perfect opportunity to advance. With a thunderous charge, the heavy Templar cavalry engaged the Muslim cavalry and the enemy infantry fled into the city. After a ten-day siege, the Crusaders took Jerusalem.
News of William’s victory spread like wildfire throughout Judea as well as Europe. The Pope gave William his own castle and appointed him commander of the Crusader army. Victory after victory caused the Crusaders to control all of the Holy Land, most of Egypt, and Persia. It seemed there was no stopping William in conquering the known world. The Pope himself became jealous and fearful of the warrior’s influence. He had become an emperor adored by all of Christendom. Sending forth his spies, the Pope determined that William could be replaced by a successor who would answer to him alone.
As the emperor slept in his vast castle near Acre, the Knights Templar launched a surprise attack and set fire to the keep. Caught at unawares, William secretly fled to Jerusalem. While hiding amongst his loyal guards, he uncovered that the Pope had devised the plot for his assassination and that the Pope had proclaimed William was a blasphemous devil who worshiped Satan. Of course, everyone had to believe the Pope or be excommunicated. Furious at this treachery he sacked the Templar’s headquarters at the Al-aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and returned the city to Saladin, the Egyptian sultan.
No one had heard of William for many years after the “fall of Jerusalem”. Although the sudden and mysterious death of the Pope shocked Europe, a few English knights raised their tankards in honor. A host of knights arrived at Matthias’s farm. After hearing rumors about the return of William to his father’s estate, the new Pope had sent these men to uncover whether these rumors had any truth in them. “It’s not him, said the knights after viewing him in the fields and spitting on him. It can’t be.” The Pope never received the message.
12.14.2008
Fearless
I noticed Ahsan’s eyes dilate, not because he held a cup of the family’s secret recipe hot coco, but because of his sheer anticipation and awe. His interest was contagious and caused me to sit at the edge of the couch, take off the think frames, and tell him a story of fearlessness from within the family. He fidgeted from one sitting position to next on the silk and wool woven rug I had brought back from Pakistan, but I knew he was soaking in every word. The story I decided to tell him was epically juvenile, yet so maturely profound that it was matched only by the story of Alexander the Great. It was said that Alexander the Great had conquered all of Asia by the age of fourteen, but Arshad conquered fear at the age of four. Ahsan was ready to be inspired, and I was ready to relive the moment. And so I began the tale….
The blanket of autumn had just descended upon the small town of Hari-Pur, and all of the birds hushed their songs as they began their wait for next spring. Unlike the birds, Arshad did not retreat from the seasons, and he did not let his two and a half year old brother retreat either. Gogi was not as fond of experiencing the world through hard contact as was his four year old brother. When I had become pregnant, the duty of watching Gogi fell upon Arshi, but Arshi was not willing to leave his escapades in the outside world to sit around and babysit. Instead, he turned babysitting into a boot camp with the primary goal of making Gogi active, even though he was a marshmallow of baby-- also the plan came with the added benefit of a playmate to run around aimlessly with. Gogi did not enjoy frolicking in backyard as much as his older brother, and instead loved to draw circles around the house in places that only he knew existed. Arshi introduced Gogi to his boot camp by creeping up behind him, and flicking his ear as Gogi would be in the midst of drawing an adventure. Gogi’s round face would contort into nothing more than two menacing eyes that could cut through the soul of a weaker man. This is when Arshi would run away, and Gogi would have to move his small spherical body in order to get his revenge. In the midst of his anger, Gogi forgot his laziness. He would speed waddle behind his older brother, each step looking like it would be his last as his cheeks and neck would bounce from side to side in an attempt to keep up with his spirit. Arshi’s plan had a near flawless success rate, and his boot camp received five stars from me.
Arshi was not as inflammable in spirit, as his little brother; in fact he was a timid child. He would cry if anyone ever gave him the stink eye, and it would frighten him if anyone spoke harshly or loudly around him. He had many phobias, the greatest them being dogs. The boot camp would usually end with Gogi catching up to his older brother, but when he did, he would usually be too gassed to do anything, so Arshi would put his hands under Gogi’s armpits, lean back for leverage, and pick up his healthy little brother to bring him back inside to me. Freshening up my two sons after they had made a mess of themselves during their boot camp, and taking them on a long walk was a ritual that I tried to abide by religiously. However, that day I wish I had skipped the routine. After I freshened up the boys, and put them into matching shalwar kamisai, traditional Pakistani suits, I led them out the door for the evening stroll. As we stepped outside, Gogi saw a large stray dog slowly trudging behind the far hedges outside of the house and went to follow.
Gogi seemed as though the tumble was immanent, and with each step Gogi’s lips shook releasing another wad of drool that showered the ground below. As Gogi finally got to the gap between the hedges the dog turned around. The stray German Sheppard began to slowly walk towards Gogi. Forgetting the fact that I was six months pregnant, I ran as fast as I could, but before my second stride was completed, Arshi was already there. He grabbed Gogi’s collar and threw Gogi behind him, just as the dog came close enough to touch. With Gogi safely behind, Arshi glanced at the dog and began to shiver in fear. Arshi peered through slightly open eyes and saw the dog just feet away from him. Arshi felt the shaking touch of his little brother on his hip, and remembered exactly what he was doing. He opened his eyes and threw his arms out to the sides, but fear was crawling up his body once again. A growl began to build in the dog’s throat, its lips began to recede revealing its scintillating white fangs and blood-red gums, and finally it let out a thunderous bark inches away from Arshi’s face. Arshi’s eyes clenched tighter, his teeth chattered, his eyes leaked with tears, and his knees twitched furiously, but still he did not move. The dog let its ears come up, stepped back, and stared at Arshi, but now Arshi was staring back. Neither of them saw fear in the other’s eyes. The dog stepped back again, and let out one more bark, but still Arshi stood there staring. After the dog walked away, Arshi felt a touch on his hip again, and the glue that held him in place dissolved as he turned around. He lifted his little brother, and clutched him when I finally realized that I was in the moment as well. I quickly scooped Arshi in one arm and Gogi in the other and painted their entire faces red with my fresh lipstick, paying no attention to their squirming or complaints.
As soon as the story finished Ahsan bolted onto my lap and looked at me with a cookie crumb and hot coco goatee around his lips. I asked him how he liked the story, and he jumped out of lap and started dramatically reciting the story word for word with a special emphasis and acting on the dog’s barks, which caused the cookie crumbs to fall from his face onto the family rug down below. Finally he looked at me and asked, “Do you think I can ever be like my Arshi Cha (uncle)?” I kissed him on the forehead, combed his long, black hair to one side with my hand, and replied, “You will be even better.”
The blanket of autumn had just descended upon the small town of Hari-Pur, and all of the birds hushed their songs as they began their wait for next spring. Unlike the birds, Arshad did not retreat from the seasons, and he did not let his two and a half year old brother retreat either. Gogi was not as fond of experiencing the world through hard contact as was his four year old brother. When I had become pregnant, the duty of watching Gogi fell upon Arshi, but Arshi was not willing to leave his escapades in the outside world to sit around and babysit. Instead, he turned babysitting into a boot camp with the primary goal of making Gogi active, even though he was a marshmallow of baby-- also the plan came with the added benefit of a playmate to run around aimlessly with. Gogi did not enjoy frolicking in backyard as much as his older brother, and instead loved to draw circles around the house in places that only he knew existed. Arshi introduced Gogi to his boot camp by creeping up behind him, and flicking his ear as Gogi would be in the midst of drawing an adventure. Gogi’s round face would contort into nothing more than two menacing eyes that could cut through the soul of a weaker man. This is when Arshi would run away, and Gogi would have to move his small spherical body in order to get his revenge. In the midst of his anger, Gogi forgot his laziness. He would speed waddle behind his older brother, each step looking like it would be his last as his cheeks and neck would bounce from side to side in an attempt to keep up with his spirit. Arshi’s plan had a near flawless success rate, and his boot camp received five stars from me.
Arshi was not as inflammable in spirit, as his little brother; in fact he was a timid child. He would cry if anyone ever gave him the stink eye, and it would frighten him if anyone spoke harshly or loudly around him. He had many phobias, the greatest them being dogs. The boot camp would usually end with Gogi catching up to his older brother, but when he did, he would usually be too gassed to do anything, so Arshi would put his hands under Gogi’s armpits, lean back for leverage, and pick up his healthy little brother to bring him back inside to me. Freshening up my two sons after they had made a mess of themselves during their boot camp, and taking them on a long walk was a ritual that I tried to abide by religiously. However, that day I wish I had skipped the routine. After I freshened up the boys, and put them into matching shalwar kamisai, traditional Pakistani suits, I led them out the door for the evening stroll. As we stepped outside, Gogi saw a large stray dog slowly trudging behind the far hedges outside of the house and went to follow.
Gogi seemed as though the tumble was immanent, and with each step Gogi’s lips shook releasing another wad of drool that showered the ground below. As Gogi finally got to the gap between the hedges the dog turned around. The stray German Sheppard began to slowly walk towards Gogi. Forgetting the fact that I was six months pregnant, I ran as fast as I could, but before my second stride was completed, Arshi was already there. He grabbed Gogi’s collar and threw Gogi behind him, just as the dog came close enough to touch. With Gogi safely behind, Arshi glanced at the dog and began to shiver in fear. Arshi peered through slightly open eyes and saw the dog just feet away from him. Arshi felt the shaking touch of his little brother on his hip, and remembered exactly what he was doing. He opened his eyes and threw his arms out to the sides, but fear was crawling up his body once again. A growl began to build in the dog’s throat, its lips began to recede revealing its scintillating white fangs and blood-red gums, and finally it let out a thunderous bark inches away from Arshi’s face. Arshi’s eyes clenched tighter, his teeth chattered, his eyes leaked with tears, and his knees twitched furiously, but still he did not move. The dog let its ears come up, stepped back, and stared at Arshi, but now Arshi was staring back. Neither of them saw fear in the other’s eyes. The dog stepped back again, and let out one more bark, but still Arshi stood there staring. After the dog walked away, Arshi felt a touch on his hip again, and the glue that held him in place dissolved as he turned around. He lifted his little brother, and clutched him when I finally realized that I was in the moment as well. I quickly scooped Arshi in one arm and Gogi in the other and painted their entire faces red with my fresh lipstick, paying no attention to their squirming or complaints.
As soon as the story finished Ahsan bolted onto my lap and looked at me with a cookie crumb and hot coco goatee around his lips. I asked him how he liked the story, and he jumped out of lap and started dramatically reciting the story word for word with a special emphasis and acting on the dog’s barks, which caused the cookie crumbs to fall from his face onto the family rug down below. Finally he looked at me and asked, “Do you think I can ever be like my Arshi Cha (uncle)?” I kissed him on the forehead, combed his long, black hair to one side with my hand, and replied, “You will be even better.”
Bear Story- kill something with your worst fear
Leaves crunched under the paws of the hefty creature. A soft growl rumbled slowly outside the thin tent. Darkness had fallen. The woman sat perfectly still. She tried to hold her breath; she did not exhale. She worried the beast would hear her heart beat- a great drum. She could hear the beast rummaging through her camping equipment near the fire pit. She was clueless about what to do next. Her mind sorted through possible escapes, but her body did not move. She sat frozen. The animal circled the tent... then stopped behind her. She could feel it's hot, heavy breath down her neck as it seeped through the thin tent. She was not safe there. The animal growled- then there was complete silence. One moment passed. Suddenly, there was an enormous roar. A heavy paw smashed down on the side of her face. Her head bashed the ground with great force. The tent ripped. She could see nothing in the dark of the night.
Description of Painting by Oswaldo Guayasamin
They are encompassed by an anguish. It hollows their cheeks and washes away the crimson tint that embodied the happy and healthy lives they once led. There is a lack of emotion that is even worse than the torture it has put them through. It finally surrenders, leaving them with only the feeling of utter despair. They have endured years of terror and pain. The confusion swallows them whole. All that remains is a scattered and disconnected culture that has experienced the ultimate low. However, even through all of the haze and emptiness, there is still the faint glimmer of hope. The worst is over.
12.12.2008
Dirt
The two girls were never particularly close, but they were friendly. They had known each other since kindergarten and were seen as popular girls, but at different ends of the spectrum. While Melissa had been destined for Harvard, and head cheerleader, and class president every year since sixth grade, Sam enjoyed photography, parties, hadn’t done anything athletic since her lower school soccer team, and would be attending art school. Sam running for senior class president caught everyone off guard, mostly because she didn’t seem to care about school, and because Melissa was always president. But as the campaign commenced, the student body found themselves being more enticed by Sam’s graffiti campaign posters, and colorful t-shirts, instead of Melissa’s mundane free brownies and informative, but boring posters, stating her contributions, and running record. When the Election Day came, no one was sure who would win. People might vote for Melissa simply because she seemed more presidential than Sam in everyway. From Melissa’s pin straight, who wore a tiny black baby doll dress with boots, and trendy fedora, and smelled of cigarettes. However, many people might vote for Sam because she was such a different alternative. The student body could expect either a myriad of changes, that would make school a constant party, or the most uninterested class president yet, who would conduct student government meetings from detention.
• The school intercom cracked until a clear voice rang through: “the votes have been counted, and this year’s senior class president is Samantha Garret!” You could hear every class cheering from inside the individual classrooms. It was a very convenient coincidence that Melissa and Sam had this particular class together because Sam took the moment to be the gracious winner and apologized to her component Melissa was obviously upset; she didn’t seem to hear Sam. As Sam talked Melissa looked past her into a far distance, thinking of her defeat. She snapped into consciousness to hear, “Mel, seriously, it should be you, I don’t even know why I won,” but Sam’s voice didn’t feign sincerity well. All Melissa could think of was the blatant injustice of this act. How can they vote for her? How could they think such a reckless louse of a person would be better in this position than her? Melissa’s voice was choked but she managed to force out trite congratulations and walked briskly out of class. She didn’t go back to school for three days, and she didn’t answer her friend’s calls long enough to express her feelings.
• Sam danced on top of a table to the latest rap song, with a fun beat. Everyone was having fun at her victory party, and the alcohol was flowing. No one had thought of the incumbent since Tuesday, and everyone loved the New Mrs. President. Sam did feel a little guilty about Melissa though. She knew enough about her to know that achievement was her life, and defeat was unknown to her. That was why they never became close. Melissa was always too high strung for Sam. Sam always felt that Melissa’s general facial expression would suggest that she could barely breath, and that someone invisible person was constantly choking her. This didn’t change the fact that Sam was aware of what she had taken from Melissa. But Sam shrugged off her sympathy and reminded herself that it was about time that goody two-shoes learned to lose, maybe if she didn’t feel the pressure to always win that invisible choking man would go away? The inside of Sam’s boot vibrated from her cell phone. Her dress had not pockets so she put the phone in her boot so she wouldn’t lose track of it. The call was from Melissa, which was bizarre because she had been in hiding for days, so when she decided to emerge from hibernation, shouldn’t she call one of her close friends? “Sam?” asked Melissa. “Yea, hey girl, what’s up? Where have you been?” Melissa was almost a little disappointed when she realized Sam had been drinking. Because she was drunk the full terror of what was as going to happen to her would take longer to realize, and Melissa wouldn’t be able to enjoy her pain as much. “Just at home I wasn’t feeling well, but anyway, I’m outside at your party, and I wanted to talk.” “Oh my god! Yea girl come inside, we’ll go upstairs.” “No, no I’m afraid it’s too loud, could you meet me in the back yard next to the woods?” “The woods? Ha, yea sure, but why there? The party is inside.” “Oh I know, but it’ll will be easier for me to talk to you alone, and without interruptions, plus it’s the least you could do after taking my presidency.” Sam was slightly irritated by this attempt to guilt her, but she couldn’t change the fact that she did feel guilty, so she went. She walked in her backyard, but didn’t see Melissa, so she called. “Hey where are you?” “I’m just a little ways in the woods, next to the creek, it’s not far.” Sam had just reached the creek when she felt a blunt shovel smack the back of her head. She didn’t know how much time had passed but when she woke, dirt was filling her mouth whenever she tried to scream, and her eyes filled with soil every time she tried to open them. She was unable to do anything except feel a beetle crawl franticly up her neck and across her lips and into her hair. Her shoulders were weighed down by the moist heavy soil, and every time she tried to move the dirt would shift, and the weight on her throat would increase. There was an intense stinging from where the shovel had hit her. Her blood seeped from her head into the soil, and she waited for someone to find her, or die.
• The school intercom cracked until a clear voice rang through: “the votes have been counted, and this year’s senior class president is Samantha Garret!” You could hear every class cheering from inside the individual classrooms. It was a very convenient coincidence that Melissa and Sam had this particular class together because Sam took the moment to be the gracious winner and apologized to her component Melissa was obviously upset; she didn’t seem to hear Sam. As Sam talked Melissa looked past her into a far distance, thinking of her defeat. She snapped into consciousness to hear, “Mel, seriously, it should be you, I don’t even know why I won,” but Sam’s voice didn’t feign sincerity well. All Melissa could think of was the blatant injustice of this act. How can they vote for her? How could they think such a reckless louse of a person would be better in this position than her? Melissa’s voice was choked but she managed to force out trite congratulations and walked briskly out of class. She didn’t go back to school for three days, and she didn’t answer her friend’s calls long enough to express her feelings.
• Sam danced on top of a table to the latest rap song, with a fun beat. Everyone was having fun at her victory party, and the alcohol was flowing. No one had thought of the incumbent since Tuesday, and everyone loved the New Mrs. President. Sam did feel a little guilty about Melissa though. She knew enough about her to know that achievement was her life, and defeat was unknown to her. That was why they never became close. Melissa was always too high strung for Sam. Sam always felt that Melissa’s general facial expression would suggest that she could barely breath, and that someone invisible person was constantly choking her. This didn’t change the fact that Sam was aware of what she had taken from Melissa. But Sam shrugged off her sympathy and reminded herself that it was about time that goody two-shoes learned to lose, maybe if she didn’t feel the pressure to always win that invisible choking man would go away? The inside of Sam’s boot vibrated from her cell phone. Her dress had not pockets so she put the phone in her boot so she wouldn’t lose track of it. The call was from Melissa, which was bizarre because she had been in hiding for days, so when she decided to emerge from hibernation, shouldn’t she call one of her close friends? “Sam?” asked Melissa. “Yea, hey girl, what’s up? Where have you been?” Melissa was almost a little disappointed when she realized Sam had been drinking. Because she was drunk the full terror of what was as going to happen to her would take longer to realize, and Melissa wouldn’t be able to enjoy her pain as much. “Just at home I wasn’t feeling well, but anyway, I’m outside at your party, and I wanted to talk.” “Oh my god! Yea girl come inside, we’ll go upstairs.” “No, no I’m afraid it’s too loud, could you meet me in the back yard next to the woods?” “The woods? Ha, yea sure, but why there? The party is inside.” “Oh I know, but it’ll will be easier for me to talk to you alone, and without interruptions, plus it’s the least you could do after taking my presidency.” Sam was slightly irritated by this attempt to guilt her, but she couldn’t change the fact that she did feel guilty, so she went. She walked in her backyard, but didn’t see Melissa, so she called. “Hey where are you?” “I’m just a little ways in the woods, next to the creek, it’s not far.” Sam had just reached the creek when she felt a blunt shovel smack the back of her head. She didn’t know how much time had passed but when she woke, dirt was filling her mouth whenever she tried to scream, and her eyes filled with soil every time she tried to open them. She was unable to do anything except feel a beetle crawl franticly up her neck and across her lips and into her hair. Her shoulders were weighed down by the moist heavy soil, and every time she tried to move the dirt would shift, and the weight on her throat would increase. There was an intense stinging from where the shovel had hit her. Her blood seeped from her head into the soil, and she waited for someone to find her, or die.
12.11.2008
Chell and Shara
Her hair curved behind her ear, and her light snoring came from their single bed above the shop. They resonated in Chell’s thoughts behind the reggae jams and the grunts of the man in the chair. Chell let her mind linger on her three-year-old daughter, Shara, who was probably cleaning a bowl full of Fruit Loops and milk. The only way Chell would know her daughter had eaten was from the scattered cereal on the six squares of kitchen tiles, squeezed in the corner of the upstairs apartment. Chell’s needle glistened and penetrated the pale skin of the wide man in front of her; the ink spread under his skin as his breath shortened and he turned to look at the unfinished wings spanning across his back with each inked feather. Chell struggled to fight through the fog of her memory from the night before. Nothing was perfectly clear¬¬–– Jerry, Crystal, and Turner bringing pizza and the bong, some sort of argument, Turner crashing on the couch. One thing stood untainted in Chell’s memory: she had pulled herself up the creaking stairs to find Shara laying face down with her coloring book soaked slightly in a puddle of drool. The clown face was half green from the crayon still loosely clenched in her daughter’s fist. Power Rangers flashed on their small, staticky set. Chell flipped off the picture and then lifted her daughter into their single cot under the windowsill. She couldn’t help but pull Shara’s growing bangs into an arc behind her tiny ear. Chell could never remember her mother’s hand behind her own ear; in fact, she couldn’t recall much affection coming from her mother at all. The one person whom she had loved in Middleton, who had appreciated her sketching, her expression, would never return. For, he too, was afraid of the choices he’d made and the life he had created.
Chell spun back into reality when the parlor door jingled. In walked a skeleton of a man with thin, tinged hair that fell right above the skull on the back of his neck. “Your ink,” he said, motioning for Chell to step outside. She let her wide black pants slip around the glass door of the shop. He was waiting for her with his arm leaning against the brick wall. “Closer,” he hissed through his crooked teeth until she could smell the mixed scent of nicotine and cola on his breath. Opening his coat, he passed her a crinkled brown bag, and after peaking inside, the closing of the bag ushered out a whiff of sweet leaves and ink. She needed more inking supplies, but she wished she had never asked him to come.
“Sixty?”
“The price is workable…”
He leaned his other arm across her right shoulder, closing her in. Before her slight squirming led to a violent kicking aimed between his legs, the bells jingled again.
“Mama Chell, the big angel man in here won’t color with me, will you? Please.”
Chell turned to see her daughter swaying under the weight of the door, “Now Shara…”
“Pretty please?”
Turning to face his changed expression, she handed him a weathered roll of bills and snatched away with the bag. Grabbing her daughter’s hand, she swung open the door to The Tattoo Escape. Her voice snuck out from the trapped wind of the door.
“Thanks, Harris.”
The crinkled bag had resided in the corner of Chell’s workplace for the majority of the morning. The sun had sunk below its high throne and glared through the curved lettering on the glass front of her shop. Having spun the heavied chair to allow the man to see the final details on his feathers, Chell pulled her bangs away from the beads of sweat forming on her pale forehead. Turning to face the glare, Chell itched for a cigarette and wondered where Shara had disappeared to. Swinging, again, out the door, she removed a half-smoked cigarette from behind her ear. Her eyes lingered on the faint crescent of the moon that glowed behind afternoon daylight. Shara had been her normal self, animated and engaged, throughout the day, hanging on the wood table watching her mom work, entertaining customers with her new skill of hopping on one foot, and mostly sprawled on the floor coloring. Shara was almost through her fourth coloring book for the week; art always has been costly, Chell thought to herself. Although Chell had heard Chera’s short-breathed counting for every hop, “one, two, three, five, seven, eight, eleven…,” mostly Shara’s sweet appeals resounded in Chell’s thoughts. “Mama Chell, can you color now? Mama Chell, look what I did…” The thoughts of Shara’s pleading eyes dropped Chell’s emotions from the buzz of her cigarette, and she drained with regret.
Chell’s gaze fell from the sky with the sound of the bells against glass. The door’s weight leaned against Shara’s back as she pushed pages through the opening. “Mama Chell––” As she reached for her mom’s attention, her drawings spilled to the concrete. Before real tears came to Shara’s eyes, Chell was on her knees gathering each paper. Noticing the cigarette between her fingers, Chell tucked the remaining bud behind her left ear, quickly revealing the crescent moon on her upper neck. “So you’ll color now, Mama?” Allowing herself to slide from her knees into a sitting position, Chell pulled her daughter onto her lap. She placed her hand over Shara’s chubby fingers, and together they guided a yellow crayon in and around the pages. After a while Chell leaned her head back onto the cool bricks and stroked the short bangs over Shara’s forehead. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the rectangular rooftops of New York’s cityscape.
Reggae jams had long turned to deep techno beats, and Chell had felt the vibrations through the floor as she tucked Shara under her sheets. Looking up through the windowsill to see the moon glowing brighter, Chell had left her daughter’s side to join everyone downstairs. Empty bottles lined the wooden table, and smoke hovered among people in every corner. Most of them wore tattoos inked by Chell herself. Swaying under Turner’s arm, Chell pressed her palm to her squinting eye as crayons and colors spun through her head. Her mother’s face scolded her drawings as she felt herself spinning above Shara’s pleading eyes. She itched for that feeling. She knew she shouldn’t.
Having made her way to the top of the stairs, Chell felt her lower back cold against the top stair. Ignoring her unsettled stomach, she helped Turner tighten the cloth tourniquet around her upper arm. “Squeeze,” he whispered holding his hand out to her. Grabbing him, she watched her pulsing veins ripple under the lettering on her exposed wrist. Yellow bubbles sizzled over the heated spoon. She allowed the thin needle to trace her vein, and then leaning her head back into the moonlight, she jabbed down her thumb, soaking in the liquid. A small drop of blood trickled down her forearm, and as she followed it drop to the floor, small toes cringed under her gaze.
“Mama Chell, the ink is in too far. Mama Chell? Aren’t you gonna take it out Mama?…Mama––
Shara’s short arm moved toward Chell’s, and feeling her stomach lurch, Chell swung her arm away, making contact with Shara’s face and knocking her onto the tile. Chell watched her daughter’s shadow sink out of sight, and she felt chunks escape from deep within her throat. Wiping her dripping nose on her knee, Chell cast a staggering shadow above Shara. Shara’s eyes flashed with fear, and scrambling to her knees, she darted into the corner under the window. The cot’s springs catching pieces of her hair did not slow her.
Her mother’s cold stare, colors, frightened eyes, green clowns, spinning, faster–– Chell lifted her head with a start. Ears pounding, she wiped the drool from her cheek and moved her tongue across shriveled lips. Shara’s light snore seemed on beat with the pounding in Chell’s ears. On her stomach in front of the cot, Chell peered into the dark corner where Shara lay sucking her thumb. Chell extended her arm to pull Shara’s hand from between her lips, but with the touch of her cold fingers, Shara’s eyes flew open. With a scream, Shara retreated deeper under the bed. She sat trembling, thumb replaced in her mouth. Chell thought to reach out again, but Shara flinched with her every move. Hoisting herself to her feet over the creaking springs of the cot, Chell moved to the windowsill. The moon glowed brighter, and its spots began to show. Chell reached for her bud behind her ear, but it was gone. She craned out into the night and breathed in the cold air. Shara’s eyes replayed over and over again through her head. She felt dizzy.
Faces she could not recognize, laughing, more laughing, running, she was running faster, fast––darkness. Chell’s drooping eyelids stung with the light from the moon above. She could feel the wood window’s impression in her cheek. She remembered as the moonshine glistened over her blood-crusted arm. Unconditional love, Chell thought. She crawled under the small cot, her legs exposed on the side, and she let her eyes close beneath the soft breathing of her daughter.
Her eyes felt blurry, but the slight tickle on the inside of her knee made her giggle. She felt a cool stroke slide in twirling motions. Propping her chin beneath her hand, she noticed Shara had left her spot under the bed. Slowly sliding herself backwards, she heard Shara’s giggle and then quick feet patter across the floor. Dawn only teased the room with light. Craning her back to look across the room, Chell caught sight of her daughter covered in marker. Scanning her own legs, she felt her cheeks peak into a grin as she saw the rainbows, suns, and moons patterned in every color across her skin. “We match, Mama, do you like my coloring?” Chell nodded as she stretched her arms forward only to discover more shapes and colors. Chell’s extended arms reached toward her daughter, and Shara accepted, leaning into her mother’s chest. Placing her grasp under Shara’s armpits, Chell lifted herself to her feet with Shara in her arms. She glanced out the still open window and then moved to face the bathroom mirror. The girls burst with laughter when Chell faced her purple forehead in the mirror, and she licked her thumb to smear away the ink on Shara’s own forehead. “You don’t need that to be beautiful.”
Chell twisted the knobs on the bath, letting the stream from the water fill the small room. Shara held the shampoo, and they both stripped free of their clothes. The hot water nourished Chell’s skin. Turning to massage the shampoo into Shara’s soapy hair she whispered,
“a fresh start?”
“Does that mean you’ll color?”
“Yes,” she replied, as she leaned in to place a small kiss on the top of her little girl’s nose.
-Rachel
Chell spun back into reality when the parlor door jingled. In walked a skeleton of a man with thin, tinged hair that fell right above the skull on the back of his neck. “Your ink,” he said, motioning for Chell to step outside. She let her wide black pants slip around the glass door of the shop. He was waiting for her with his arm leaning against the brick wall. “Closer,” he hissed through his crooked teeth until she could smell the mixed scent of nicotine and cola on his breath. Opening his coat, he passed her a crinkled brown bag, and after peaking inside, the closing of the bag ushered out a whiff of sweet leaves and ink. She needed more inking supplies, but she wished she had never asked him to come.
“Sixty?”
“The price is workable…”
He leaned his other arm across her right shoulder, closing her in. Before her slight squirming led to a violent kicking aimed between his legs, the bells jingled again.
“Mama Chell, the big angel man in here won’t color with me, will you? Please.”
Chell turned to see her daughter swaying under the weight of the door, “Now Shara…”
“Pretty please?”
Turning to face his changed expression, she handed him a weathered roll of bills and snatched away with the bag. Grabbing her daughter’s hand, she swung open the door to The Tattoo Escape. Her voice snuck out from the trapped wind of the door.
“Thanks, Harris.”
The crinkled bag had resided in the corner of Chell’s workplace for the majority of the morning. The sun had sunk below its high throne and glared through the curved lettering on the glass front of her shop. Having spun the heavied chair to allow the man to see the final details on his feathers, Chell pulled her bangs away from the beads of sweat forming on her pale forehead. Turning to face the glare, Chell itched for a cigarette and wondered where Shara had disappeared to. Swinging, again, out the door, she removed a half-smoked cigarette from behind her ear. Her eyes lingered on the faint crescent of the moon that glowed behind afternoon daylight. Shara had been her normal self, animated and engaged, throughout the day, hanging on the wood table watching her mom work, entertaining customers with her new skill of hopping on one foot, and mostly sprawled on the floor coloring. Shara was almost through her fourth coloring book for the week; art always has been costly, Chell thought to herself. Although Chell had heard Chera’s short-breathed counting for every hop, “one, two, three, five, seven, eight, eleven…,” mostly Shara’s sweet appeals resounded in Chell’s thoughts. “Mama Chell, can you color now? Mama Chell, look what I did…” The thoughts of Shara’s pleading eyes dropped Chell’s emotions from the buzz of her cigarette, and she drained with regret.
Chell’s gaze fell from the sky with the sound of the bells against glass. The door’s weight leaned against Shara’s back as she pushed pages through the opening. “Mama Chell––” As she reached for her mom’s attention, her drawings spilled to the concrete. Before real tears came to Shara’s eyes, Chell was on her knees gathering each paper. Noticing the cigarette between her fingers, Chell tucked the remaining bud behind her left ear, quickly revealing the crescent moon on her upper neck. “So you’ll color now, Mama?” Allowing herself to slide from her knees into a sitting position, Chell pulled her daughter onto her lap. She placed her hand over Shara’s chubby fingers, and together they guided a yellow crayon in and around the pages. After a while Chell leaned her head back onto the cool bricks and stroked the short bangs over Shara’s forehead. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the rectangular rooftops of New York’s cityscape.
Reggae jams had long turned to deep techno beats, and Chell had felt the vibrations through the floor as she tucked Shara under her sheets. Looking up through the windowsill to see the moon glowing brighter, Chell had left her daughter’s side to join everyone downstairs. Empty bottles lined the wooden table, and smoke hovered among people in every corner. Most of them wore tattoos inked by Chell herself. Swaying under Turner’s arm, Chell pressed her palm to her squinting eye as crayons and colors spun through her head. Her mother’s face scolded her drawings as she felt herself spinning above Shara’s pleading eyes. She itched for that feeling. She knew she shouldn’t.
Having made her way to the top of the stairs, Chell felt her lower back cold against the top stair. Ignoring her unsettled stomach, she helped Turner tighten the cloth tourniquet around her upper arm. “Squeeze,” he whispered holding his hand out to her. Grabbing him, she watched her pulsing veins ripple under the lettering on her exposed wrist. Yellow bubbles sizzled over the heated spoon. She allowed the thin needle to trace her vein, and then leaning her head back into the moonlight, she jabbed down her thumb, soaking in the liquid. A small drop of blood trickled down her forearm, and as she followed it drop to the floor, small toes cringed under her gaze.
“Mama Chell, the ink is in too far. Mama Chell? Aren’t you gonna take it out Mama?…Mama––
Shara’s short arm moved toward Chell’s, and feeling her stomach lurch, Chell swung her arm away, making contact with Shara’s face and knocking her onto the tile. Chell watched her daughter’s shadow sink out of sight, and she felt chunks escape from deep within her throat. Wiping her dripping nose on her knee, Chell cast a staggering shadow above Shara. Shara’s eyes flashed with fear, and scrambling to her knees, she darted into the corner under the window. The cot’s springs catching pieces of her hair did not slow her.
Her mother’s cold stare, colors, frightened eyes, green clowns, spinning, faster–– Chell lifted her head with a start. Ears pounding, she wiped the drool from her cheek and moved her tongue across shriveled lips. Shara’s light snore seemed on beat with the pounding in Chell’s ears. On her stomach in front of the cot, Chell peered into the dark corner where Shara lay sucking her thumb. Chell extended her arm to pull Shara’s hand from between her lips, but with the touch of her cold fingers, Shara’s eyes flew open. With a scream, Shara retreated deeper under the bed. She sat trembling, thumb replaced in her mouth. Chell thought to reach out again, but Shara flinched with her every move. Hoisting herself to her feet over the creaking springs of the cot, Chell moved to the windowsill. The moon glowed brighter, and its spots began to show. Chell reached for her bud behind her ear, but it was gone. She craned out into the night and breathed in the cold air. Shara’s eyes replayed over and over again through her head. She felt dizzy.
Faces she could not recognize, laughing, more laughing, running, she was running faster, fast––darkness. Chell’s drooping eyelids stung with the light from the moon above. She could feel the wood window’s impression in her cheek. She remembered as the moonshine glistened over her blood-crusted arm. Unconditional love, Chell thought. She crawled under the small cot, her legs exposed on the side, and she let her eyes close beneath the soft breathing of her daughter.
Her eyes felt blurry, but the slight tickle on the inside of her knee made her giggle. She felt a cool stroke slide in twirling motions. Propping her chin beneath her hand, she noticed Shara had left her spot under the bed. Slowly sliding herself backwards, she heard Shara’s giggle and then quick feet patter across the floor. Dawn only teased the room with light. Craning her back to look across the room, Chell caught sight of her daughter covered in marker. Scanning her own legs, she felt her cheeks peak into a grin as she saw the rainbows, suns, and moons patterned in every color across her skin. “We match, Mama, do you like my coloring?” Chell nodded as she stretched her arms forward only to discover more shapes and colors. Chell’s extended arms reached toward her daughter, and Shara accepted, leaning into her mother’s chest. Placing her grasp under Shara’s armpits, Chell lifted herself to her feet with Shara in her arms. She glanced out the still open window and then moved to face the bathroom mirror. The girls burst with laughter when Chell faced her purple forehead in the mirror, and she licked her thumb to smear away the ink on Shara’s own forehead. “You don’t need that to be beautiful.”
Chell twisted the knobs on the bath, letting the stream from the water fill the small room. Shara held the shampoo, and they both stripped free of their clothes. The hot water nourished Chell’s skin. Turning to massage the shampoo into Shara’s soapy hair she whispered,
“a fresh start?”
“Does that mean you’ll color?”
“Yes,” she replied, as she leaned in to place a small kiss on the top of her little girl’s nose.
-Rachel
Observation
She sat right behind him,
Staring, memorizing every
Brown curl,
Each cowlick,
Each freckle on
His neck.
She watched for his
Idiosyncrasies,
Finding many:
How he put his pencil
To his lips
When he was thinking,
How he blinked several times
Before he spoke
As if his lids would cover
The little men organizing
His thoughts.
How he bit his nails,
But not to a nub.
She liked his tenor voice,
And the words
He chose for speech.
Too soon, the class ended.
And so too was her observation
Session.
Staring, memorizing every
Brown curl,
Each cowlick,
Each freckle on
His neck.
She watched for his
Idiosyncrasies,
Finding many:
How he put his pencil
To his lips
When he was thinking,
How he blinked several times
Before he spoke
As if his lids would cover
The little men organizing
His thoughts.
How he bit his nails,
But not to a nub.
She liked his tenor voice,
And the words
He chose for speech.
Too soon, the class ended.
And so too was her observation
Session.
Bridging The Gap
She shifts the Escalade into drive, after dropping the boys off at school, and thinks to herself, “today will be the day, I have to tell them.”
It was fifteen years ago. Dante was three, Francisco was two, and Santiago was one. She had three boys in quick succession. She had hoped for at least one girl but after the third pregnancy, she decided three was enough. She had married Vince two years before Dante was born; he had a terrible past. He was an only child that grew up in Tyler, Texas and his dad was an alcoholic who would frequently beat both him and his mother. Once he graduated from high school, he attended Texas Tech University. After four months of non-stop partying, no studying, and a new addiction to heroin, he was kicked out because of his poor grades. He then moved to St. Louis because his cousin lived there and he needed a change of scenery. He was still a drug addict but he managed to find a job at the Target that was on the campus of the University of Missouri. This is where she met him.
She remembers the day he asked her out perfectly; she remembers every detail of it. She was wearing a pair of light blue low rise jeans, brown flip flops, and a pink tank top that she purposely got a size too small so that it showed off a bit of her stomach. Many of the guys she had previously dated compared her body to an hourglass; she had many curves. Her hair that day was very straight and it came down to sit gently on the top of her shoulders. She only wore her hair two ways, either very straight or especially curly; she only put hair up in a ponytail when she’s nervous.
She was a senior at the University of Missouri and had seen him working in the store quite a few times and every time they saw each other he would smile at her. She noticed that he had a nice tan and was about six foot two, with brown messy hair that fell just a little bit over his ears. He always had a very handsome five o’clock shadow and she observed the huge tattoo on his right arm, but she couldn’t tell what it was because it seemed to go up his arm and onto his shoulder. He had a lean body that she liked right away but thought that he could use a little working out. She had noticed a few marks on the inside of his the elbow but thought it was just a cut or a scratch.
She was just finishing up shopping for all her necessities; in her cart was a pack of blue and black pens, a box of honey nut cheerios, a periwinkle tank top that was a size too small, the new edition of US Weekly, and a big bottle of Advil(which she needed to quell her massive hangover.) She was a party girl. The night before she had gone to one of her last college parties; Theta Chi had thrown the biggest party of the year and she was there to witness and enjoy it. As she pushed her cart towards the checkout, she looked right, down the candy aisle when she saw him stocking bags of Skittles and Starbursts. He had noticed her gaze.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” she replied.
He had put down the candy and walked over to her. Even before he took his first step towards her, she had already put her hair in a ponytail.
“My name’s Vince,” he said. “Would you like to have dinner with me some time?
She had noticed how relaxed he was. “I’m Mercedes,” she replied, “and I would love to.” She didn’t have any pieces of paper after riffling through her purse to find some, so she ended up just writing her number on the top of his hand.
It had been twenty two years since they first met. She could not believe it. Her heart started to beat faster as she thought about when she, BANG! She snapped out of day dream. “S**t,” she said as she realized that she forgot to brake and rear ended the Toyota Highlander in front of her at the stop sign. “Ay dios mio.”
After exchanging shouts and curses with the man she rear-ended, they finally exchanged information. His name was Martin, thirty three, married with four kids. She could tell by his attitude that he was an unhappy husband. She noticed the purple bags under his eyes and the deep wrinkle starting to form on his four head, which looked more like a five head since his hairline was receding; she knew that this contributed to his unpleasant demeanor. She told him that she’d pay for it and left. She was in shock by the accident, but the one comment he made lingered in her mind. During their initial conversation that consisted only of cursing and yelling, he called her a “rich stay at home bitch that has never worked a day in her life.” She kept wondering why this comment puzzled her. She usually didn’t let things like this get to her. She had worked all her life until they moved to Long Beach. She had an extremely tough time finding a job, and they were running out of the money she had saved. There was a lottery drawing for 60 million dollars and she decided to play. She had played six numbers, three for her kids’ birthdays, and three random. She had won. She began bawling when the numbers were called. She had decided to take the 32 million dollar lump sum. She put enough money away for all three boys to go to college, paid off the mortgage on the house, and bought a brand new Escalade that now had a lovely dent in the front bumper. “I can’t believe I just hit someone,” she said to herself. She needed to relax and calm down. She needed her weekly Starbucks.
“I’ll have a venti caramel macchiato, please,” she said. She paid for her drink and sat down in a large comfy chair while she waited. She noticed a stain on the cushion right next to her leg. She had an eye for details. She noticed the multi-checkered green pattern of the chair and someone must’ve been sitting in the chair recently because it was still warm. The Starbucks employee called her drink, she stood up, went over and got it. She walked over to the counter with the creams and the different color packets of sugar that were all actually the same, and put just a splash of milk in her drink. She sat back down and started rifling through her junk infested purse. She pulled out her iphone with a pink case around it and opened up her calendar. Her eyes widened. She saw what date was coming up. This upcoming Thursday was March 22nd, the day Vince died. She remembered it perfectly. Only thing is, she still wishes that she didn’t remember.
She was twenty eight at the time and had just gotten home from work when saw him sitting on the couch watching TV. All three boys were at her girlfriend’s house for the weekend because she had wanted a weekend for just the two of them to spend some quality time together. She recently noticed that he had started using again. She walked around the couch and saw three tiny bags of heroin on the coffee table; two were empty and one was still full. There were a couple of used needles next to the remote.
“Hi honey,” he said softly.
She saw his blood-shot, glazed over eyes and felt anger rushing through her. She grabbed the last bag, and held it up. “You have to stop this, you can’t do this anymore.”
“What?”
“This,” she said as she pointed to the bag. “You can’t do this anymore.” She noticed a change in his facial expression. His eyes opened up and his face started to become red.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said.
“Vince, please, you can’t. I won’t let you,” she said firmly. She still held the bag firmly in her hands.
“Give it to me,” he said firmly.
“No”
“Give it to me now!” he yelled.
“NO!” she screamed. His face was beet red and she was becoming more and more nervous about what he might do next.
He turned around, grabbed a needle from the table, and thrust it at her. He stabbed her in her left thigh. She screamed with pain. It was like nothing she had ever felt. He tried wrestling the bag away from her, but she wouldn’t let go. After struggling, he finally just gave her a hard shove. She fell backwards against the wall. Her head slammed against it, and noticed the blood starting to drip from the back of her head that matched the blood on her leg.
“Give me the bag before I f*****g kill you,” he said. He was grinding his teeth and his fists were clenched. Her epiphany hit her like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t allow this man to be around her kids. She wouldn’t allow it.
“No,” she said quietly. He lurched towards her with his hands out stretched but she caught him off guard. She used all of her strength to stand up and pushed him back. He fell backwards and cracked his head on the table. He lay motionless on the floor. “Oh my god,” she said. She stood there astonished.
“Excuse me, are you going to read that?”
“What?” she replied.
“Are you going to read that?”
She came out of her trance and saw that she was shaking slightly. She saw an older looking man with a pearl white comb-over pointing to the newspaper on the coffee table next to her.
“Nope” she said, “It’s all yours.” She grabbed her purse and walked quickly out the door. “Today’s the day, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t lie to them anymore.” She looked up in the rear view and saw tears starting to form in the face staring back at her.
She was on her way home when her phone rang. “Bueno,” she said.
“Yes, is this Ms. Carrazco?” the lady asked.
“Yes it is. Can I help you?”
“This is Debby from Long Beach high. I’m calling to let you know that Santiago had detention today for skipping math class. He doesn’t have his phone right now because we don’t allow phones in detention and he asked me to call you so that you could pick him up,” she explained.
“Really? Jesus, all right. Tell him I’ll be there soon,” she replied and hung up. She u-turned the car sharply and drove over to the school. She walked in the school, signed the clipboard to say that she was picking Santiago up, and waited for him. He sulked over to her as he came around the corner. She didn’t say anything to him as they walked through the hallway back out to the car. They walked out the front door and she asked, “Why did you skip class, Santi?”
“Well mom, there was this girl and she’s really hot and she had a free period and she told me to meet her in the library and…”
“Enough, just don’t do it again,” she said firmly. The car ride home was silent except for the music on the radio playing. She kept thinking about the upcoming Thursday. She hoped that none of the boys recognized what day it was, when really she knew that they remember the date of their father’s death. She had to tell them, she had to get it off of her conscience. She didn’t know how they would respond or act, but she knew that this would break their hearts.
She pulled into the garage and sighed to herself. When she got out of the car, she could hear muffled voices coming from the house. She couldn’t make out any words but knew that there was yelling.
“Are you really a dealer?” Dante asked.
“Dante, shut up, you smoke more weed than I do!” Francisco replied.
“You can’t deal pot!” he yelled.
She walked into the living room and saw Dante pointing at Francisco. “What is all the yelling for?” she asked. “I can hear you guys from the garage.”
“Mom, Francisco’s been dealing pot,” he said.
“Are you f*****g kidding me?” she asked. Dante jumped back at the sound of this. He never heard her curse; he knew something was wrong.
“Mom, it’s not what you think!” Francisco yelled. He saw mom pause and contemplate something.
“Everybody sit down,” she said calmly.
“But mom, Francisco has been,” he started.
“Just sit down,” she yelled. The three of them eyed each other and then sat down on the couch. “There’s something I have to tell you guys,” she said.
She just blurted it out. “I actually killed you father. I had to”
“What?” Santiago asked.
She looked around for a hair tie, found one on the coffee table and took a deep breath. She explained the entire story to them. She told them how she came home from work and saw him on the couch. She explained that his attitude changed so quickly from calm to enraged. She explained how the scar on her leg that they always asked about was really from when he stabbed her with the needle. She told them how she would not let go of the heroin no matter how much he yelled and screamed. She explained how after he pushed her against the wall, that she couldn’t allow him to be around them; it wasn’t safe. She told them that she wanted to push him, that she didn’t want him to be around her kids ever again. She said that what happened, was the only way for things to get better.
She realized that she was crying. She looked up to all three boys with their jaws on the floor. She sat down on the floor, curled her knees up, and placed her head in between her legs. She was bawling now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She kept repeating this.
Then Dante stood up, and walked over to her. He bent down, and put his arms around her. Then Francisco, and then Santiago until all three boys were hugging her so tightly it was tough for her to breathe. They sat there, and sat there, and sat there; but they sat there, as a family.
It was fifteen years ago. Dante was three, Francisco was two, and Santiago was one. She had three boys in quick succession. She had hoped for at least one girl but after the third pregnancy, she decided three was enough. She had married Vince two years before Dante was born; he had a terrible past. He was an only child that grew up in Tyler, Texas and his dad was an alcoholic who would frequently beat both him and his mother. Once he graduated from high school, he attended Texas Tech University. After four months of non-stop partying, no studying, and a new addiction to heroin, he was kicked out because of his poor grades. He then moved to St. Louis because his cousin lived there and he needed a change of scenery. He was still a drug addict but he managed to find a job at the Target that was on the campus of the University of Missouri. This is where she met him.
She remembers the day he asked her out perfectly; she remembers every detail of it. She was wearing a pair of light blue low rise jeans, brown flip flops, and a pink tank top that she purposely got a size too small so that it showed off a bit of her stomach. Many of the guys she had previously dated compared her body to an hourglass; she had many curves. Her hair that day was very straight and it came down to sit gently on the top of her shoulders. She only wore her hair two ways, either very straight or especially curly; she only put hair up in a ponytail when she’s nervous.
She was a senior at the University of Missouri and had seen him working in the store quite a few times and every time they saw each other he would smile at her. She noticed that he had a nice tan and was about six foot two, with brown messy hair that fell just a little bit over his ears. He always had a very handsome five o’clock shadow and she observed the huge tattoo on his right arm, but she couldn’t tell what it was because it seemed to go up his arm and onto his shoulder. He had a lean body that she liked right away but thought that he could use a little working out. She had noticed a few marks on the inside of his the elbow but thought it was just a cut or a scratch.
She was just finishing up shopping for all her necessities; in her cart was a pack of blue and black pens, a box of honey nut cheerios, a periwinkle tank top that was a size too small, the new edition of US Weekly, and a big bottle of Advil(which she needed to quell her massive hangover.) She was a party girl. The night before she had gone to one of her last college parties; Theta Chi had thrown the biggest party of the year and she was there to witness and enjoy it. As she pushed her cart towards the checkout, she looked right, down the candy aisle when she saw him stocking bags of Skittles and Starbursts. He had noticed her gaze.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” she replied.
He had put down the candy and walked over to her. Even before he took his first step towards her, she had already put her hair in a ponytail.
“My name’s Vince,” he said. “Would you like to have dinner with me some time?
She had noticed how relaxed he was. “I’m Mercedes,” she replied, “and I would love to.” She didn’t have any pieces of paper after riffling through her purse to find some, so she ended up just writing her number on the top of his hand.
It had been twenty two years since they first met. She could not believe it. Her heart started to beat faster as she thought about when she, BANG! She snapped out of day dream. “S**t,” she said as she realized that she forgot to brake and rear ended the Toyota Highlander in front of her at the stop sign. “Ay dios mio.”
After exchanging shouts and curses with the man she rear-ended, they finally exchanged information. His name was Martin, thirty three, married with four kids. She could tell by his attitude that he was an unhappy husband. She noticed the purple bags under his eyes and the deep wrinkle starting to form on his four head, which looked more like a five head since his hairline was receding; she knew that this contributed to his unpleasant demeanor. She told him that she’d pay for it and left. She was in shock by the accident, but the one comment he made lingered in her mind. During their initial conversation that consisted only of cursing and yelling, he called her a “rich stay at home bitch that has never worked a day in her life.” She kept wondering why this comment puzzled her. She usually didn’t let things like this get to her. She had worked all her life until they moved to Long Beach. She had an extremely tough time finding a job, and they were running out of the money she had saved. There was a lottery drawing for 60 million dollars and she decided to play. She had played six numbers, three for her kids’ birthdays, and three random. She had won. She began bawling when the numbers were called. She had decided to take the 32 million dollar lump sum. She put enough money away for all three boys to go to college, paid off the mortgage on the house, and bought a brand new Escalade that now had a lovely dent in the front bumper. “I can’t believe I just hit someone,” she said to herself. She needed to relax and calm down. She needed her weekly Starbucks.
“I’ll have a venti caramel macchiato, please,” she said. She paid for her drink and sat down in a large comfy chair while she waited. She noticed a stain on the cushion right next to her leg. She had an eye for details. She noticed the multi-checkered green pattern of the chair and someone must’ve been sitting in the chair recently because it was still warm. The Starbucks employee called her drink, she stood up, went over and got it. She walked over to the counter with the creams and the different color packets of sugar that were all actually the same, and put just a splash of milk in her drink. She sat back down and started rifling through her junk infested purse. She pulled out her iphone with a pink case around it and opened up her calendar. Her eyes widened. She saw what date was coming up. This upcoming Thursday was March 22nd, the day Vince died. She remembered it perfectly. Only thing is, she still wishes that she didn’t remember.
She was twenty eight at the time and had just gotten home from work when saw him sitting on the couch watching TV. All three boys were at her girlfriend’s house for the weekend because she had wanted a weekend for just the two of them to spend some quality time together. She recently noticed that he had started using again. She walked around the couch and saw three tiny bags of heroin on the coffee table; two were empty and one was still full. There were a couple of used needles next to the remote.
“Hi honey,” he said softly.
She saw his blood-shot, glazed over eyes and felt anger rushing through her. She grabbed the last bag, and held it up. “You have to stop this, you can’t do this anymore.”
“What?”
“This,” she said as she pointed to the bag. “You can’t do this anymore.” She noticed a change in his facial expression. His eyes opened up and his face started to become red.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said.
“Vince, please, you can’t. I won’t let you,” she said firmly. She still held the bag firmly in her hands.
“Give it to me,” he said firmly.
“No”
“Give it to me now!” he yelled.
“NO!” she screamed. His face was beet red and she was becoming more and more nervous about what he might do next.
He turned around, grabbed a needle from the table, and thrust it at her. He stabbed her in her left thigh. She screamed with pain. It was like nothing she had ever felt. He tried wrestling the bag away from her, but she wouldn’t let go. After struggling, he finally just gave her a hard shove. She fell backwards against the wall. Her head slammed against it, and noticed the blood starting to drip from the back of her head that matched the blood on her leg.
“Give me the bag before I f*****g kill you,” he said. He was grinding his teeth and his fists were clenched. Her epiphany hit her like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t allow this man to be around her kids. She wouldn’t allow it.
“No,” she said quietly. He lurched towards her with his hands out stretched but she caught him off guard. She used all of her strength to stand up and pushed him back. He fell backwards and cracked his head on the table. He lay motionless on the floor. “Oh my god,” she said. She stood there astonished.
“Excuse me, are you going to read that?”
“What?” she replied.
“Are you going to read that?”
She came out of her trance and saw that she was shaking slightly. She saw an older looking man with a pearl white comb-over pointing to the newspaper on the coffee table next to her.
“Nope” she said, “It’s all yours.” She grabbed her purse and walked quickly out the door. “Today’s the day, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t lie to them anymore.” She looked up in the rear view and saw tears starting to form in the face staring back at her.
She was on her way home when her phone rang. “Bueno,” she said.
“Yes, is this Ms. Carrazco?” the lady asked.
“Yes it is. Can I help you?”
“This is Debby from Long Beach high. I’m calling to let you know that Santiago had detention today for skipping math class. He doesn’t have his phone right now because we don’t allow phones in detention and he asked me to call you so that you could pick him up,” she explained.
“Really? Jesus, all right. Tell him I’ll be there soon,” she replied and hung up. She u-turned the car sharply and drove over to the school. She walked in the school, signed the clipboard to say that she was picking Santiago up, and waited for him. He sulked over to her as he came around the corner. She didn’t say anything to him as they walked through the hallway back out to the car. They walked out the front door and she asked, “Why did you skip class, Santi?”
“Well mom, there was this girl and she’s really hot and she had a free period and she told me to meet her in the library and…”
“Enough, just don’t do it again,” she said firmly. The car ride home was silent except for the music on the radio playing. She kept thinking about the upcoming Thursday. She hoped that none of the boys recognized what day it was, when really she knew that they remember the date of their father’s death. She had to tell them, she had to get it off of her conscience. She didn’t know how they would respond or act, but she knew that this would break their hearts.
She pulled into the garage and sighed to herself. When she got out of the car, she could hear muffled voices coming from the house. She couldn’t make out any words but knew that there was yelling.
“Are you really a dealer?” Dante asked.
“Dante, shut up, you smoke more weed than I do!” Francisco replied.
“You can’t deal pot!” he yelled.
She walked into the living room and saw Dante pointing at Francisco. “What is all the yelling for?” she asked. “I can hear you guys from the garage.”
“Mom, Francisco’s been dealing pot,” he said.
“Are you f*****g kidding me?” she asked. Dante jumped back at the sound of this. He never heard her curse; he knew something was wrong.
“Mom, it’s not what you think!” Francisco yelled. He saw mom pause and contemplate something.
“Everybody sit down,” she said calmly.
“But mom, Francisco has been,” he started.
“Just sit down,” she yelled. The three of them eyed each other and then sat down on the couch. “There’s something I have to tell you guys,” she said.
She just blurted it out. “I actually killed you father. I had to”
“What?” Santiago asked.
She looked around for a hair tie, found one on the coffee table and took a deep breath. She explained the entire story to them. She told them how she came home from work and saw him on the couch. She explained that his attitude changed so quickly from calm to enraged. She explained how the scar on her leg that they always asked about was really from when he stabbed her with the needle. She told them how she would not let go of the heroin no matter how much he yelled and screamed. She explained how after he pushed her against the wall, that she couldn’t allow him to be around them; it wasn’t safe. She told them that she wanted to push him, that she didn’t want him to be around her kids ever again. She said that what happened, was the only way for things to get better.
She realized that she was crying. She looked up to all three boys with their jaws on the floor. She sat down on the floor, curled her knees up, and placed her head in between her legs. She was bawling now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She kept repeating this.
Then Dante stood up, and walked over to her. He bent down, and put his arms around her. Then Francisco, and then Santiago until all three boys were hugging her so tightly it was tough for her to breathe. They sat there, and sat there, and sat there; but they sat there, as a family.
My Big Sis'
The question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” seems to have haunted me for many years. My mind draws a blank when I try to think about what I wanted to be when I was younger; however, the related thought that jumps into my mind is the fact that I always wanted to be my sister. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been called the “mini-me” (and yes, that is after the Austin Powers movie character). Six years older than me, Neli could stay out later than me, Neli was in high school, Neli left Tucson for college. She loved to pretend that I was her doll; she would dress me up in a big flower dress with a brown hat and sat me down in the middle of the hallway, put a newspaper in my hand, and put on a show for my parents. When I was younger, I thought I was the coolest little girl with friends six years older than me, who also happened to be my sister’s friends. When Neli acted in shows in high school, my driven jealousy allowed me to help back stage during her show. One specific time that I remember was during the show 42nd Street. Neli was the lead and the high school produced twelve shows within two weeks; by the 4th show, I was allowed to help backstage. And on closing night, I proudly stood on stage during the bow in my short shorts and rainbow-colored toe socks. As I sit here today, a senior in high school, I dwell on the question of whether or not I have truthfully lived my life as Ari, and not Neli. I have accomplished so much just as Ari, yet I haven’t as Neli; is this okay? As I travel along the train of deliberation about who I am and how I want to live my life, I hope to someday stop the train and see a new road ahead of me, beginning with my life as Ari, and only a sliver of Neli.
10.27.2008
Fiery Passion. . . i wish:)
Johnny Depp and I go way back. In fact, I remember the first time we met. Well, I guess you wouldn’t call it a meeting considering that he doesn’t actually know me, but still. It was when I was about nine years old. I know this sounds cliché, but just for the record I liked him before he was super famous. What can I say? I guess I’m just a trend setter. Anyways, this is when I saw my first Johnny Depp movie. It was called Chocolat, and it was not very well-known at the time. It was one of his earlier movies, before he had reached extreme fame-- before Pirates of the Caribbean-- and he plays a gypsy who comes to a small town in France and falls in love with a woman who owns a chocolate shop. The whole situation is frowned upon by the rest of the community and the movie goes on from there trying to resolve the conflict. I remember my mom purchasing this movie and sitting down with me to watch it one night. The first time he stepped on to the screen I nearly fainted. His tall, dark, and handsome looks mixed with his mysterious personality lured me in and absorbed me completely. From then on every time I saw him on the screen my heart picked up speed a little, and then nearly melted. I felt complete knowing that there was someone out there in the world that was that incredibly and absolutely perfect; I felt empty knowing that realistically I would never have the chance to really know him. Even so, I was hooked. Johnny Depp was my first real crush. I was completely ignorant to all of his flaws. Even the qualities that I found disgusting in other people just seemed to make him even more irresistible. I was no longer repulsed by long hair on men because I was too busy being entranced by his dark flowing locks. My whole world was being turned upside down! To this day I am still infatuated with John Christopher Depp II, born June 9th, 1962-- sorry my obsessiveness leaks through at times subconsciously. Just by having a single conversation with me or taking one look at my room, you would be able to guess my obsession. My room contains three posters, eleven pictures, and one life-size cardboard cut-out of him. He is never far from my mind. Johnny Depp led to the start of this intense strand of passion and obsession in my life, and I believe this neurotic quality will battle within me until the day of our wedding. One can always dream.
10.26.2008
M.A.S.H.
Names of movie stars and of my secret crushes lined up shoulder-to-shoulder on the page. Audrey’s chubby fingers, tattooed with ink, grasped the purple marker with an awkward pose. How many kids would it be? 1, 5, 8, 40? What job? Janitor, president, biologist, doctor? Sitting cross-legged on the carpet with my best friend from the 5th grade playing MASH, I allowed my future to blossom with petals of possibility and freedom. But giggling about my marriage to Leonardo DiCaprio on the top of a volcano in Hawaii and my full-time job as a skydiver, never could I have predicted who I am and will become. After graduation, I strapped my Sony HDV 1080i around my neck, stuffed minimal clothing into my twenty-pound hiking backpack, and resembling the Bactrian camels that I would discover roaming the Gobi desert in Mongolia, I took my life on my shoulders. Meditation in Tibet gave my mind a springboard into the pool of creativity. Relationships and film ideas, cultural exchange and knowledge filled my cup to the brim and then spilled over the edges. Not even the deadly rays tickling my blistering skin and violent sands of the Sonora desert could stop my determination to complete a study of Latino culture. However, the small wrinkles above my cheeks stretch their vines to the corners of my eyelids. My spine twists around my muscles upon sitting up in bed, and I arch my back into clicks and cracks to release the tension. I am not old, but I do feel my mortality. Even so, I am on my way to my greatest adventure of all. Every night I place the fluffy pillow inside my thighs to support my back. I crave peanut butter and oreo cookies. I stand naked, clothes tossed to the floor, and slowly turn my curves to the side to run my palms over my growing belly. Life bakes inside, and I can feel a new venture approaching. Love time and again has fallen under my path, but never before have I felt this flavor of affection brew inside of me. My heart flutters over and around my bulging balloon. Today marks the monthiversity of my first sonogram, dark and mysterious, but alive and radiating with being. And yes, here begins the footage of the next chapter in my life––family.
"Me"
I was about three when my mom and dad got divorced. Going back and forth between my parent’s houses almost every other day was a learning experience; I learned how to balance my life in between difficult circumstances. Long bike rides along the “bike path” while trying to find an activity to do or go to a friend’s house made my day. Just in case you didn’t know, the East Coast “bike paths” is a long strip blacktop that stretches about 6 miles, connecting multiple towns together. Everyone in Linwood, NJ, listened to “99.3 the buzz” on the radio; I did. I’m absolutely positive that the entire population of Linwood, NJ, went to Mainland High School football games on weekends; including me.(Mainland is the high school I would have attended if I still lived in New Jersey, but I’ll get to that story later). Because every town was very close to one another, everyone from the two adjacent towns to Linwood (Somers Point and Northfield) knew each other. Since I was a baby, my mom and dad were there for me for everything; they have always been my “rock” that I can rely on in any circumstance. I’ve definetly gotten their good genes; and yes, some-not-so-good ones, but we’re not going to talk about that. The three day periods of rain and gray skies that are notorious to New Jersey, puts almost everyone in a bad mood.
June 2004, changed my life for ever. Definitely for the better.
I believe it happened for a reason; like everything in life. We moved because my mom had an opportunity to take a wonderful job, and I had a choice to make; either move with her to Arizona or stay in New Jersey with my dad. I chose to move. This was the right choice. the first day of 8th grade in a new school in Arizona was extremely tough, but it also showed me how to adapt to new beginnings. Attending a new school showed me how to meet new friends and how to adjust to new places. It was about a week after school started that people noticed my accent. They would ask me, “where are you from?” and I would reply with “Jersey.” Everyone said that I had a specific accent when I said this, and they started to incorporate my accent with the word “Jersey.” This is where I received my nickname “Jersey”. I couldn’t be happier with this nickname. About a month into being at this new school, I met an incredible amount of new friends, but more importantly I met the friends that I would always have throughout high school and that I call my best friends. And once our family got our new house, after much searching, we were finally able to call it “home.” High school has been some of the best years of my life.
After17 years, my mom and dad have given me some of the best advice and wisdom that I will always use; take things one step at a time, take time to enjoy the little things, be positive about your life otherwise you waste your energy, and do what makes you happy.
These are the things that have made me who I am today; Tyler “Jersey” Goodwin.
June 2004, changed my life for ever. Definitely for the better.
I believe it happened for a reason; like everything in life. We moved because my mom had an opportunity to take a wonderful job, and I had a choice to make; either move with her to Arizona or stay in New Jersey with my dad. I chose to move. This was the right choice. the first day of 8th grade in a new school in Arizona was extremely tough, but it also showed me how to adapt to new beginnings. Attending a new school showed me how to meet new friends and how to adjust to new places. It was about a week after school started that people noticed my accent. They would ask me, “where are you from?” and I would reply with “Jersey.” Everyone said that I had a specific accent when I said this, and they started to incorporate my accent with the word “Jersey.” This is where I received my nickname “Jersey”. I couldn’t be happier with this nickname. About a month into being at this new school, I met an incredible amount of new friends, but more importantly I met the friends that I would always have throughout high school and that I call my best friends. And once our family got our new house, after much searching, we were finally able to call it “home.” High school has been some of the best years of my life.
After17 years, my mom and dad have given me some of the best advice and wisdom that I will always use; take things one step at a time, take time to enjoy the little things, be positive about your life otherwise you waste your energy, and do what makes you happy.
These are the things that have made me who I am today; Tyler “Jersey” Goodwin.
Father to Son
A father is everything a boy aspires to become. Every movement of the father is under ominous vigilance by his son. He is an invincible figure and nothing can possibly bring him down. A boy’s father is the most influential thing on his innocent, malleable mind. I wonder every moment how different my life would have been if my own dad had been a part of it.
I lived with my mom and dad for about five years of my life and although I don’t remember much, the pictures of me taken then reveal I had been a very content baby. I believe I have a clear perspective on the reasoning behind my parents splitting although their age at the time of my birth appears blatantly to be the only significant argument. Leaving the cool California bay area, my grandparents bore me away to a place in a small town about an hour’s drive north of Sacramento. Here in this new town my grandfather boldly attempted to step up to be my dad.
One of the most important memories I have of growing up in Oroville is my grandpa’s skill at teaching me the most useful things to ever know. By the time I had spent five years in Oroville I could accomplish a diverse amount of tasks ranging from solder copper pipes in the plumbing to fixing my old man’s Chevy pick up. These skills he taught me will aid me tremendously when I have the opportunity to live independently. Now that I recall these memories, it seems as if I grew up in a dream. The landscape, an incomprehensible vision of trees with the deepest shades of green, shining sunlight, and roses of every color consumed all thought with wonder.
My biological dad visited me every so often. Soon my grandparents would have to drive me three hours to my mom’s house in the bay area just to so I could see him. Apparently he had taken up residence in San Francisco and did not have the gas money to drive up to see me. Due to my youthful ignorance I harbored an enormous amount of sympathy for my dad. As I matured and my own father showed no signs of re-entering my life, my sympathy slowly ebbed away. All contact had ended between us and he became nothing more than a memory.
Only after the long, arduous relocation to Tucson, did I at last come to realize my father would never become an important person to me. All the successes in school, day-to-day activities, and victories in fights are all solely due to my grandparents. Even as my thought dwells on the notion of me living with my mother and father, I question whether they could care for me as well as my grandparents did. Without any of their help I’d be back in the Stone Age. I swear, when I graduate medical school I’m going to send my grandparents off to the most breathtaking cruises every day until they pass away.
I lived with my mom and dad for about five years of my life and although I don’t remember much, the pictures of me taken then reveal I had been a very content baby. I believe I have a clear perspective on the reasoning behind my parents splitting although their age at the time of my birth appears blatantly to be the only significant argument. Leaving the cool California bay area, my grandparents bore me away to a place in a small town about an hour’s drive north of Sacramento. Here in this new town my grandfather boldly attempted to step up to be my dad.
One of the most important memories I have of growing up in Oroville is my grandpa’s skill at teaching me the most useful things to ever know. By the time I had spent five years in Oroville I could accomplish a diverse amount of tasks ranging from solder copper pipes in the plumbing to fixing my old man’s Chevy pick up. These skills he taught me will aid me tremendously when I have the opportunity to live independently. Now that I recall these memories, it seems as if I grew up in a dream. The landscape, an incomprehensible vision of trees with the deepest shades of green, shining sunlight, and roses of every color consumed all thought with wonder.
My biological dad visited me every so often. Soon my grandparents would have to drive me three hours to my mom’s house in the bay area just to so I could see him. Apparently he had taken up residence in San Francisco and did not have the gas money to drive up to see me. Due to my youthful ignorance I harbored an enormous amount of sympathy for my dad. As I matured and my own father showed no signs of re-entering my life, my sympathy slowly ebbed away. All contact had ended between us and he became nothing more than a memory.
Only after the long, arduous relocation to Tucson, did I at last come to realize my father would never become an important person to me. All the successes in school, day-to-day activities, and victories in fights are all solely due to my grandparents. Even as my thought dwells on the notion of me living with my mother and father, I question whether they could care for me as well as my grandparents did. Without any of their help I’d be back in the Stone Age. I swear, when I graduate medical school I’m going to send my grandparents off to the most breathtaking cruises every day until they pass away.
10.25.2008
The Epic of Arshad
It is true that all myths have their roots in reality, and that all legends have their roots in a man. I know such a man. His day starts before the cock’s cry, when the night is at its darkest just before dawn. He hurdles out of bed, but then he proceeds to walk slowly to my room. For one week I was a part of my uncle’s fitness routine, and I expected daily to be lifted out of bed with one arm, carried to the shower, and then introduced to the cold water in my pajamas. Usually the first two steps of the wake up routine would not work, so I would be in the middle of a dream in which I am resting under the spring sky, trying to make shapes out of the clouds with some attractive female by my side when something would bite me, and then the cold water sprayed my face. I asked myself why I even had the audacity to think that I could survive a week of my uncle’s daily routine.
Unaware of my uncle following close behind, I stepped out of the tub, wiped my face, and waddled over to my room again. As soon as I saw the bed, I dove for it with my eyes shut, hoping that the sheets were still warm. But after a second I felt no such sensation. I opened my eyes and found that I was actually hovering over the bed, instead of in it. My uncle set me down. Afterwards he told me to stop goofing off, and get changed before the sun came up.
I fought with sleep as I put on my shorts and joggers, and dragged myself down the stairs. As I reached the kitchen my jaw dropped in awe and inspiration, kind of in the same way people look at a magic trick. My shirtless uncle ripped a lemon in half, and then used its juice as eye drops, and then poured that same juice into what seemed like a recent gash across his chest and shoulder. I assumed that since he lived in the White Mountains of Arizona, and had a wolf with one crystal blue eye for a pet, he had simply been engaged in a recent battle to the death with some ferocious mountain animal, probably a man-eating puma-bear. I decided it would be best not to ask. He glanced at me and said, “Now, I’m ready!” as he began his slow march towards the door.
On my way down the stairs I noticed that it was snowing out, and simply assumed that my uncle did not need a jacket, or shirt for that matter, for the early morning run. His husky frame and naked chest made me quite uncomfortable; however, it was impressive that he was over forty and still had the physique of a Spartan. I had heard rumors that his chest was so hard that if it was struck with a flint stone it could burn down the forest in his backyard. Also I noticed that the amount of chest and facial hair he had made Chuck Norris look like a newborn baby.
Behind his house there was mini-mountain so steep that it almost turned into a vertical line, and that was the hill that we conquered everyday for a week. Atop that hill Arshad uncle told me all of his outlooks on life, and all of the things that he would do over again. From him I learned that it is only people and moments that put you in awe. It was then that I realized that my epic uncle’s boot camp ended up building my brain as well as my body.
Unaware of my uncle following close behind, I stepped out of the tub, wiped my face, and waddled over to my room again. As soon as I saw the bed, I dove for it with my eyes shut, hoping that the sheets were still warm. But after a second I felt no such sensation. I opened my eyes and found that I was actually hovering over the bed, instead of in it. My uncle set me down. Afterwards he told me to stop goofing off, and get changed before the sun came up.
I fought with sleep as I put on my shorts and joggers, and dragged myself down the stairs. As I reached the kitchen my jaw dropped in awe and inspiration, kind of in the same way people look at a magic trick. My shirtless uncle ripped a lemon in half, and then used its juice as eye drops, and then poured that same juice into what seemed like a recent gash across his chest and shoulder. I assumed that since he lived in the White Mountains of Arizona, and had a wolf with one crystal blue eye for a pet, he had simply been engaged in a recent battle to the death with some ferocious mountain animal, probably a man-eating puma-bear. I decided it would be best not to ask. He glanced at me and said, “Now, I’m ready!” as he began his slow march towards the door.
On my way down the stairs I noticed that it was snowing out, and simply assumed that my uncle did not need a jacket, or shirt for that matter, for the early morning run. His husky frame and naked chest made me quite uncomfortable; however, it was impressive that he was over forty and still had the physique of a Spartan. I had heard rumors that his chest was so hard that if it was struck with a flint stone it could burn down the forest in his backyard. Also I noticed that the amount of chest and facial hair he had made Chuck Norris look like a newborn baby.
Behind his house there was mini-mountain so steep that it almost turned into a vertical line, and that was the hill that we conquered everyday for a week. Atop that hill Arshad uncle told me all of his outlooks on life, and all of the things that he would do over again. From him I learned that it is only people and moments that put you in awe. It was then that I realized that my epic uncle’s boot camp ended up building my brain as well as my body.
Friday Afternoon At Park Place
The rays of the sun beat upon my head as heat radiates off the asphalt. The air is overwhelmed with the scent of exhaust, and a puddle of gasoline rests beneath a truck. A horn blares, and a door slams. A woman bustles across the street as a pigeon strikes the ground over and over with its beak. A teenager etches into a tree. Another jumps over a wall. A woman rushes in while a man shuffles out. Palm trees sway in the breeze as a hawk soars with ease. A couple link arms and stroll past while a man flings a penny into a fountain. A mother grasps her child's hand and guides him through a scattered crowd. A Hummer and a slug bud compete for a parking spot. The hummer fails. A lady lugs her bags into her trunk. A man watches as he slurps his drink. A crow inspects the medians for scraps. A child spooks the crow and races to catch up with his father. The scent of gasoline dissipates as the smell of the food court invades the air around me. A girl, eyes pinned to the screen of her phone, crosses the street without a glance. An engine revs and tires screech. The clamor of the mall swarms around me.
10.23.2008
Absurd Mental Snapshot
I was two at the time, and someone I have no recollection who, had placed me thoughtfully to side of the living room in the hard wood floor. I lifted my miniature white spoon and scooped up the clumpy, cottage cheese carelessly, putting the spoon in my mouth. I was not adept at eating, so instead of putting the cottage cheese in my mouth, the clumpy white paste ended up on my nose and on my chest. I did not notice the mess because when I looked up, I watched as huge, beer bellied, men walked down the hall, straining to carry our piano out the door. My house was empty; my family and strange men were carrying boxes and furniture. Before this day I did not realize that furniture could even move, and more importantly, I had no clue why we would want to move it. I was certainly confused about the purpose of the bare house. Why was my mother mopping the space where the cough should be? The smell of pinesol disinfectant tickled my nose. I had the nervous feeling like I was in the doctor's office, so I stayed sitting on the floor waiting for a shot.
I believe...
I believe that people don’t actually know who they are or what they actually stand for. I do, however, believe in life and living it to the fullest. What exactly is life? And how do you accomplish living life to the fullest? What does living life to the fullest entail? I believe that people take advantage of what they are given in life. Not everybody, but a lot of people do so without realizing what they are doing (or not doing). I believe that there is too much to handle and manage in life to be able to live life to the fullest. I believe that everyone was brought to life with a purpose. However, I’m not sure that anyone really knows what his or her purpose is. I believe that there is no paved out road in life. I believe the road in life changes with every step you take and every person you talk to. I believe in inspiration. I believe in passion. I believe that no one person is the same day to day. I believe that everything I think of is thought of for a reason. I believe in religion. I believe in pluralism and in peace. I believe that this world is broken in many forms, but with the help of all it can be glued back together, someday. I believe that individual hands must glue it back together. I believe that volunteering is an awesome way to live a healthy life. I believe that this world has gone out of control, has too much to deal with, and doesn’t know where to begin. Where do I even begin?
Uneasy Peace
Like the desert sun
Disrupted unevenly
By a low breeze
Just
Temporary relief,
Nothing complete.
The green graceful slope
Of the graveyard like
A swelling sigh that never
Fully exhales,
Caught in the balance
Without full repose.
Heaviness
Hugging and lightness
Gently tugging
At my stomach.
Disrupted unevenly
By a low breeze
Just
Temporary relief,
Nothing complete.
The green graceful slope
Of the graveyard like
A swelling sigh that never
Fully exhales,
Caught in the balance
Without full repose.
Heaviness
Hugging and lightness
Gently tugging
At my stomach.
"Balls Can Need Frames"
The black, featureless frame perches upon her face, assisting her eyes--eyes that would perceive the world in a blurred perspective if it weren’t for them. After exiting the classroom into the harsh heat, the sun began to scorch the crown of her head, sending her body the message, “ It is time to maintain homeostasis.” The salty mixture comes between her frame and face, causing them to glide south on her nose. With the hoist of a hand and the force of a finger, the slick black, frame is back in place.
Description of Myself
Brown and blonde alternate in the hair that falls just to the shoulder-no farther. The wide blue eyes screen the inside of her lids, as if expecting the answer to life to be within her. The fingernails are scratched up and vary -- bitten, unbitten -- as though there is a pattern to the nerves. The back of the left hand is adorned with first a stick-on tattoo then an orange outlining of the fake moon, smiling in sleep. Both wrists are covered in woven bracelets that were taught in elementary school and hair ties in case inspiration strikes. The middle finger of the left hand wears a rusting skull ring, crowned king of the dead. The too-long arms hang the equally long fingers to the middle of the thighs. The torso seems improperly proportioned in comparison to the mile-long legs that are muscled for a long-distance runner. Both legs are covered in scratched-at bug bites, the right adorned with a long scar, the left with a slight indentation from a girl scouts incident. The toenails are covered in black nail polish, almost obsessively. The large toes have long nails, while the others are cut short. The right ankle clutches to two string anklets, woven like the bracelets, made of red, grey, white, yellow, pink, and green. The green anklet is more worn and larger than the red one, as though older. The pinky toe is decorated with a ring on special occasions. The posture is as though the string that should be held taught has been left on vacation. Her body is concealed with a purple tank top and jeans, her comfy clothes that make it out of the house and into school. Her feet are clad in either clunky black shoes or boots. Her face wears a smile, contradicting her macabre clothing.
10.22.2008
Fall Posting
This year's class is finally in the process of uploading their first posts. Stay tuned!
6.10.2008
Calling Out to Alumni Writers!
We'd like to feature you on this blog. Do you have any current creative work that you'd like to share with current STG writers? Would you mind being interviewed about the writing life and writing in college? Do you have any old fashioned "Fireside Friday" creative prompts to get us inspired?
If you're out there and willing to be featured on this blog, please post a comment with contact info.
Thank you thank you thank you,
Mrs. Y
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