Month: April 2019

So, summer’s around the corner and I have no clue how I feel about that. It’s the last summer I’ll have in high school and that is the weirdest thing I’ve thought about all year. I wanna make this summer memorable but I don’t know how I can do that. I need a job. I need to finally get my driver’s license. I’m scared that I won’t have time to enjoy the summer before it ends. It makes me think back on the breaks and the weekends that I come back home from MSA. I never really go out with my friends or do much when I’m home unless it’s something that needs to be done. As far as leisure goes, though, there’s not much I do. I go home, watch my sister, and then come right back here. Don’t mistake me, I don’t mind watching my sister in order to help my mom out and I’m not saying that I constantly need to be out and about doing leisure things because leisure activities mainly cost money. However, I don’t want to miss out on anything, either. I want to enjoy the last of my teenage years. I feel like I’ve missed out on a lot of childhood memories and teenage experiences. I don’t put the blame on anyone, though, really. I just want to be able to do something memorable and youthful before I’m thrown out into the adult world. Granted, I can still have fun in college and do a lot of that great stuff. But, there’s still something about experiencing wonderful things at this age. I feel like it seems to hit you harder and make it all the more memorable. That’s all I want – good memories to hang onto when I’m no longer a high school student. 

Sometimes I have to sit back and think of how I haven’t completely disappointed myself. As a younger kid, I had many ideas about what my teenage life would be like. I accomplished like, none of those goals. Yet, also, at the same time I have accomplished them. Just, in a different way.

goal number one: go to parties

Now, I have never been to an average teenage party. Yes, i’ve been invited to them. I’m just too lazy and too tired to stay up that late. It’s not worth it. However, I have reached full party status by playing bingo with a few classmates. To enhance my partying ability, I, alongside my birthday twin, ate an entire cake. no plates. just us and our silverware going crazy at midnight. Hows that for a party?

goal two, have a fun day without any parental supervision

I don’t even live with my parents, so I guess I kind of have to do this. A few weeks back I was with a friend and I said “y’know, this was one of my goals. ride with a friend and sing songs at full blast.” Young me would be disappointed to know we were singing  a three hour playlist of TikTok songs. The Scooby Doo theme song. Hit or Miss. You name it, we sang it. We also ate flowers later that day. Yeah, that’s the teenage dream! well, I enjoy it- i guess it doesn’t have to be everyone’s dream.

goal three, be famous and popular

this has not happened. I’m not the kind of person that would win homecoming, prom queen, whatever it is. However, I’ve got great friends and we mutually support each other. that’s all anyone can really ask for. I’ve heard my writing style is enjoyable at coffee house- I really appreciate hearing that too. I also seem to be a go-to for alterations and wig restorations. That’s good with me, since, i really love doing that stuff!

I may not ever be famous, but heck yeah i’ll make the outfits for the people that are.

What about you guys? have you accomplished any of your childhood goals? If so, what are they? I’d love to hear all about them! Maybe I set my hopes a little too high. But hey, we all seem to be doing pretty good in life. We made it to this school after all.

We were assigned an Oral History Project last week and here’s a snippet of my creative fiction piece, adapted from the project…

“my mind wondered into adulthood for a moment because I know parents do everything possible to protect their children. So, I posed a question regarding safety persuasions. I asked if there were any specific things his mother had taught him or his sisters, in case the dogs or the hose were put on them.

“Well, some of those things were taught at the mass meetings by the leaders. And she you know would go along with that. She would just tell us to be safe and to watch your surroundings and stuff. I think we were more concerned about her cause we all figured we could get around better than she could.”

By this point, I’m so deep into the conversation, that I hear nothing, but his voice and I automatically have my next question. I asked if he and his family were in the 50s or 60s, would he preach to his children what his mother preached to him and would he put his children in “harm’s way.”

His response was so powerful I couldn’t believe it. It proved to me that his passion, his strength as a man, and his determination for the rights of a black man or woman in America. He said, “As a matter of fact, I do and I would. I preach to ‘em everyday you know tellin’ ‘em, in fact, they can say what I’ma tell ‘em before I get it out my mouth cause they’ve heard it so much.”

As the interview came to an end, I asked what the difference between the rights of a black man then and now. He told me that he and his sisters had earned AT LEAST a bachelor’s degree. He also said that the place where his mother served as a maid, was the same place he later became the superintendent of – this proved to me that no matter how hard things may be right now, there’s always room for change. It also proved to me that all those sleepless nights, rough fights, and all-night prayer meetings, worked.”

This week we had a guest artist in our class. Mrs. Steele is a wonderful photographer, journalist, oral historian, and professor. She gave us the assignment to interview someone in our community, record it, transcribe it, and then write a creative nonfiction story based off that interview. Well, here it is.

So I recently got contacts. It’s a new feeling, honestly. I don’t exactly know what to make of them yet.

I’ve had poor vision since second grade. I became your standard braces-and-glasses wearing nerd who sat at the back of the classroom reading books rather than congregating with the rest of the class. But that’s not what the focus is here.

I started out with wire framed glasses. They were a pale blue. I broke those pretty quickly. I believe I went through maybe three pairs of that exact same frame? So wire frames obviously were not meant for me.

My second pair of glasses were my first plastic framed. They were purple, and had a floral design on the legs, as well as a little peace sign on the side. I thought that they were the coolest pair of glasses I had ever seen! I knew that I rocked those frames like it was nobody’s business. Unfortunately, they were broken by my sister one night while we were watching TV on our parent’s bedroom floor. So I said adios to those.

My third pair of glasses were black on the outside of the frame, green on the inside of the frame. They had little rhimstonse on the side, and the lenses were shaped in a cat’s-eye style. I liked those glasses a lot. I wore them for about a year or two.

My next frames were a step in a different direction. They were blue, with slender legs that fitted nicely on my face. They had more square lenses than the others, and I liked the change in shape. They lasted for a year and a half- I broke them on a hunting trip.

My last and most recent frames were gray, with thin legs and square frames. My prescription hasn’t changed much since then, so sometimes I still wear them. However, I don’t wear them much anymore, since I now have contacts.

I feel like I’m putting an end to a certain era to my life by making this transition. I’ve had glasses for so long, that not having them makes me feel strange- barren, in a sense. I still try to push my glasses up my nose, even though I am vaguely aware that they aren’t there.

Though, sometimes, I still wear my glasses. If I’m tired or just don’t want to bother with my contacts, I’ll put my glasses on. Like I’m living in two worlds- one where there’s another part of me that I need, and one where I don’t need that piece.

Here’s an excerpt on an interview I did with my mom.

In 2001 my dad worked for Cantor-Fitzgerald in E-Trading. They had just opened a new firm in Houston, Texas, so he moved his family there, and commuted from Texas to New York every week.

On September 11, 2001, my dad was supposed to be working at World Trade I. Instead, he was in Houston because my mom had an appointment to see about trying to have a third child, me, after having surgery. 658 out of 960 Cantor-Fitzgerald workers lost their lives when World Trade I fell that day, making it the firm with the most casualties that day.

Fast forward to 2019, I’m sitting alone face-to-face with my mother on her bed. She has some reality show paused, one of the Real Housewives spin-offs. Our fourteen-year old yorkie, Libby, is laying off to the side of Mom.

I start the voice recording, and in the back of my mind, I feel like I already know what she is going to say. I’ve heard most of the story since birth, mostly from my mom. However, after getting past some of the key details; what was dad’s job, where were you when it happened, what was your initial reaction, etc., I asked,

“How did you tell Hannah and Conor?”

I already sort of knew the answer, so when she replied with, “…I went to see a child psychologist, and she said to explain to Conor and Hannah what happened, just say that some bad men hit Daddy’s work, but Daddy wasn’t there, Daddy’s in Houston, and to offer to let them watch it one time, but then turn everything off, no newspapers. Because they would see it as happening over and over again.

I wasn’t surprised. I then asked her, “Did she ask any questions when you told her?”

For the first time, my mom thought for a second rather than spitting out an answer she seemed to have recited a thousand times.

“She did. She would ask em’ like intermittently throughout the next month or so. We had been to World Trade I to visit her dad a few months before and the man in the deli on floor 105 gave her one of those suckers that’s like a pinwheel sucker, and he told her that he had thirteen kids. And she thought that was so funny, so later that night she came down and asked me,  “Did the man with thirteen kids that gave me the sucker die.” And I had to say, “Yes, I’m afraid he did.” And then she asked, your dad’s secretary was nine months pregnant, with a little boy, and she asked me if she died, and if the little boy died, and I had to say yes. So, ya’ know she would just come up and just ask those kinds of questions.”

I was shocked. She had never mentioned that before. I prior knew about my dad’s pregnant secretary that had died, but mom had never been that open about something so raw. What surprised me even more, is that my dad had mentioned that same man weeks before when we were talking. We were driving to my grandparents’ house in Houston, the radio was softly playing, and I had briefly mentioned something about how it must have been awful to lose so many friends. He turned to me and said,

“I lost a lot of friends, yes, but it’s not even just that. It would be the people you saw at the deli, like the man serving you. It’s the people you see just for a fleeting moment that seem to disappear. “

Hearing my mom mention the man with thirteen kids brought me back to that same conversation. I however did not interrupt, and just let her continue telling the rest of the day, the man with the thirteen kids still on my mind.

She came to me in a whirlwind of majestic simplicity times three.

Her ethereal beauty stood out in a way that could not be explained.

Unpredictable, one might call it,

with a touch of charisma that you could sense from miles away.

She was out of this world with her bright purple hair,

roots coated in black.

Her skin the color of a ripe green apple.

The ones on mother’s table that never had a chance to rot.

This world was never enough for her,

always in search for the lovely underneath this cruel eclipse.

Finding nothing never surprised her,

yet it always disappointed her.

Leaving as quickly as she came,

this was never her home.

Crying her back,

in hopes of a return.

I was scrolling through my old files and I found this gem. Guys, was I really this needy last year? gross

Beautifully Painful
My confidence is like the wind,
it comes and goes with your emotions.
Sometimes you make me a hurricane.
Sometimes I’m a soft ocean breeze.
Sometimes I don’t even exist.

Your internal clock is strange,
your time changes too quickly.
Why one minute do you cherish me,
and the next minute I am only the wind in your steps,
the breeze that follows your feet?
Something that is just a given.

Do not take me for granted.
I am not the laces on your shoes,
the drawstrings on your joggers,
nor the button of your pants.
I am not a given.

You tend to act like I am though,
and I forgive you,
but I must ask you to stop.
I must ask you to appreciate me.

Without me you would crumble,
we both know that;
I am not a liar.

You need me,
I know you do.
You know you do.

And strangely enough,
I need you too.
No matter that horrible thing
that I said in an argument

I didn’t mean it.
I know im not perfect either.
I’m bossy.
I’m rude.
Unfair.
I know.

But I do love you,
with every piece of myself
All of it is yours.

I love that you love me, too,
no matter the pain that comes of it.

I would scrape the moon from the sky for you,
never forget that.

W H Y