Twisted Reality
My feet are wet.
I angle my face upward, towards the heavens; they rip open before me, the jagged
gash spreading from horizon to horizon. The skies spew its sewage, haphazardly
bestowing the blessed sludge upon whatever lost soul stumbles its way. New Orleans.
This grime coats the already soiled city, smearing the once glimmering jewel of my
imagination into this unrecognizable mountain of muck. The veranda—over there with
the remains of breakfast dispelling the notion of vacancy—becomes dingier as the
powdered sugar beignets are grounded into the groves of the sidewalk by this unrelenting
downpour. And the hanging gardens! So lovingly painted in my mind as a child, the once
elegant vines reach down from the balconies; the gross tentacles threaten to twist around
my throat and strangle me. Instead the slime oozes off them, smacking my face, then
dribbling down until finally settling in my shoes—the ultimate crap collectors.
This water sloshes back and forth in my Keds, as I teeter from heel to toe. The
slimy streams of water creep between my toes and up around my ankles, bringing into
sharp focus the two-sided nature of my present situation. All my warm optimism leaks
away as this cursed muck fills its space. The ultimate half-empty, half-full dilemma. With
all this raining down upon my head, urgency swivels me around to face this perplexing
issue. Bubbling up from all my uncertainty, a question stutters through my lips: Why?
Why am I compelled to choose? The unfairness of life thus laid bare, frustration boils up
behind my eyes. They desperately search the horizon for some sort of answer to this
imposing matter. The Plaza sways around me, faster and faster until the world dissolves
into a blur—
The silhouette of buildings lining the square protrudes into the sky; their sharp
points jab into it, defying the feeble screen that holds back the elements. Yet, the
buildings themselves hunch against the storm, as the water gradually erodes away their
existence. They droop inwards, towards the middle of this square, defeated.
The middle of the square. The stagnant fountain stands as the centerpiece,
simultaneously stealing and deferring attention. The mold hangs over the structure; it
spills into the labyrinth of pipes that twist just under the shell, clogging the jets, rendering
it useless. However, the rain choreographs its own water show, perversely raising the
dead fountain from its grave to serve its own purposes. Little drops rebound off the pool,
throwing ripples against the skeleton of the fountain and catapulting the rain exuberantly
back into the sky.
Just beyond, the horizon stretches unbroken, a thin line outlining the world from
the air above it. However, the milky glow of the sky defeats this purpose, casting the
illusion of constantly fading in and out of reality.
The drizzle bleeds the Plaza dry of color. The flamboyant hues of youth—the
purples, greens, and golds that previously held me in rapture—gone. Out of the corner of
my eye, I glimpse a brilliant fuchsia floundering against the gloom; it mingles with the
oily puddles of the Plaza but is clearly not willing to submit to the bleak atmosphere. Its
spirited struggle injects me with a bounding optimism, and I cling to this colorful tendril
of hope—hope of release from this infuriating limbo. However, upon second glance, I see
this vibrant stroke reflects only the glaring lights of the Harrah‘s across the way. Only a
vile casino playing tricks on my mind, tempting me towards some false sense of respite.
Tossed back like a rejected fish, I once more wallow in the waves of contradiction.
The ferry, while still a part of the dismal surroundings—lazily flicking its
propellers and draped with the limp figures of its crew—has a distinguished character
that does not fit my initial impressions. Behind the salt-worn gunnels and the chipped
white paint, a high-minded intellect seems to be staring down its nose at the small and
wrinkled form that is me and my reality. Its arrogance carries the tune of the Mardi Gras
Mambo. This anthem of hypocrisy pounds against my eardrums; the blowing horn goads
me into rage. But the jingle keeps twisting around my head: Mardi Gras, mambo, mambo,
mambo—These lyrics loop through my head over and over and over.
I whip away from the ferry, my eyes frantically darting to and fro for some release
from the cool jazz burning through my head. The small, slumping form of the bum arrests
my attention. Blending perfectly into the drab stone tiles, he lays sprawled and
indifferent, the damp seeping through his sneakers. The presentation of this opposite slips
under my guard, hurtling me into a corner, leaving me sputtering for air: have I become
part of this absurd reality, with my turbulent agitation to find conclusions holding me to
the one extreme and the bum‘s lethargy acting as my foil? His placid eyes gaze at me in
confusion as contradictory reality chokes down my throat. The heavy gurgling sound of
the water flooding my lungs fills my ears.
I snap my eyes shut. All the conflict, all the desperation drops away into
nothingness as if it never existed at all. Here I realize how distorted the lens I had viewed
the world through was. The world isn‘t distinctly good or evil, as I was trying to make it
out to be, just as it isn‘t distinctly black or white. I had been trying to break down
everything into these opposites; and, in the process, I fabricated my own reality, one
completely alien to the one actually in existence.
Wicking the moisture away from my eyes, I stand grounded in my realization as I
evenly sweep my eyes over the scene. It seems as if reality stood suspended, as if waiting
for me to join in its harmonious discord. The Mambo rasping over the loudspeaker, the
bum comatose in the alley, and even the streak of fuchsia playing across the Plaza—all as
they were mere moments before. But now, as transparent rain slides over it all, I observe
the curious interplay between contradictions. The corpse of the fountain complements the
birth of youthful play around it; the grays complement the brights; and even my former
turbulence complements this new tranquility. Contrast and comparison give every thing,
every moment definition and meaning. I feel the calm of this conclusion settle over me,
and I absently notice that my feet are still wet.
Chicago
The memorable color of night, all the sweet kids at the park, the soft lullaby of
sirens all through the night, a connection I made no where else. Chicago might not be the
biggest city in the world but, for someone who has grown up in a small, quiet, little town,
it was a completely different world.
Traveling to Chicago was like any other trip: a long bus ride that never seemed to
end, a traffic jam where we didn‘t move for more than an hour, watching old movies with
bad special effects, eating junk food non-stop. But once we entered the city, I saw
something I had never seen, a bright, glass building in between train tracks, the L train
station. So far, Chicago was just like it was on TV and in the movies, but no show or
movie could prepare me for what came next.
Like a child in a candy shop looking at all the different kinds of candy, I wanted
to see, taste, experience everything—while everyone else slept. I saw many sides of
Chicago: the beautiful and colorful park, the many unique captivating street performers
that could draw a crowd in less then a minute, the thick yet delicious deep dish pizza that
seemed to disappear before our eyes, the naïve yet well experienced children that just
wanted to be loved on, and the homeless that are just as dirty as the glass-filled streets.
This opened my eyes for the first time.
I fell head over heels for a city I knew nothing about. It might have been just the
excitement of the moment, but how could you not love a city that gives you an
unimaginable feeling whenever you talk about it?
I grew used to the city, so the new sensation passed, and I could no longer stay in
the city that opened my mind to new possibilities. As I prepared to return home: I made
sure I had everything on my checklist: Clothes? Check. Toothbrush and tooth paste?
Check. Brush? Check. I could proudly say I had everything on my checklist. A week later
I realized I had lost something more important than anything on my checklist combined:
my heart.
As the song goes, ―Bet your bottom dollar you lose the blues in Chicago.‖ Well I
did, but no one warned me that I would get the blues back when I got home. I wanted to
leave the small, boring, common Brentwood. I wanted to go back to the big city, to the
excitement, to the unique beauty, to Chicago, to my heart. My mind kept on wandering to
Chicago whenever it had a chance, shuffling through memories. I didn‘t think about the
colorful night, the kids in the park, the sirens going on all through the night. But I thought
of those I saw on the street, hidden in a mass of people, young and old, in a wheel chair,
dirty. They had no place, but the streets they called home. All of them held the same cup
that was asking for more than just money. They needed someone to give, someone to
listen, someone to just love them.
If you looked closely you could see the once beautiful face, that lay hidden under
the dirt smeared face. Her young body would now and forever look twice as old as it
should, from all the wandering, begging, and struggling she did to survive. I only saw her
once and yet I still remember her blank stare that seemed to look through everyone and
yet see everything, as if we were in that glass building waiting for the train. The stare
showed that she had experienced this for a long time; she had been given no more
compassion, and she had been begging longer then I had been alive. The few coins in her
cup showed that this had not been a very good day, and yet I passed by her with a
glimpse, eating my favorite $6.50 chocolate ice cream. She cried out ―Can I please have
some money? You‘re getting ice cream, and I want ice cream, too.‖ I had been the only
one to hear her; I had been the only one to see her; I had been the only one who wanted to
cry for her; I had been the only one whose heart broke for this woman who had lost
everything. This young, yet old, woman still haunts and will haunt me till the day I die.
That whole week I spent in Chicago, I saw countless homeless. They might have
looked different, but they all had the same look in their eyes; the look of sadness that they
might never escape this, wanting to have a hot meal for once and not have to beg for it,
hope that they would get more than just a buck fifty that day. Whenever I saw them, my
heart broke for them and that cup that never filled, seemed to fill to the brim with the
shards of my shattered heart. They stole my heart without either of us knowing.
Chicago, a city that does sleep, that has the highest crime rate in the world, that
can surprise anyone, and the biggest danger: your heart might just be stolen and you might
never get it back. I did not fall in love with the lights, the buildings, the excitement. I fell
in love with the young, the old, the rich, the homeless. I fell in love with Chicago.
Room 347
It is ―No Pants Sunday‖ in my brother‘s dorm room at Belmont University, and I
sit cross-legged on his blue plaid comforter looking around this relatively small room.
His suitemates have gone out. He is checking his laundry down the hallway, and for a
moment, I am left alone. I still hold the plate of cookies that is my ticket into the room.
No food, no visiting.
My eyes wander across the new white Macbook lying open, the one that he got
for his college going-away present. A blank desktop greets me; a red and orange
watercolor sunset contrasts the charcoal sketch of a skyline, the album cover of Broken
Social Scene‘s self-titled CD and the laptop‘s vibrant background. Now this computer
connects us; it has become our main mode of communication. Next to the machine,
bubbles from a newly opened can of Sprite fizz and pop up from the top. A jumbled
stack of papers, if you can even call it a stack, lies haphazardly on what would be empty
desk space. The paper on the top reads ―Room 347‘s List of Christmas Miracles.‖ On
this list, they scribbled down a random collection of apparently phenomenal events.
Number one celebrated the fact that their small fridge began to work again, and number
four rejoiced over the smooth taste combination of Oreos in pudding. I also see a note in
my handwriting about a time when I walked in on my mother studying the Soulja Boy
instructional video on YouTube. I had written it to him one study hall when I had
nothing to do. A good number of books leaned against the printer, ranging from Mero
Cristianismo, a Spanish version of Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis, to I Am America
(And So Can You!) by Stephen Colbert.
Then I look up at his wall of posters and pictures, strategically and ―artistically‖
placed, some upside down, others angled to the side. In one poster, a teenage girl in a kilt
and a white button up blouse, wears an old cap, knee high knit socks, and clogs. She
stands on the side of a road, unconcerned. This English schoolgirl holds up a crooked
sign that reads, ―Scotland‘s for me!‖ with one hand and a lazy hitchhiker thumb with the
other. Large white block letters spell out ―The Life Pursuit, by Belle and Sebastian,‖ a
favorite band of both his and mine. His old ―James Duck-- The Duck With A Cause‖
poster that he got in second grade, a spoof off of James Bond, has been replaced by a
poster of a gum-smacking waitress trapped in the fifties, with ―The Lovely Feathers‖
written across the top in curly black words. Down a little from his The Go! Team
pennant, he taped up a picture of a twelve-year-old me. I wore a jacket and sweatpants,
riding my grandfather‘s clanking, rusty old banana-seat bicycle down a gravel street in
front of a dumpster overflowing with trash- the epitome of a crappy childhood. He likes
it so much because it‘s the complete opposite of what we had.
I tilt my head and turn it to the sun, to the window, to the campus that lies outside.
I first spot the bell tower, right in the middle of the biggest courtyard on campus, as it
mechanically groans to life and begins its hourly clangs. Though the grass is still green,
the wind persuades a bright red leaf to let go of its branch. The scene is full of college
students, some studying, most not. I spot three guys making their way across campus,
each with their own swagger. Some of the male students near them have turned to face
the trio with admiration; the female students look for a second, then smile awkwardly and
turn away. I immediately know they‘re my brother‘s suitemates, because none of them
are wearing pants. With my eyes, I trace the sidewalks down and over to the ringing
tower, finishing its work at least until its long hand makes the next rotation. This college
is one of his homes now, and those strangers out there are part of his family.
I jump a little and look curiously to the bathroom, where I heard a weird whirring,
and electric clicking noise. Then I realize it‘s just the light-up Christmas reindeer that
they stuck in there to spruce the place up a bit, along with a sapling that they cut down
from beside a telephone pole on 15th Avenue. I drew a picture of a flower for this
―Enchanted Forest.‖ The bathroom received this new christening because of the tree, the
deer, and probably some mold that lives there. On my colored pencil drawing, I also
wrote in some of my favorite lyrics. The most memorable line of the chorus sings,
―Things are what you make of them.‖ And I‘m really glad that my brother and I decided
to make things friendly. We talk about almost anything, from music taste to relationship
trouble, and that‘s a rare occurrence, I think, among older brothers and younger sisters
nowadays. Even though he‘s off at college, headed for a major in music business and a
minor in Spanish, and I‘m still stuck at home, struggling to survive my junior year, we
can talk just like we did before. I love that.
As I try to pinpoint the exact day in my memory that we started being friends
instead of the little menaces we were to each other throughout elementary school, he
comes bursting in through the door, jerking me from my thoughts.
He says, ―Hey, if I wanted to start a small tribe of hunter-gatherers living in the
American Midwest, would you join me?‖
―And undo eight thousand years of evolution?‖ I ask skeptically. ―…Maybe.‖
Water Resistance
The storm starts with a few drops, but the attack quickly picks up in intensity.
Huge droplets of water strike the earth in a frenzy. The serene rustic pathways of the unit,
previously dusted with leaves, become muddy snares, which threaten every step. A
cluster of girls surrounds the fire shed.
The main pathway in the unit runs next to the fire shed. A little bit farther up the
path an open-air building, the unit kitchen, is visible. Constructed of huge wooden logs, it
appears to have been there for a century. The design blends in with the surroundings so
well that it seems to belong there in the midst of Sherwood Forest. Inside, the other
counselors and most of the campers prepare the food. One girl cuts the chicken into bite-
sized portions while swatting the flies away. Another mixes the cream of mushroom
soup, poppy seeds, and cheese. Still others prepare the seven-layer bean dip, hash-brown
casserole, bread, and grape salad. Every few seconds someone looks at the sky, then
glances at the A-frame the other campers are crafting in the fire circle.
As the dirt pathways turn into a slush of mud and rivulets of water race downhill
changing paths into streambeds, the inherent defect of the fire shed becomes apparent.
The structure itself looks sturdy enough with four wooden support posts and a metal
covering. The shed was designed to protect a campfire in case of rain. There is a vent-like
structure in the roof, which allows the smoke to rise and escape without letting any water
in. Ancient logs function as wooden crossbeams upon which countless girls have
inscribed notes and signatures through the years. The area the shed covers is probably
nine feet by nine feet at the most. Days ago, the girls collected wood. The huge pile now
sits on a tarp under the fire shed, immensely cutting down on the available space, but wet
fuel won‘t do. Just outside the shed, on the higher side of the sloping land, the open air
fire ring sits deserted in the rain. A packed dirt floor void of any roots or underbrush has
developed from years of late night fried ice cream parties and secret song rehearsals by
the campfire. As a result, there is nothing to stop the natural path of water downhill.
While the fire shed was designed to protect the fire from rain, design flaws fail to protect
the fire from groundwater flow in any storm heavier than a quick summer shower.
At first, a small stream of water mounts an attack by racing through the fire ring.
It appears that all hope is lost. The unconquerable foe will destroy the food. Water and
fire are the necessities of life, but when they aren‘t harnessed, they can work against
people. Nevertheless, all things have weaknesses. Water‘s weakness is its bondage to the
force of gravity. The fluid must follow the easiest path downhill. If an obstruction blocks
the way, then water must go around. The only weapon the campers have against the
enemy is mud. Someone initiates the counterattack by building a small mound of mud in
the path of that stream to redirect the water flow. As the downpour worsens, the stream
becomes more of a brook, and the girls extend the line of defense.
The preparers bring out the chicken poppy seed ready to be cooked. As more and
more rain falls, the entire area around the open air fire ring has become a slushy mess of
dirt, which hunts down the fire. The counterattack becomes a full scale effort. Almost all
of the twenty-eight campers get down on their hands and knees to construct a wall. They
grab handfuls of mud from the ground and add them to the pile. Whenever water
manages to breach the ramparts, a battalion of girls races to the scene to repair the
damage and augment the wall. Within a matter of minutes the fortification extends all the
way around the side of the fire shed routing the water and saving the meal from
destruction.
The signs of battle show on the mud stained clothes, limbs, and faces of the
campers. Nevertheless, their content faces reveal the success of the operation. What could
have resulted in disaster yields a new optimism and a more satisfying meal.
Ordinary Joes
I am a people-watcher. An observer of persons. An eaves dropper. A noticer. Call
me a witness of the ordinary and extraordinary behaviors of the human species. My long
habit of careful, discerning surveillance is scientifically known as Anthropology: the
study of the behavior, and the physical, social, and cultural development of humans.
The small bell over the door jangled cheerily as we crossed the threshold from a
dark cold state of caffeine depravity to that lovely lit necessity known as Starbucks. Mary
and I, armed with our textbooks had one purpose and one purpose only; to study for our
19th century history test the next day. Not wanting to waste any time, we promptly
cracked our books, opened our notes, spread our paraphernalia over the table, and
studiously ordered venti sized cups of coffee to fuel our laborious endeavor. The cozily
small store served many chilly customers at 5:30 in the evening, and a steady trickle of
people jangled in and out. My people-watching tendencies began to percolate and I could
feel myself brew into a state of observance that left no room for the War of 1812.
Observation number one: a short, white, middle-aged man, with a wispy comb-
over perched upon his shiny head, talking on his cell phone—―…yeah, just fax it to Jerry
and we‘ll take care of it tomorrow…‖ This man had come from somewhere. And after
Starbucks, most likely he would go somewhere else. But I only knew him for that
snippet worth of information. Observation number two: White, middle-aged woman,
dyed blonde hair, Rock and Republic designer jeans, white fur vest, and tall, tall black
boots. She had an entourage of two dainty, uniformed children who had apparently just
been picked up from their private school. When they received their sugary drinks, I
watched as the two children scampered out to the Escalade with their mother teetering
behind them in her tall, tall black boots. What did her husband do for a living? Did her
vest meet PETA standards?
I kept this up for the next half hour, every now and then glancing at my dry- as -
bones history book. Then the wall behind Mary‘s studious head became particularly
intriguing. Soft brown wallpaper, with looping swirls and bits of type-writing all over it
covered the walls like spilt coffee. The calming wallpaper swirls added to the already
calming atmosphere of the coffee shop. It smelled heavily of Christmastime and caffeine.
If Starbucks had a coffee all its own, the label would describe a ―festive combination of
subtle cocoa textures and gentle spice flavors tastefully brewed with delicate undertones
of soft lighting, smooth jazz, and plush seating.‖ This kind of atmosphere does not lend
itself to rigorous studying. However, the variety of people found in the shop makes it
extremely appropriate for Anthropology. Every jangle of the magical bell suspended
between a metaphorical life and death births a new specimen for observance. Along with
an unappreciated gust of wintry cold air, the bell jangled in a human ripe with
Anthropological possibility. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old, tall but
rather thin, with a shock of wheat-colored hair. I noticed he wore navy blue converse
tennis shoes. He sat at a round table directly in my line of sight and within definite eaves
dropping distance. His eyes roamed around the store, taking in everything from the
Single Working Mother Group who meets every Tuesday night, to the shiny coffee mug
displays, to the odd looking barista brewing his beverage. I must have lost interest in
observing this fellow, because the next time I looked up, he had a girl with him at the
table. She looked to be around the same age as the Wheat-haired boy, and both sipped
coffee, only the girl had a hot cup and he slurped an icy frappachino drink with too much
whipped cream. I immediately tried to identify their relationship. Were they friends? A
couple? Brother and sister? After subtly absorbing their body language and conversation,
I came to the conclusion that they were good friends who were reconnecting after a long
period of time. Note: I am not a stalker freak, I am merely an observer of human relations
and behavior. By this point, I knew studying was doomed. Poor Mary, still chugging
along though the 1800‘s, oblivious to the Wheat-haired boy and his long lost friend,
hummed a Christmas carol. Of course I had to share my observations with somebody, so
I relayed my gleaned information to my study companion. Soon, we both became
Anthropologists in a journey of human irresponsibility, bribery, and our own
vulnerability.
As he sat there, sipping at an almost empty cup, the boy bared his story and his
soul to his trusted friend, unbeknownst to him that two girls watched and listened from
the next table. The boy was actually eighteen years old. After his parent‘s bitter divorce,
he now lived with his mom in an apartment in Franklin. He explained that his dad bought
a new car; a 2007 Mercedes for his mistress to convince her to stay with him. His mom
had depression and wasn‘t home often. She spent most of her time with her new fiancé
Bruce. The boy confided that Bruce was controlling and he worried about his mom‘s
safety. As more and more of his story slipped out, the more and more vulnerable he
became. As he expressed his fears about graduating, college, and what would happen to
his family, the more we realized how cruel the world can be. This boy, who tried in vain
to slurp that last bit of whipped cream from the bottom of the cup, also tried in vain to
gather that last bit of hope from the shambles of his life. The smooth jazz music lulled in
the background. The heady aroma of ground coffee permeated the warm air. The bell
jangled over the door. The boy threw away his cup.
Part of Anthropology is not only noticing the behaviors of the humans around
you, but understanding the universal feelings felt by all. . ―Every man bears the whole
stamp of the human condition.” What Montaigne observed over 400 years ago, is still
relevant to humanity today. The wheat-haired boy was hurt by his past and anxious about
his future. Yet, from simply watching him slurp his frothy, flighty drink at that table in
Starbucks, no one would be the wiser. Was the man on the cell-phone going home to his
dark, empty apartment only to heat a tray of frozen lasagna for his solitary meal? Or the
woman, who teetered along in her tall, tall black boots? Was she truly happy? Yes, she
had designer jeans and an escalade, but did she really have it all? And what of the Single
Working Mothers Group who met every Tuesday? Did they struggle with heartache and
fatigue too? Could it be that all of these humans who were so outwardly different be so
internally the same? From this cold afternoon at Starbucks I learned very little about
Andrew Jackson and the Whig Party, but instead learned an invaluable lesson about
humanity. People-watching can only reveal so much. One can easily draw conclusions
from what they observe, but in order to truly ―study‖ the human, to sincerely notice and
understand what values lie at the base of all society, one must realize that every human is
different, yet all are human just the same.
The Television I Don‘t Watch
I always have the television on but hardly ever pay attention to the flamboyant,
flashing screen. Especially at night.
The house reeks of loneliness after six. The ground floor is hollow except for the
furniture, half of which is shielded in darkness as the night leaks in, quickly filling any
space not guarded diligently enough by the electric yellow bulbs. Occasionally, a small
dog might sit by the window, too tired to bark but ready to bristle and growl at the
slightest noise in her nightly vigil to keep the sleepy house safe from cars, cats, and any
other menace waiting in the dark. Besides her, the only other noises are the dead ticks of
the clocks and the croaking hum of the heater bleeding through the walls.
Only the pictures seem to have mustered any struggle against the decay of time. Two
pastel portraits guard the door, one of a boy and one of a girl, both drawn at a fair in
Franklin on a hot, windy day in late spring. Neither of them smiles, only complacently
linger for the artist, waiting for the perfect moment to bounce away, back to the bright
sunny day that has been over for nearly a decade.
Usually, I leave the TV on a cartoon channel or one laden with commercials. These
burst with the colorful, bright, and fast moving images that are so prevalent in video
games. A dusty duct-taped cardboard box full of videos, mostly Disney princess movies,
leans abandoned against the cabinet that the TV sits on. The video covers still retain the
shadow of magic and fancies, only faded and bleak due to the accumulation of years. A
clean, new, neat stack of DVDs, black, shiny, and consisting mostly of M. Night
Shyamalan films, impose themselves proudly and arrogantly in front of the worn box.
Video game cartridges, ignored for months, lay scattered around the floor like dead
soldiers on a deserted battlefield. In the focal point of their disarray, the Nintendo 64
remains, like a war memorial, weeping quietly, having abandoned all hope for the day
when it would again be treated as a proud relic instead of a waste of space.
When I look down at the ground in front of the TV, where the clutter now resides, I
can still see my brother lying there, controller in his hand, eyes staring at the neon picture
like someone possessed, the excitement freezing and tensing every part of his being,
except for his thumbs, which dance wildly across the controller. He‘s seven and playing
Sonic the Hedgehog, who rolls around on colorful tiled surfaces floated in nowhere,
while I bounce behind him on our mini trampoline, excited by the fast-paced music. He‘s
ten and playing Super Smash Brothers on his Nintendo 64, but I want him to play Harvest
Moon because it has cute little animated cows and a point to it, not like the battle ones
where you go around beating people up in order to win points. He‘s almost in High
School, and I watch amazed because he just got a new PS2 and is playing Dark Cloud on
Christmas morning, and the graphics blow us away. He‘s in the eleventh grade, has
moved the PS2 up to his room, and spends most of his time playing World of Warcraft on
his computer, and I hardly see him anymore. He‘s a freshman in college wearing a UT
sweatshirt and sitting in a picture frame above the piano, the only place I see him now.
―Paul, will you stop playing for once? I want to watch a movie!‖
―Just one more minute, Jenn.‖
―I‘m going to tell mom you‘re hogging the TV!‖
―Just one more minute.‖
I sit, curled up on the couch in the same place I‘ve always sat, shifting through a book,
the pages coarse and dry beneath my fingers, words splattered on them in a way that
could have been accident or design, my headphones softly humming a lullaby. The words
would decipher themselves quicker if I turned off the TV. The flashing lights distract me
from the meaningless gibberish, and the screen seems to buzz in a desperate attempt to
attract attention even after I turn the volume all the way down. However, I know as soon
as I turn it off I will begin to feel lonely again. I already found it a better solution just to
ignore the television as best I can, as I have done for years. Besides, it remains useful in
filling and fortifying this silent house against the dark and the emptiness.
An Introduction to Asphalt and Brick
If I die on a combat zone
Box me up and send me home
Tell my girl I did my best
Lay my smokey across my chest
Bury my body six foot down
Until you hear it touch the ground
Betcha five dollars up to this day
When it hits the bottom you‘ll hear me say
I wanna be a drill instructor
I wanna wear my smokey bear
I wanna be a drill instructor
I wanna cut off all of my hair
-Marching cadence used by the United States Army since World War II
I look up at the gray-brick building, fear knotting in my stomach. I don‘t want to
go back up to the roof ever again. The sun behind me warms my blue shirt but makes the
building look frightening, bigger than its two stories. Two cold-looking steel doors face
me, with ―ROTC‖ blocked in black lettering above. I suddenly see movement on top of
the building. A tall man in a thin brown shirt and camouflage pants steps up onto the
ledge of the building, turns around, grasps the rope behind him, and jumps. Why wasn‘t it
that easy?
Each summer, camp starts on a Sunday. That night the gym holds the dance,
dubbed a Sock Hop. And someone always asks, ―Hey, are we gonna hop in our socks?―
There new friends are made, and a lot of old friends are re-discovered. Laughter and
yelling echoes around as the Village People belt out the YMCA.
I‘ve been attending this camp for the past 8 years; 6 years as a camper and the
past two as a Junior Counselor. We spend a lot of time outdoors, especially by the
pavilion. A chicken-coop like building, except for people, is surrounded by big bushes
that prick campers when they stumble and fall on the uneven stone-paved area.. A river
lies behind the pavilion, shimmering in the sunshine.
The dusty, bumpy gravel road snaking through the woods opens to a field with a
breathtaking view of the lake, complete with one island. If I was to sit for a while, I might
be lucky enough to spot the huge predatorial pterodactyl that lives on the island‘s only
tree. The campers never listen to me when I insist that the huge bird-thing snatches up 9-
year-olds and carries them away.
We don‗t waste our time outside, though. We sometimes invade the local pool,
getting mean looks from angry sunbathers who got splashed by 100-plus kids and
teenagers jumping into the pool simultaneously. We deplete the entire snack bar and
leave the chairs that are supposed to be dry dripping wet.
But nothing‘s safe in the little town we travel to for fun. The bowling alley runs
out of shoes to give to the adult staff, so they have to sit around, sipping cold frozen
ICEEs, while 80 nine to fourteen-year-olds heave 10-pound bowling balls down narrow
wooden lanes.
Even the skating rink experiences absolute chaos on Thursday night. Staff
members have to watch the campers like hawks during the Hokey-pokey, which is
dangerous under normal conditions, but horribly hazardous on wheels. 2007 became the
first summer we had to send two unlucky campers to the local emergency room. But
later, they get a lifetime membership in the famous Purple Heart Battalion.
I had the privilege of being the first member of the Purple Heart Battalion. But
I‗m a two-time honoree, and that‘s one too many. As a first-time JC last year, I was
helping a girl named Tina learn to shoot a paintball gun at a non-moving target. I said to
her, ―Okay, push the safety button towards you.‖ She did. Then I said, ―Now, push the
trigger hard to start shooting.‖ She swung the barrel of the gun around at me, and said,
―Like this?‖ and pulled the trigger, sending a pink paintball crashing into my right knee.
Now, there are 9 members of the PHB, but none of them had a bruise the size of a CD
that looked like an exploded broccoli casserole.
Two years before, I stood before a huge gray brick building, wearing a bright
orange shirt. I was really pumped to be going rappelling for the first time. So, in my
excitement, I forgot to listen.
A fuzzy-headed guy in camo took me to the roof, where I was attached to a rope
and told to repel downward. I started backing down the wall. I managed to do everything
incorrectly. I plummeted over the ledge and dived headfirst towards the asphalt. Luckily,
my line was caught by Sgt. Fuzzy, leaving me stuck upside down like SpiderWoman next
to a window of a classroom where ROTC students focused on slideshow.
In my fall, I had grazed the rough brick with most of the left half of my body. My
hands and wrists were sliced, diced, and bleeding from the black rope. To top it off, I had
the world‘s worst wedgie. That night I was inducted as the first member of the PHB. But
I ached too much to even care.
To be honest, that gray brick building scares me. Its height makes me feel like a
bad little kid being looked down on by a teacher. The scars on my hands tingle as I took a
seat on a splintery old picnic table that was more splinter and less table. I watch my
orange shirt-wearing campers listened to the very same fuzzy-headed guy. I watch as one
by one, they successfully rappel down the wall without injuring themselves.
Time seemed to stop as I stand up and calmly walk through those cold-looking
steel doors. My heart feels like it isn‘t working normally; like I have a large rabbit
kicking the left side of my chest. I don‘t say a word as my previously wounded hands
found the rope behind me. And I don‘t say a word when my shoes finally land on the
steaming asphalt that could have created my untimely death three years ago.
After taking off my harness, I say to my campers, ―Well, I wasn‗t SpiderWoman
that time.‖ They all laugh as I look back up at the gray brick building. It really wasn‘t that
tall anymore.
Just a Box
We were standing in line, not a long line, but still a line. I didn‘t know why exactly,
people were lined up so perfectly, so lonely and quiet. Gentle whispers were all that could be
heard and each one tugged at my ear. What were they saying, what did they know that I
didn‘t and why whisper? Everyone there was so old, and in their own strange way each
possessed a familiarity that gripped me. I wanted to go talk to each person, to examine each
wrinkled worn face to smell every single brand of tacky perfume and gaze at every sparkling
piece of jewelry in the room. Yet everyone in this room, every participant in this line was so
different, so unique, I recognized a few people but the one thing that connected us all was,
what we were waiting for: to look into a big mysterious wooden box. It was long and
beautiful; and my five year old eyes had never seen wood that showed your reflection.
However it wasn‘t the box that caught my attention, so much as people‘s reactions when the
contents of it were revealed to them. People‘s reactions varied but the majority consisted of
trembling lips and watering eyes. I clutched the piece of paper in my hand; it was rolled up
and had a rubber band around it. It was my present to her.
My Grandfather knelt down beside me, I looked into his eyes they were so blue so deep
and so comforting. He opened his mouth to speak and continued with an explanation of the
mysterious wooden box, a casket he called it, and instructed me to put my present in it. He
was calm, spoke softly and chose his words carefully. His voice had its usual bass richness
that filled the room with a gentle excitement. It was so strong and distinctive, much like his
scent. He is one of the few that manages to produce a smell of the perfect mixture of fabric
softener and cologne; he is the only person I have met that has been able to obtain such a
perfect blend. Everything about him was so gentle and calm, except for his two pens in his
shirt pocket; they betrayed his calm steady voice and his understanding baby blue eyes, he
fidgeted nervously with his traitorous pens throughout his explanation. So despite all his
efforts to seem as though he had everything under control it became obvious that he hated
having to explain this to his granddaughter.
It was our turn; my grandfather lifted me up so I could look into the box. Suddenly
everyone‘s odd reactions made sense. I was shocked; she was sleeping. This wasn‘t anything
new, I‘d seen it a million times and it seemed weird that I would have to wait in line to see it
this time. However, I couldn‘t let the shock of it distract me from my mission I placed my
drawing right next to her arm and then reached out and touched her old familiar wrinkled
hand, it was cold. She was wearing a dress, it was colorful and the yellow flowers on it
seemed to oppose the entire situation they gave off a deceiving air and made everything seem
so normal, but I knew it wasn‘t because, as my grandfather had explained to me, she wasn‘t
going to wake up this time.
I gazed at then surveyed her withered body, it had failed her, and someday mine would
fail too. Then people will line up to see my withered defeated body; someday that would be
me. Maybe if I was lucky, if I was good, somebody would make me a present and give it to
me before I went away. I looked at and then focused in on her closed eyes hidden behind her
big stereotypical glasses. Her once vibrant smile and sound advice were all reduced to
this…shell. Everything about her peaceful cold appearance seemed to contrast he stubborn
lively personality. It seemed inappropriate that her glasses should have the same glare they
always did, that her nails should be painted, and that her rings be on the same fingers they
always were. None of this was right none of this was appropriate; and all for different
reasons. My present, my drawing seemed to be one of the only proponents that from a brief
unknowing glance would separate this event, this moment in time, from any other.
I spent quite a bit of time on my drawing, of her and I. It was full of color and expertly
drawn with crayons; and I hoped that she would show God my drawing. My grandpa told me
where she was going, and it seemed like a pretty cool place; but, every place needs some
artwork. I wondered if she would put in a good word for me. I could picture her hanging it
on a heavenly wall proudly. However this didn‘t prevent the realization that I would never
see her again from hitting me. I would never be punished justly, never be held softly, never
encouraged fully or rewarded proudly by her again. Yet there was such a pleasant, soothing
smell here and although people were crying the air and atmosphere seemed unaffected by
them and was one of peace.
I was set down abruptly and immediately climbed onto my dad‘s lap. He was warm soft
and comforting it was a nice relief from the box. He gently kissed my forehead his beard
scratched against my skin. ―Yes, we found her, we called the ambulance but it was too late
then, of course,‖ I heard my grandmother say in her loud slightly obnoxious boisterous full
voice, but then pause before continuing with an uncharacteristic softness and wonder, ―Died
in her sleep…isn‘t that the way everyone wants to go?‖ I heard her finish as my eyelids
became too heavy to keep open and everything became blurry. The brightness of the room
became consumed and disguised by a dark protection and all the soothing smells started to
blend together so I couldn‘t differentiate between them. I hope she likes my drawing I
thought to myself as I closed my eyes My dad leaned towards my ear and whispered to me
―She‘s an Angel now, Amanda; she‘s going to take good care of you.‖ I smiled and started
to drift away; away from the sadness and the forced optimism away from my wise Great
Grandmother‘s cold body and away from the terrible wood box cradling it.
In the Eyes of the Beholder
It had been a long day. It was Friday, the last day of our group‘s weeklong
mission trip in the mountains of Honduras. The end of the week had come suddenly, and
we found ourselves filling the last few loads of dirt into a wheelbarrow, then tamping the
dirt inside a concrete foundation which would later support a life-saving medical clinic.
Looking around the worksite, I could remember each and every heavy shovelful
of dirt that had caused my hands to become so raw and blistered. I could remember the
feeling of moist sweat that had unceasingly covered my face and neck for the past week
as a result of the close Honduran sun. I could remember the stiffness that afflicted me
every morning as I got up from my cheap military-style cot. I could remember the
constant fatigue that had increasingly plagued me over the course of the work-intense
week. Believe me, I could remember.
That‘s not to say that I didn‘t remember the good memories and relationships that
happened along the way. But, I thought, it would be good to finish our work and return
home to rest. No such luck.
Our host, a man named Alfredo, called the group together and announced that he
had something to show us. He motioned behind me, towards acres that stretched farther
than I could see—acres which, although now left to nature, he planned to develop and
build an orphanage to serve the surrounding Honduran community. He saw a great future
for the area: nine houses for the orphans, a central meeting hall, a schoolhouse, a medical
center, and several other great ideas to fill the surrounding landscape. To him, the land
we were looking at was beautiful. To me, and several others, I‘m sure, the land was, well,
land. Why did he want to show us all of the property? I wondered. But, like it or not, he
was our host, and I couldn‘t refuse, no matter how tired or homesick I might be.
We covered a slight incline, trekking single file. Already tired, we forced
ourselves to keep up the pace, like soldiers marching miles at a time. Each of my limbs
weighed down on me, seemingly ready to fall off at the slightest touch. My back ached,
once again dripping with sweat, and my once-optimistic spirit had plummeted. But duty
called.
Suddenly we had reached the brink of a steep ravine that stretched down several
hundred feet. Though tired, I followed the line, trusting the person in front of me for
direction. Each step had to be placed carefully due to the nature of the hill; one misstep
and the steep incline could send me sliding all the way down on my back.
As soon as we reached the bottom of the ravine, there was really nowhere to go
but up. My body groaned at the thought, and my sweat pores opened even further with
the energy. But, by this time, I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in
Honduras, and I had no choice but to force my body into submission and keep moving.
My lungs labored, and my mind was dominated by thoughts of my own survival until I
reached whatever destination I had supposedly set out for.
The incline in front of me was steep – so steep that with a few more degrees
added, it would have been a full-fledged cliff. Thin trunks of young trees and saplings
were spread over the hill, and these would have to support my laborious ascent. And so I
climbed: in through the nose, out through the mouth, right foot, left foot, head down,
checking each step for stability. It seemed like this hill stretched into the sky. What is the
point, I thought. I climbed: left, right, left, right. My thoughts couldn‘t get past myself.
Why am I even doing this? The woods thinned into a more grassy clearing. I caught sight
of the top. Just a little more. . . .
I had reached the top of the ravine, but had I reached the end of the death march?
I waited for the rest of the line to slowly snake to the top. Finally, Alfredo again gathered
the group together and then led us to the edge of the ‗cliff.‘ Suddenly, I noticed the
magnificent landscape that gifted those who ventured to the top of this mountain.
Extending as far as the eye could see was a vast portrait of rolling green hills,
snaking dirt roads, and humble one-room houses. The mid-afternoon sun cast its fantastic
light through the clouds, illuminating the splendor of the lush earth. Far away, I could see
a tiny brown speck of cleared land, our worksite for the week, which made up just a part
of the many acres of untouched land around it owned by Alfredo. Here, with our bird‘s
eye view, he explained again his huge vision for this land. ―That hill over there will
someday have several houses on it, and they will all be connected by a little dirt road.
And over there, though now only an undeveloped slight depression in the land, will one
day be a sparkling blue lake, available for swimming and boating for the orphanage.
Right next to it, near that cluster of trees, will be a new soccer field for the whole
community, sure to always be in use. And, sooner or later, a huge zipline will stretch
from our present perch on this ridge, down, across the lake, to a landing space, way over
there.‖
Suddenly, everything was beautiful. The greatness of the world was breathtaking,
and the struggle to get there was completely worth it.