Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Twiggy


I’m skinny, jagged, and blend with my surroundings.  At a distance my brothers and sisters look the same.  Up close we each have different twists and turns, scratched bark, and tiny leaves.  My mom is humongous with long thick roots running deep in the ground giving her balance, almost cementing her into place.  The roots are our dad, bringing food to the table, providing for us.  I feel they might forget about me, but each day I am thought of and given nutrients that keep me and my tiny leaves from wilting away. 

The snowfall comes, and I feel mom pulling on me as snow piles up trying to break me free.  I blend slightly, praying for wind to knock off the white menace who tries to kill me.  Each winter brothers and sisters die, but never mother and father.

            The snow melts off me, dripping water into the dirt, winding its way through the soil, forcefully making it to father.  Spring came accompanied with granola’d hikers and their dogs.  This deadly pair came along our trail, stopping under our shade we graciously gave them as a peace offering.  My heat raced as they approached me, I thought my leaves would shake free.  The dogs began barking, and slowly their whimpers turned into pleadings.  The bearded man gave in, pushed off the tree from where he was leaning, and reached high into the air.  He picked me.  A slight tug and I was easily broken away from my mom and thrown high into the air.  The monster chased me down, but couldn’t find me buried in a pile of mulch in the river bank.  Lying with strangers, I died alone.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

My Countless Faces

The final edition, I hope you enjoy.

I wasn’t different, until someone pointed it out.  Once they did, I was plagued with insecurity.  Early on, in maybe second or third grade, I was told that my “R’s” were different from my friends’ “R’s”.  I was told that often it was even hard to understand what I was trying to say.  I was told, “You need to change, and try sounding like everyone else.”  The soft tone and warm smile of my teacher couldn’t keep her words from feeling cold, leaving me frozen and alone.  Soon, I found myself being asked to leave class in the middle of the day.  I looked in my dark desk trying to find my black notebook with the capital white letters “Speech Therapy” that seemed to scream, “You don’t fit in”!   I reached for my generic pencil and closed my eyes to say a little prayer before I shamefully began making my way out of the room.  “Please, make me invisible.”  This daily terror was just another reminder that I was different.  As I walked, the surrounding silence was swept away with the sounds of kids turning in their colorful desks to stare as I walked down the aisle between them.  My headache set in, both from fighting hard to hold back the tears and from the heat of all the eyes searing a hole in the back of my head.  Once I finally made it out of the room, my muscles relaxed, and I gasped for a long awaited breath.  When I was alone, even if just in my school’s hallway, I fit in.

My speech coach wore half-mooned glasses that were attached to a gold chain that dangled behind her ears and rested on the back of her neck.  I could tell by her raised eyebrows and wrinkled forehead that she was completely dedicated to curing me of my malfunction.  Every once in a while, I would say “car” instead of “caw” and her eyes would soften, leaving a faded imprint of her previously determined wrinkles.  She would quickly say “that’s it!  Hurry Mitch, say it again”, only to be disappointed by “caw” once more.  My therapy homework seemed to be extremely easy however.  My parents would listen to me as I repeated sentences like, “The wed headed giwl was happy with hewr fwiends.”  They had grown so accustomed to my impediment, they couldn’t hear it anymore.  They would close their eyes and listen intently, then sign my paper saying, “I dunno Mitch, it sounds good to me!”  I felt accomplished, only later to be disappointed because really I hadn’t improved at all.

My entire life “forest” was “fowest”, and “girl” was “girwl”.  Growing up, I was told that I sounded cute.  Hell, my grandpa liked how I talked so much, he would pay me to sit down with him and have conversations.  We would sit at his bar like counter, eating leftovers, talking about my favorite activities: soccer, recess, and my spy missions.  He would ask me over and over again to repeat all the counties of Utah that I learned in my classes.  We would sit there, while the sunlight that shined through the dining room window wrapped itself around the roof of the house and was starting to find its way through the living room on the opposing side, casting newly formed shadows that slowly increased in size.  I knew he would be sad the day my accent was cured. 

I received praise at home and hurtful words at school.  Tired of being pointed out as different by all my friends, exhausted from the tears shed in bathroom stalls from kids mocking me, and worn out by my constant effort and lack of improvement, I decided to mask my insecurity.  Rather than curing the placement of my tongue and the shape of my mouth, I would stop using words I couldn’t say.  In my little six year old brain, my plan was flawless.  Soon, I was memorizing synonyms for all the words that my tongue refused to pronounce correctly.  “Forest” became “woods” and “friends” became “buddies”.  This tactic worked for the most part, and at my age I figured it was better than my speech therapy course.  This new fascination with synonyms and language led me to good grades in my English assignments, and helped me to drop my speech therapy course, and continue attending class like everyone else.  Finally, I was normal again, even if it was just a quick fix.

After successfully hiding my speech impediment, despite the occasional slip up, discovering and hiding new insecurities became a normal routine for me.  Differences make enemies, similarities make friends.  At ten, my family moved from Mormon Logan to the city of sin Las Vegas.   The trip there slowly morphed from snow to sun, from trees to cactuses, from thousands of people to millions, and from black minority to white minority.  The first day of school came, and I was guided from the front office to my new classroom with the help of a hall monitor.  The new school smell made me nauseous and the walk to my classroom seemed to place more weight on my tiny legs than running a mile in P.E.  Once we arrived the kind man opened the door, and immediately all the kids turned and stared.  My new teacher, though I don’t recall her name, was obsessed with animals and nature.  The white plaster walls were barely visible beneath the posters of waterfalls, forests, bears, foxes, mountains and birds, each containing generic slogans like, “Success!”  Friendship!” and “Teamwork!”  The part of the walls that weren’t covered with uplifting posters held our cubby bins, a long alphabetized coat rack, and huge cabinets that held glue, colorful paper, small plastic scissors, and other classroom necessities.  As I clumsily stumbled across the threshold into my new classroom, I quickly found a difference between them and me, and I could tell by the looks in their eyes that they had spotted it as well.  My hand-me-downs, their nice new clothes.  A new insecurity had crept upon me.  Each kid had shiny shoes, perfectly blue jeans, cool superhero t-shirts and nice backpacks without a single tear.  My heart started thumping, and I could almost feel it vibrate in my throat.  Quickly, I placed my left hand on the top of my shoulder strap covering up the duct tape that was keeping it from ripping. As my new teacher guided me to my desk I did my best to conceal the rest of the backpack that had turned from navy blue to dark gray from overuse.  I turned trying to hide my embarrassment, only to look down at my clothes.  The baggy pants stayed up with the help of a dark blue belt.  The tiny holes in the knees were frayed with tiny white fabric, somewhat concealing my skin.  My shirt was new, and for that I was thankful, because I could easily hide my legs underneath my desk.  Although my teacher was speaking louder, all I could focus on were the whispers and muffled laughing of the kids.  I kept my head down, nodding in agreement to whatever it is my teacher was saying.

            After my first day of school, I couldn’t stop thinking about my clothes.  I wanted so badly to change them.  The thought of returning with hand-me-downs made me sick.  I couldn’t change my worn tattered clothes for new styles.  My family’s poverty kept me from simply asking for new clothes.  Instead, my mom would sew my pants, I would scrub my shoes until the black scuff marks died, and I would have to live with the fact that I only had one new shirt.  But it wasn’t enough.  I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that I would still get made fun of.  Unless… I was too sick for school.  I wasn’t actually sick, but I decided the next morning to make it look as if I threw up.  Mixing oatmeal, cream of wheat, and brown sugar in a bowl then dumping it in the toilet only worked for a few days.  Inevitably, the day came that faking it no longer became an option.  “Mitch, get up.  It’s time to get ready.”  Mom told me.

            My second-hand clothing shame continued to bring me problems with rude kids at school, and the only thing that saved me was my athleticism.  In P.E. I was the fastest at running the mile, and word got around my class that I was good at soccer and basketball.  These abilities of mine were able to divert the other kids’ attention from my ugly worn out clothes, to my physical attributes.  This was my saving grace throughout the end of my elementary career, and up to the end of middle school.  It bought me enough time that my parents began earning more money, and by high school, I was able to have mostly nice new clothes, and end the era of hand-me-downs.  Once again, I found a way to mask my insecurity, and hide my fear of not fitting in.

            High school was here, and luckily so was my older brother.  I only saw him before class started, and had to face the rest of the day on my own.  I continued going to classes, meeting new people, and began trying to make friends with whoever was willing.  For the most part, my freshman year began and ended the same, alone.  I hated it, and despite my plea to my father to let me go to another school where I knew more people, I was stuck.  My sophomore year I started making some friends.  As we talked, they started making fun of me for the way I talked.  Not because of my old speech impediment, that had finally slipped away with time, but for using words like “fetch”, “shoot”, and “dangit”.  These were merely substitutes for words I was told never to say, but my friends were using them so casually, I began to feel insecure.  People began criticizing me for being a Mormon goody-good.  The verbal abuse began taking its toll, and I felt like I was in my elementary school crying in the bathroom all over again.  Eight years later I still feel a pain inside my chest to think of it, but for the first time, my religion became an insecurity for me.  I was ashamed of myself for being such a good kid, for listening to my parents, and even obeying Gods commandments.  To fit in, I needed to break them.

 At first it was awkward learning to swear, but it became a habit that kept my friends and class mates from making fun of me.  At home, I would revert back to using “filler” words, but with my friends I started to sound like a sailor.  This double life-style forced me into situations where lying became necessary, in order to please both my parents and my friends.  These lies I created became the masks I used to shield my insecurities and please everyone around me.  This fake life I had created for myself began to feel comfortable.  I thought that maybe I was the first person to conquer all the insecurities that made me different from everyone else.  How long could I keep up the lies?  I thought, forever.

One night after work, I picked up my friend Jamie and we headed out to a house party we were invited to.  We found the neighborhood, and followed house numbers around until we finally found a plain white-stucco three story house on the street corner.  I parked my car two or three houses down the street and we walked towards the quiet house.  We were some of the first to arrive, and began helping our friends set up.  You could smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke just from the front door.  The house was empty of furniture, pictures, chairs, and other typical household items.  It was for sale, and the host only had a key because his parents left it with him to finish emptying the house.  My memory is mostly faded of this night, but I do remember the significant events, and that which I was able to piece together from the help of those involved.  Around eight, the house started filling up.  Kids from all over the city were arriving, bringing more alcohol, minors, drugs, and noise.  Rooms began overflowing, from the kitchen, to the living room, to the patio in the backyard, and all the way up to the last corner of the third floor.  The music was loud, consuming everyone’s eardrums.  The alcohol began to take its toll numbing all and relieving us of our self-control.  Finally being pulled away by a stranger, I stumbled up the stairs to the second floor.  I made my way to the room at the end of the hall, where smoke emptied through the small crack between the door and the carpet.  The smell was different from anything I’d ever smelt before, and stunk horribly.  Marijuana.  Thankfully, my will power wasn’t completely sucked away by the alcohol, and I turned down the fuzzy faces offering me a puff.  I quickly shut the door and backed away, when suddenly the music was replaced by girl shrieks and footsteps flying in every direction.  I made my way through the awkward commotion to the balcony overlooking the stairs and heard someone yell, “Cops!”.  Everyone panicked and started to push and shove their way to an exit.  I ran into Jamie, and we quickly found the bathroom on the second floor, opened the window, and quietly laid down on the lower part of the roof.  Knowing we couldn’t stay there forever, Jamie peeked over the edge to see if we could run.  As he did, a dim light flashed across his face and we immediately slid off the roof hitting the ground.  The fall hurt a little, but the alcohol helped numb the pain.  We jumped the fence into the neighbor’s backyard, where we were quickly met by two officers.  We both gave up, and were handcuffed.  For the next 15 minutes, I remained in the back of a cop car, waiting for my parents to arrive.  Kids were lined up, sitting on the sidewalks.  There were at least a half a dozen cop cars, a large black vehicle, and a few ambulances that filled up the entire street.

After asking the officer to please take me to jail, my father subdued and agreed to take me home since there wasn’t enough cars to transport all the kids.  “Be sure and beat him though, sir” the officer joked to my dad, “We won’t say anything.”   The silent ride home filled my stomach with more and more guilt until it seemed to push on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.  Once home, I threw up a few times and was helped into bed by my parents.  The next day I awoke with a horrible headache, in a daze wondering whether or not the events that occurred earlier really happened.  The shame I felt confirmed the nights events.  Knowing that my parents would be in the house waiting for me to wake up, it was hard to find the courage to go to the kitchen and eat a bowl of cereal.  Like usual, I started getting nervous, trying to plan in my head what I was going to say.  My heart began beating rapidly, shooting warm blood throughout my body causing me to sweat just sitting in my bed.  Finally, my legs carried me out of my room and to the kitchen.  There, my dad stood, arms crossed looking directly at me.  As I searched for the words to say, my mouth dried up, making it even harder to talk.  Finally, “I’m sorry, dad.”  He approached me, held out his long muscular arms, and as we embraced he whispered, “I already forgave you”.  Tears landed on top of my head, as my own streamed down my face, leaving water marks on my dad’s shirt.  His arms seem to engulf my entire existence.  I turned to my mother, who patiently waited, and I repeated, “I’m sorry, mom.”  She simply replied, “I love you Mitch.”  And there I stood, wrapped in the arms of my parents, wondering if I could ever make up for the torment I caused them.

The forgiveness my parents so easily gave me wasn’t just for this stupid incident with alcohol, but for all the lies and worry I put them through while trying to live two different life styles.  From what I can remember, my insecurities determined who I was since at least the second grade when I was told, “you sound funny” and placed in speech therapy classes.  They forced their way under my skin until I changed myself, trying to be like everyone else.  At this moment in my life, when all my lies were scattered across the kitchen floor in front of my parents, I realized that allowing my insecurities to determine the decisions I made only got me into trouble.  By trying to hide my insecurities, like my “R’s”, my hand-me-downs, my language, and even my religion, I tried hiding who I really was.  Nothing makes me more perfect than my imperfections.  By accepting ourselves for who we are, we are given the power to accept others for who they choose to be. 

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Monday, January 28, 2013

My Countless Faces: The Cure for "R"

Here's another rough draft segment from my current memoir project.  I apologize for any mistakes; keep in mind, it's still going through a lot of editing.


My speech coach wore half-mooned glasses that were attached to a gold chain that dangled behind her ears and rested on the back of her neck.  I could tell by her raised eyebrows and wrinkled forehead that she was completely dedicated to curing me of my malfunction.  Every once in a while, I would say “car” instead of “caw” and her eyes would soften, leaving a faded imprint of her previously determined wrinkles.  She would quickly say “that’s it!  Hurry Mitch, say it again”, only to be disappointed by “caw” once again.  My therapy homework seemed to be extremely easy however.  My parents would listen to me as I repeated sentences like, “The wed headed giwl was happy with hewr fwiends.”  They had grown so accustomed to my impediment, they couldn’t hear it anymore.  They would close their eyes and listen intently, then sign my paper saying, “I dunno Mitch, it sounds good to me!”  I felt accomplished, only later to be disappointed that really I hadn’t improved at all.

My entire life “forest” was “fowest”, “girl” was “girwl”.  Growing up, I was told that I sounded cute.  Hell, my grandpa liked how I talked so much, he would pay me to sit down with him and have conversations.  We would sit at his bar like counter, eating leftovers, talking about my favorite subjects: soccer, recess, and my spy missions.  He would ask me over and over again to repeat all the counties of Utah that I learned in my classes.  We would sit there, while the sunlight that shined through the dining room window wrapped itself around the roof of the house and was starting to find its way through the living room on the opposing side, casting newly formed shadows that slowly increased in size.  I knew he would be sad the day my “accent” was cured. 

I received praise at home, and hurtful words at school.  Tired of being pointed out as different by all my friends, exhausted from the tears shed in bathroom stalls from kids mocking me, and worn out by my constant effort and lack of improvement, I decided to mask my insecurity.  Rather than curing the placement of my tongue and the shape of my mouth, I would stop using words I couldn’t say.  In my little six year old brain, my plan was flawless.  Soon, I was memorizing synonyms for all the words that my tongue refused to pronounce correctly.  “Forest” became “woods” and “friends” became “buddies”.  This tactic worked for the most part, and at my age I figured it was better than my speech therapy course.  This new fascination with synonyms and language led me to good grades in my English assignments, and helped me to drop my speech therapy course, and continue attending class like everyone else.  Finally, I was normal again.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

My Countless Faces: The Sound of "R"

The following is an excerpt from a short memoir I'm currently working on.  The full memoir will be posted upon completion.  For now, here's a short piece I've been writing this passed week.


I wasn’t different, until someone pointed it out.  Early on, in maybe second or third grade, I was told that my “R’s” were different from my friends “R’s”.  I was told that often, it was even hard to understand what I was trying to say.  I was told, “You need to change, and try sounding like everyone else.”  The soft tone and warm smile of my teacher couldn’t keep her words from feeling cold, leaving me frozen and alone.  Soon, I found myself being asked to leave class in the middle of the day.  I looked in my dark desk trying to find my black notebook with the capital white letters “Speech Therapy” that seemed to scream, “You don’t fit in”.   I reached for my generic pencil and closed my eyes to say a little prayer before I shamefully began making my way out of the room.  This daily terror was just another reminder that I was different.  As I walked, the surrounding silence was swept away with the sounds of kids turning in their colorful desks to stare as I walked down the aisle between them.  This moment always gave me a headache, both from fighting so hard to hold back the tears and from the heat of all the eyes searing a hole in the back of my head.  Once I finally made it out of the room, my muscles relaxed, and I gasped for a long awaited breath.  When I was alone, even if just in my school’s hallway, I fit in..