tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91464298682959379242024-02-08T09:03:43.132-08:00Inside My BrainsMitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-4195016364310055942013-02-12T10:13:00.002-08:002013-02-12T10:13:38.006-08:00Twiggy
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m
skinny, jagged, and blend with my surroundings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At a distance my brothers and sisters look the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up close we each have different twists and
turns, scratched bark, and tiny leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mom is humongous with long thick roots running deep in the ground
giving her balance, almost cementing her into place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roots are our dad, bringing food to the
table, providing for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
snowfall comes, and I feel mom pulling on me as snow piles up trying to break
me free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blend slightly, praying for
wind to knock off the white menace who tries to kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each winter brothers and sisters die, but
never mother and father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The snow melts off me, dripping water into the dirt,
winding its way through the soil, forcefully making it to father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spring came accompanied with granola’d hikers
and their dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This deadly pair came
along our trail, stopping under our shade we graciously gave them as a peace
offering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heat raced as they
approached me, I thought my leaves would shake free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dogs began barking, and slowly their
whimpers turned into pleadings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bearded man gave in, pushed off the tree from where he was leaning, and reached
high into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He picked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A slight tug and I was easily broken away
from my mom and thrown high into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The monster chased me down, but couldn’t find me buried in a pile of mulch
in the river bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lying with strangers,
I died alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-18771596283491807032013-02-03T13:53:00.000-08:002013-02-03T13:57:42.614-08:00My Countless Faces<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The final edition, I hope you enjoy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
wasn’t different, until someone pointed it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once they did, I was plagued with insecurity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early on, in maybe second or third grade, I
was told that my “R’s” were different from my friends’ “R’s”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was told that often it was even hard to
understand what I was trying to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was told, “You need to change, and try sounding like everyone else.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soft tone and warm smile of my teacher
couldn’t keep her words from feeling cold, leaving me frozen and alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon, I found myself being asked to leave class
in the middle of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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”!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Please, make me invisible.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This daily terror was just another reminder
that I was different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I finally made it
out of the room, my muscles relaxed, and I gasped for a long awaited breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was alone, even if just in my school’s
hallway, I fit in.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell by her raised eyebrows and
wrinkled forehead that she was completely dedicated to curing me of my
malfunction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She would quickly say “that’s it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hurry Mitch, say it again”, only to be disappointed by “caw” once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My therapy homework seemed to be extremely
easy however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents would listen to
me as I repeated sentences like, “The wed headed giwl was happy with hewr fwiends.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had grown so accustomed to my
impediment, they couldn’t hear it anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They would close their eyes and listen intently, then sign my paper
saying, “I dunno Mitch, it sounds good to me!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt accomplished, only later to be disappointed because really I
hadn’t improved at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My
entire life “forest” was “fowest”, and “girl” was “girwl”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Growing up, I was told that I sounded cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, my grandpa liked how I talked so much,
he would pay me to sit down with him and have conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would sit at his bar like counter, eating
leftovers, talking about my favorite activities: soccer, recess, and my spy
missions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would ask me over and over
again to repeat all the counties of Utah that I learned in my classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew he would be sad the day my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">accent </i>was cured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
received praise at home and hurtful words at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather
than curing the placement of my tongue and the shape of my mouth, I would stop
using words I couldn’t say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my little
six year old brain, my plan was flawless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon, I was memorizing synonyms for all the words that my tongue refused
to pronounce correctly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Forest” became
“woods” and “friends” became “buddies”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This tactic worked for the most part, and at my age I figured it was
better than my speech therapy course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally, I was normal again, even if it was just a quick fix.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">After
successfully hiding my speech impediment, despite the occasional slip up,
discovering and hiding new insecurities became a normal routine for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Differences make enemies, similarities make
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At ten, my family moved from
Mormon Logan to the city of sin Las Vegas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we
arrived the kind man opened the door, and immediately all the kids turned and
stared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My new teacher, though I don’t
recall her name, was obsessed with animals and nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The white plaster walls were barely visible
beneath the posters of waterfalls, forests, bears, foxes, mountains and birds,
each containing generic slogans like, “Success!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friendship!” and “Teamwork!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hand-me-downs,
their nice new clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new insecurity
had crept upon me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each kid had shiny
shoes, perfectly blue jeans, cool superhero t-shirts and nice backpacks without
a single tear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart started
thumping, and I could almost feel it vibrate in my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned trying to hide my embarrassment,
only to look down at my clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
baggy pants stayed up with the help of a dark blue belt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tiny holes in the knees were frayed with
tiny white fabric, somewhat concealing my skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My shirt was new, and for that I was thankful, because I could easily
hide my legs underneath my desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although my teacher was speaking louder, all I could focus on were the
whispers and muffled laughing of the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I kept my head down, nodding in agreement to whatever it is my teacher
was saying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After my first day of school, I couldn’t stop thinking
about my clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted so badly to
change them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought of returning
with hand-me-downs made me sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
couldn’t change my worn tattered clothes for new styles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family’s poverty kept me from simply
asking for new clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it wasn’t enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at myself in the mirror and realized
that I would still get made fun of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unless… I was too sick for school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wasn’t actually sick, but I decided the next morning to make it look
as if I threw up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mixing oatmeal, cream
of wheat, and brown sugar in a bowl then dumping it in the toilet only worked
for a few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inevitably, the day came
that faking it no longer became an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mitch, get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s time to get
ready.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom told me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These abilities of mine were
able to divert the other kids’ attention from my ugly worn out clothes, to my
physical attributes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was my saving
grace throughout the end of my elementary career, and up to the end of middle
school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, I found a way to mask my
insecurity, and hide my fear of not fitting in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>High school was here, and luckily so was my older
brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only saw him before class
started, and had to face the rest of the day on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued going to classes, meeting new
people, and began trying to make friends with whoever was willing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the most part, my freshman year began and
ended the same, alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sophomore year I
started making some friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
talked, they started making fun of me for the way I talked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because of my old speech impediment, that
had finally slipped away with time, but for using words like “fetch”, “shoot”,
and “dangit”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People began criticizing me for being a Mormon goody-good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The verbal abuse began taking its toll, and I
felt like I was in my elementary school crying in the bathroom all over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was ashamed of myself for
being such a good kid, for listening to my parents, and even obeying Gods
commandments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To fit in, I needed to
break them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At home, I would revert back to
using “filler” words, but with my friends I started to sound like a sailor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This double life-style forced me into
situations where lying became necessary, in order to please both my parents and
my friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These lies I created became
the masks I used to shield my insecurities and please everyone around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This fake life I had created for myself began
to feel comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that
maybe I was the first person to conquer all the insecurities that made me
different from everyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How long
could I keep up the lies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought,
forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">One
night after work, I picked up my friend Jamie and we headed out to a house
party we were invited to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found the
neighborhood, and followed house numbers around until we finally found a plain
white-stucco three story house on the street corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I parked my car two or three houses down the
street and we walked towards the quiet house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were some of the first to arrive, and began helping our friends set
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could smell the alcohol and
cigarette smoke just from the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The house was empty of furniture, pictures, chairs, and other typical
household items.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was for sale, and
the host only had a key because his parents left it with him to finish emptying
the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around eight, the house started filling
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids from all over the city were
arriving, bringing more alcohol, minors, drugs, and noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The music was
loud, consuming everyone’s eardrums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
alcohol began to take its toll numbing all and relieving us of our
self-control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally being pulled away
by a stranger, I stumbled up the stairs to the second floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell was different from
anything I’d ever smelt before, and stunk horribly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marijuana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thankfully, my will power wasn’t completely sucked away by the alcohol,
and I turned down the fuzzy faces offering me a puff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly shut the door and backed away, when
suddenly the music was replaced by girl shrieks and footsteps flying in every
direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made my way through the
awkward commotion to the balcony overlooking the stairs and heard someone yell,
“Cops!”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone panicked and started
to push and shove their way to an exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing we couldn’t stay there forever, Jamie
peeked over the edge to see if we could run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As he did, a dim light flashed across his face and we immediately slid
off the roof hitting the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fall hurt a little, but the alcohol helped numb the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We jumped the fence into the neighbor’s
backyard, where we were quickly met by two officers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both gave up, and were handcuffed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the next 15 minutes, I remained in the
back of a cop car, waiting for my parents to arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids were lined up, sitting on the
sidewalks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were at least a half a
dozen cop cars, a large black vehicle, and a few ambulances that filled up the
entire street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Be sure and beat him though, sir” the
officer joked to my dad, “We won’t say anything.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once home, I threw up a few
times and was helped into bed by my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The next day I awoke with a horrible headache, in a daze wondering
whether or not the events that occurred earlier really happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shame I felt confirmed the nights events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like usual, I
started getting nervous, trying to plan in my head what I was going to
say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart began beating rapidly,
shooting warm blood throughout my body causing me to sweat just sitting in my
bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, my legs carried me out of
my room and to the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, my
dad stood, arms crossed looking directly at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I searched for the words to say, my mouth dried up, making it even
harder to talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, “I’m sorry,
dad.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He approached me, held out his long
muscular arms, and as we embraced he whispered, “I already forgave you”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears landed on top of my head, as my own
streamed down my face, leaving water marks on my dad’s shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His arms seem to engulf my entire
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned to my mother, who
patiently waited, and I repeated, “I’m sorry, mom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She simply replied, “I love you Mitch.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there I stood, wrapped in the arms of my
parents, wondering if I could ever make up for the torment I caused them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They forced their way under my
skin until I changed myself, trying to be like everyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing makes me more perfect than my imperfections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By accepting ourselves for who we are, we are
given the power to accept others for who they choose to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“To be yourself
in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">greatest accomplishment.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">-</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ralph
Waldo Emerson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-784383669205132142013-01-28T19:00:00.001-08:002013-01-28T19:00:49.597-08:00My 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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell by her raised eyebrows and
wrinkled forehead that she was completely dedicated to curing me of my
malfunction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She would quickly say “that’s it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hurry Mitch, say it again”, only to be disappointed by “caw” once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My therapy homework seemed to be extremely
easy however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents would listen to
me as I repeated sentences like, “The wed headed giwl was happy with hewr
fwiends.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had grown so accustomed
to my impediment, they couldn’t hear it anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would close their eyes and listen
intently, then sign my paper saying, “I dunno Mitch, it sounds good to
me!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt accomplished, only later to
be disappointed that really I hadn’t improved at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My
entire life “forest” was “fowest”, “girl” was “girwl”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Growing up, I was told that I sounded cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, my grandpa liked how I talked so much,
he would pay me to sit down with him and have conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would sit at his bar like counter, eating
leftovers, talking about my favorite subjects: soccer, recess, and my spy
missions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would ask me over and over
again to repeat all the counties of Utah that I learned in my classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew he would be sad the day my “accent”
was cured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
received praise at home, and hurtful words at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather
than curing the placement of my tongue and the shape of my mouth, I would stop
using words I couldn’t say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my little
six year old brain, my plan was flawless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon, I was memorizing synonyms for all the words that my tongue refused
to pronounce correctly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Forest” became
“woods” and “friends” became “buddies”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This tactic worked for the most part, and at my age I figured it was
better than my speech therapy course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally, I was normal again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-53075165467760196342013-01-20T12:47:00.002-08:002013-01-21T08:22:38.109-08:00My Countless Faces: The Sound of "R"<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I
wasn’t different, until someone pointed it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Early on, in maybe second or third grade, I was told that my “R’s” were different
from my friends “R’s”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was told that
often, it was even hard to understand what I was trying to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was told, “You need to change, and try
sounding like everyone else.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soft
tone and warm smile of my teacher couldn’t keep her words from feeling cold,
leaving me frozen and alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon, I
found myself being asked to leave class in the middle of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This daily terror was just another
reminder that I was different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once I finally made it out of the room, my muscles relaxed, and I gasped
for a long awaited breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was
alone, even if just in my school’s hallway, I fit in..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</span><br /></span><br />Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-13716971128086567842012-07-13T11:53:00.002-07:002013-01-21T08:05:58.281-08:00The AntDISCLAIMER: I wrote this in the middle of the night, hoping that writing would help me fall asleep....so I was a little "out of it".<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br />
<br />
An ant spends approximately three
months to build an anthill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a matter
of seconds, a young, simple-minded child can destroy it with his tiny light up
shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The harder he stomps, the more
his shoes light up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pause time please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The four year old boys’ mouth is wide open,
with his knees to his chest; toes curled inside his shoes for their hopefully
devastating impact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The holes in his
worn pants show scabs from past adventures; adventures that are undoubtedly
full of constant adrenaline rampages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both hands energetically up in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The right hand, forgetfully squeezes the life out of the boys half eaten
Twinkie, leaving a sticky, gooey mess all over the boys’ hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thrill of the anthill was strong enough
to make this four year old lose memory of his strenuously begged treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His long blonde curly hair covers his eyes,
but, examining more closely, his eyes are tightly shut, creating three or four
tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His shirt, what shirt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless a
mixture of water and dirt, more commonly known as mud, is considered a shirt,
then yes, it’s only a thin layer, but it covers most of his torso and arms,
minus his biceps, neck, and a few clean patches on his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun’s heat has begun drying the mud,
leaving most of it crispy, and with the ecstatic movement of the boy, has started
to chip away in tiny pieces off the boy’s body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fallen pieces of mud leave hard to see grey spots on the boy’s skin,
later his mom will persuade him with lots of toys to get into the tub later
that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, the ant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, for the past three or four months,
this ant has been hard at work creating an elaborate hill, made of only the
finest soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not alone, thousands of
other tiny ants have also been hard at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This hill is their home, their refuge, their everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an extensive network of underground
tunnels winding and weaving in and out of each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the boy smashing and stomping
uncontrollably, the ants’ small piece of order is now chaos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back to real time please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sand and dirt is flying everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy is flailing his arms everywhere, and
has finally lost grip of his lifeless Twinkie, which has falling five or six
feet behind him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boys’ wide-opened
mouth releases a shriek so loud, even old people can hear him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His feet smash into the hill forcefully,
while his body absorbs the blow by hunkering down into a squatting pose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then uses all of his strength in his thigh
and calf muscles to suspend him again and again over the anthill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This repeats for a few more seconds, until
the boy is bored and scampers off for a new adventure, leaving the anthill in
ruins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this moment, the ants have
every right to get pissed off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They deserve
to be upset, devastated, and hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
deserve to seek revenge on the young boy, hoping that this will help them fill
the crater the boy has just made on their existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They deserve to wallow in pain, and mutter
complaints to a dear friend (if they have any dear friends left after the attack).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, they do not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They immediately start to repair the order
they once had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-53936543340113215162012-04-27T15:24:00.001-07:002012-04-27T15:24:07.081-07:00Struggle For Acceptance<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At ten, Las Vegas
became home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road trip there slowly
morphed from snow to sun, from trees to cactuses, from thousands of people to
millions, from black minority to white minority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't fit in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The change hit me hard, making me throw up on
the first day I was supposed to go to my new school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a new form of procrastination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day however, I was sitting in my new
desk praying for three p.m. to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After my first day of school, I thought of new creative ways of
“throwing up”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mixing oatmeal, cream of
wheat, and brown sugar in a bowl then dumping it in the toilet only worked for
three days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inevitably, the day came
that faking it no longer became an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mitch, get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's time to get
ready.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom pulled back the blankets I
had hanging from under the mattress of my bunk bed, creating my cave on the
bottom half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She quickly pulled the
blinds open, allowing the heat of the Las Vegas sun to penetrate the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stream of light hit the side of my face,
being consumed immediately by unwelcome warmth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My head hunkered down in the blankets like a nervous turtle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fought the claustrophobic feeling off as
long as I could; breathing in the same oxygen I was breathing out, until
finally I gave in, and apathetically rolled out of bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using my ten year old brain, I thought of
everything I could to persuade my mom not to make me go to school, “everything
my teacher is going over I already learned in my old school” or “we can't leave
our dog alone at the house all day, she'll die from starvation”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Telling my mom the truth might have worked,
how the kids told me I didn't belong, or that if I got in their <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>way during recess they would tie me up and
leave me in the desert bushes behind the sand pit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cowered to my mother's request, and sat
quietly in the front seat of our black Nissan Sentra, trying my hardest to
control my rapidly increasing heartbeat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
teacher gave me the satisfaction of sitting in the very back of the room, that
way I wouldn't have to feel the 25 pairs of eyeballs searing the back of my
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our class room, we randomly
sat, according to the teacher's desire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When recess came, the kids organized themselves into their own unique
group; skaters, athletes, playground junkies, preps, nerds, and so forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unspoken rule was you had to pick a
group, and what that group's passion was became your passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My problem was I liked aspects from each
group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved books, sports, dressing
nice on occasion, skating, biking, everything, especially if it was something
new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That wasn't allowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried going from group to group, but that
got me into a lot of trouble, even threats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Luckily, I was witty, and faster than the rest of my classmates, and was
able to get away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recess became
unbearable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With no friends to play
with, I found myself getting lost in the schools hallways and library, passing
the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hall monitors and teachers
became worried and made me go outside to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They never listened to me when I told them that for me, inside alone was
a lot safer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reading this, you might
feel surprised that this can happen while only in elementary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lunch time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tired of being shoved, tripped, and hit by
other kids while teachers weren't looking, I remained always in the back of the
line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my stomach churning and
growling, I grabbed a lunch tray, and held it out for the nice old ladies to
fill it for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the once light
paper tray now pulling heavily on my skinny arms, I turned towards the rest of
the lunch room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I searched instinctively
for a safe place to sit alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I
choose to wait in the back of the line for my food, all the tables are filled
with groups of kids rowdily eating their lunches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was forced again, to break out of my comfort
zone, and sit in the middle of the room, with a group that didn't want me
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never fit in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew the habit of eating faster than
everyone else, and despite me sitting down and starting to eat last, I finished
before everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was done in order
to avoid the bombardment of food being tossed at me regularly, again under the
teacher's radar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, no matter how
fast I ate, at least a few pieces of food found its way through the crowd to my
face, back of my head, lunch tray or lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some days I was unable to hide the stains on my clothes from the
teachers, so they would uncaringly ask who did it and rush me to the bathroom
to try and wash out the ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and other condiments that
embedded themselves in my 100% cotton clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This happened because I was new, and I was different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
These same
scenarios followed me out of the fifth grade, and into middle school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, bigger kids were involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking to school my first day with my older
brother, Kyle, I stopped to tie my shoelace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once I finished, I looked up, and saw Kyle a few feet ahead of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood up to try and catch up to him, but
with one step, an older kid grabbed me and pushed me against light tan cinder
block wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This area of the school was
unpopulated; only me, Kyle, and a stranger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Where you goin’ so fast?” his breathe smelt bad, eyes blood shot, his
clothes were at least three sizes too big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wanted to yell, but there was knot in my throat so big I thought I
might choke to death that instant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
closed my eyes, waiting for a punch, a kick, a throw, anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pressure of hands tight around my shirt
just above my chest loosened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My size
five shoes finally touched the ground, and blood shot through my body, helping
my back to warm up after being pressed forcefully against the cold school
wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kyle grabbed the jerk, and shoved
him backwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh I’m sorry man, I was
just jokin’ wit him, just jokin’.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
stranger said as he stumbled around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I still was finding it hard to talk, and was unable to say
thank-you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked into the school
together, Kyle showed me my classroom, and left when the first bell rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm grateful for family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
For the first few
weeks, I didn't talk to anyone in my new school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the unhealthy traditions from my previous
elementary school seemed to carry on to middle school, only with more
intensity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I didn't remember
the exact moment it happened, but I made a decision that I was going to accept
everyone, whoever he or she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tired
of being alone, I started making friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I noticed that there were a lot of kids, like me, that sat alone, or
tried to make themselves invisible (a talent that should never be perfected,
unless you're planning on being a Spy).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I talked to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard,
but worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I use to only see “groups”
or “clicks”, but now all I see are people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The greatest thing
happened, once I accepted others, they accepted me, despite our
differences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My only regret is that I
waited so long to be accepted, before I gave others the chance to be accepted
by me. </div>
<br />Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-23331707985595837942012-04-14T07:27:00.001-07:002012-04-14T07:27:23.741-07:00A Childs Freedom<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
brother and I sat in our separate elementary school classrooms counting how
many times the painfully slow hand went around the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each minute in our last hour of class seemed
to go slower and slower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly
learned as a child that the key to making time go by faster was day
dreaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined the cool,
refreshing water I felt as I jumped from the tree overhanging the bank of the
river behind our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I lost myself
in these day dreams, my teacher always felt it her responsibility to bring me
back to my unfortunate reality, that I was young, insignificant, and under her
control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did this by smacking my
desk with a yard stick then politely asking me to stand up, walk to the chalk
board, and re-write over and over again “I will not daydream in class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not daydream in class.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lines started straight, but around the 4<sup>th</sup>
or 5<sup>th</sup> line they took a slight curve towards the bottom of the chalk
board, along with my desire to succumb to my teachers command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wrist begged me for a break, but all the
fun my brother and I would be having after school made the suffering worth it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
bell rang each day at 2:30 pm, and set all the future criminals, lawyers, presidents
of the United States and garbage men free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My fingers screamed with gratitude as I dropped the piece of chalk
causing their suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I ran past
my desk I quickly grabbed my back pack and shoved all the loose papers in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was able to make it from the chalk board,
to my desk, and outside the classroom door before the free falling chalk struck
the tile floor and shattered in tiny pieces and dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Jackson yelled for me to return, however
her voice was unable to reach me through the busy commotion of untamed kids
running and yelling for freedom through the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I approached the bike rack, I could feel my day dream inch its way to
reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother already had my bike
unlocked and sat on his bike waiting for me with a smile on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He put the bike lock in my back pack, helped
steady the bike as I jumped on, and we rode home. During the ride home, only
the most of important of topics were discussed; why some dogs lift their legs
as they pee, while others, for some odd reason squat, why batman was better
than spider man, and how we were able to steal magnifying glasses from our
classrooms which would be used to kill millions of innocent ants at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our conversations had the ability to make the
slow hand on the clock go a bazillion times faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our simple, white washed, two-story home was
finally visible in the distance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
coming to a complete stop on our gravel driveway, we jumped off our bikes and
let them collide into each other as we ran up the skinny, rickety stairway that
led to our front door. We sprinted towards our room screaming “MOM!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WE'RE HOME!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The smell of freshly baked bread filled the house, but wasn’t strong
enough to detain us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We carelessly threw
our backpacks on our bedroom floor and ran out of the house screaming “WE'LL BE
AT THE RIVER!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we ran towards the
backyard fence we looked over our shoulders and watched as our mother waved at
us and blew us a kiss from the upper window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The warmth from that kiss was always felt despite the cold breeze fighting
its way through the microscopic holes in the threading of our clothes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
we reached the fence, my brother carefully grabbed the barbwire pulling open a
gap big enough for me to squeeze my tiny body through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once he was done guiding me through the gap,
he took a few steps back, ran at the fence, and was able to jump over it by
placing his left hand on the strong wood post bracing his body as he flew
sideways through the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only
thing that lied between us and the river was our neighbors mile long alfalfa
field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We kept to our usual path, where
the alfalfa had been smashed down and matted to the ground from previous trips
to the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I relied on my brothers
vision as I followed him because my short height barley allowed the tiny blond
hairs on my head to see over the alfalfa surrounding us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
we broke through the alfalfa field, the tree line blocking the river from our
view waited for us about 50 feet away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We quickly began to strip our shirts from off our backs as we ran, stumbling
a little as we alternated hopping on different feet to take our shoes off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tree line was very dense, even
thick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We began to regret taking our
shoes off early as we fought through the tall grass, low tree branches, and
prickly bushes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what awaited us was
worth all the pain and agony in the entire world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we reached the edge of the river bank,
our feet sunk down into the cold mud as we pressed off and leaped into the air,
each trying to get farther than the other in the water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was our secret spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The narrow river
emptied into a large, oval shaped pool of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the deepest part of the river, which
allowed us to climb the trees surrounding the pool and jump off their
over-hanging branches down into the crystal clear water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From atop the tree branches, we would stare
down into the water waiting for the ripples from previous jumps to diminish,
and we were able to spot the different fish in the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our spot was well hidden, even the rays of
sun light had difficulty finding the water, fighting its way through tiny gaps
in the trees branches and leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
sunset, the light made its way to a small bed of rocks that were uncovered from
all the trees on the other side of the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The heat from the sun would warm the rocks, allowing me and my brother
to sprawl on top of them and dry off before the sun went completely down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once dry, we took our fishing poles out from
hiding, and tried to trick the fish with our dead worms and catch them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
On weekdays, we
were to return home in the evening, wash up, and get ready for bed and school
the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a Friday, however, we
were free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After fishing, we would start
a fire and cook the fish we caught for supper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We would unroll our sleeping bags a few feet from the river onto a dry
patch of grass close to the dirt fire pit and use our backpacks as
pillows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We continued our never-ending
conversations from our bike ride home, planning out the mostly harmless pranks
we would carry out against our two sisters and teachers the upcoming week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly, the soft light from the fireflies
that lit up the trees above and the warmth from the dying fire put us to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No homework, no chores, no mean teachers,
nagging sisters, or worried parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9146429868295937924.post-88588182638250191262012-04-13T20:07:00.002-07:002012-04-13T20:07:36.763-07:00Ecstasy<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wyatt, if it's a boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We're thinking Emma, if it’s a girl.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wyatt Hawk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emma
Hawk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paused, repeating the sound of
the names in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned from my
locker and looked at my older brother, “You have my stamp of approval” with a sarcastic
smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kyle quickly turned towards me, “I wasn't asking for your
approval, pecker” he says, with an even bigger smile, knowing he topped me in
wits, for the time being.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We turn back towards our lockers, and continue getting ready
for our swimming class at the University pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Removing my towel, swimsuit, and goggles from my backpack, we continue our
usual conversations of what we consider ‘life’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We make sure to stare directly at what we are doing; the slightest
divergence could result in seeing naked old guy butt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In exchanging my pants for my swimsuit, I place
my towel tightly around my waist, shielding my youth from the older folk as I
slide my swimsuit on beneath my towel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There's a guy that built a bunker for this other guy who
runs a gun training place that was 1100 square feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Theres a door on it that cost 8,000 dollars that is specially built for
F5 tornadoes approved by FEMA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shot
a piece of wood at it going 600 mph, but the door couldn't withstand that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat there, listening to my brother, when
suddenly I began to feel an urge in my body. A tension, that seemed to start in
the back of my head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“With 8,000
dollars down the drain, they bought a new one, a better one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The inside of the bunker is fully
furnished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has an unlimited supply of
water because it was built over an aquifer, which is basically like an underground
lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also has a fully functioning
sewer system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There's a kitchen, sink,
shower, toilet, EVERYTHING!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There's even
a six month supply of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can hold
up to six people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to mention he has
every gun you could ever imagine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kyle continued talking, but this strange quivering I was
feeling began to make its way to my face, and as it passed my ears, I lost my
ability to hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not completely, but
enough to make my brothers voice sound like a faint whisper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if this familiar sensation took my
control away, and forced my head to hunker down, level with my shoulders, like
a turtle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the tension arrived to my
face, my eyes slowly closed, requiring me to focus all my attention on this
uniquely relaxing experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it
happens, time stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything
paused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head slowly emerges from its
hunkered down position, and extends backwards, I feel like a giraffe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once my neck hit its peak length, it shot
forward, almost violently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the built
up pressure was finally being pushed into one area, my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Half way through this powerful jolt forward, I
take a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my face now
facing forward and slightly at a downward angle, I exhale a stinging blast through
my nostrils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sneeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am completely lost in ecstasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take in another deep breath trying to take
in the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All my cares, worries,
and responsibilities seem so far away, I’m floating in the clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time finally catches up to me, and I nod to Kyle's
story, realizing I've missed most of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, once I have enough money, I’m building a bunker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You in?”</div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I turn to him, nodding in agreement, “of course”.</span>
<br />Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01376671449321709511noreply@blogger.com0