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.

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

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.

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..   

The Ant

DISCLAIMER: 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".

An ant spends approximately three months to build an anthill.  In a matter of seconds, a young, simple-minded child can destroy it with his tiny light up shoes.  The harder he stomps, the more his shoes light up.  This is fun.  Pause time please.  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.  The holes in his worn pants show scabs from past adventures; adventures that are undoubtedly full of constant adrenaline rampages.  Both hands energetically up in the air.  The right hand, forgetfully squeezes the life out of the boys half eaten Twinkie, leaving a sticky, gooey mess all over the boys’ hand.  The thrill of the anthill was strong enough to make this four year old lose memory of his strenuously begged treat.  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.  His shirt, what shirt?  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.  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.  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.  Now, the ant.  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.  Not alone, thousands of other tiny ants have also been hard at work.  This hill is their home, their refuge, their everything.  It’s an extensive network of underground tunnels winding and weaving in and out of each other.  With the boy smashing and stomping uncontrollably, the ants’ small piece of order is now chaos.  Back to real time please.  Sand and dirt is flying everywhere.  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.  The boys’ wide-opened mouth releases a shriek so loud, even old people can hear him.  His feet smash into the hill forcefully, while his body absorbs the blow by hunkering down into a squatting pose.  He then uses all of his strength in his thigh and calf muscles to suspend him again and again over the anthill.  This repeats for a few more seconds, until the boy is bored and scampers off for a new adventure, leaving the anthill in ruins.  In this moment, the ants have every right to get pissed off.  They deserve to be upset, devastated, and hurt.  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.  They deserve to wallow in pain, and mutter complaints to a dear friend (if they have any dear friends left after the attack).  However, they do not.  They immediately start to repair the order they once had.                     

Struggle For Acceptance

At ten, Las Vegas became home.  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.  I didn't fit in.  The change hit me hard, making me throw up on the first day I was supposed to go to my new school.  It was a new form of procrastination.  The next day however, I was sitting in my new desk praying for three p.m. to come.  After my first day of school, I thought of new creative ways of “throwing up”.  Mixing oatmeal, cream of wheat, and brown sugar in a bowl then dumping it in the toilet only worked for three days.  Inevitably, the day came that faking it no longer became an option.  “Mitch, get up.  It's time to get ready.”  Mom pulled back the blankets I had hanging from under the mattress of my bunk bed, creating my cave on the bottom half.  She quickly pulled the blinds open, allowing the heat of the Las Vegas sun to penetrate the room.  A stream of light hit the side of my face, being consumed immediately by unwelcome warmth.  My head hunkered down in the blankets like a nervous turtle.  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.  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”.  Nothing worked.  Telling my mom the truth might have worked, how the kids told me I didn't belong, or that if I got in their  way during recess they would tie me up and leave me in the desert bushes behind the sand pit.  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.

                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.  In our class room, we randomly sat, according to the teacher's desire.  When recess came, the kids organized themselves into their own unique group; skaters, athletes, playground junkies, preps, nerds, and so forth.  The unspoken rule was you had to pick a group, and what that group's passion was became your passion.  My problem was I liked aspects from each group.  I loved books, sports, dressing nice on occasion, skating, biking, everything, especially if it was something new.  That wasn't allowed.  I tried going from group to group, but that got me into a lot of trouble, even threats.  Luckily, I was witty, and faster than the rest of my classmates, and was able to get away.  Recess became unbearable.  With no friends to play with, I found myself getting lost in the schools hallways and library, passing the time.  Hall monitors and teachers became worried and made me go outside to play.  They never listened to me when I told them that for me, inside alone was a lot safer.  Reading this, you might feel surprised that this can happen while only in elementary school.   I was too.   

Lunch time.  Tired of being shoved, tripped, and hit by other kids while teachers weren't looking, I remained always in the back of the line.  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.  With the once light paper tray now pulling heavily on my skinny arms, I turned towards the rest of the lunch room.  I searched instinctively for a safe place to sit alone.  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.  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.  I never fit in.  I grew the habit of eating faster than everyone else, and despite me sitting down and starting to eat last, I finished before everyone.  This was done in order to avoid the bombardment of food being tossed at me regularly, again under the teacher's radar.  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.  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.  This happened because I was new, and I was different.

These same scenarios followed me out of the fifth grade, and into middle school.  Now, bigger kids were involved.  Walking to school my first day with my older brother, Kyle, I stopped to tie my shoelace.  Once I finished, I looked up, and saw Kyle a few feet ahead of me.  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.  This area of the school was unpopulated; only me, Kyle, and a stranger.  “Where you goin’ so fast?” his breathe smelt bad, eyes blood shot, his clothes were at least three sizes too big.  I wanted to yell, but there was knot in my throat so big I thought I might choke to death that instant.  I closed my eyes, waiting for a punch, a kick, a throw, anything.  The pressure of hands tight around my shirt just above my chest loosened.  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.  Kyle grabbed the jerk, and shoved him backwards.  “Oh I’m sorry man, I was just jokin’ wit him, just jokin’.”  The stranger said as he stumbled around the corner.  I still was finding it hard to talk, and was unable to say thank-you.  We walked into the school together, Kyle showed me my classroom, and left when the first bell rang.  I'm grateful for family. 

For the first few weeks, I didn't talk to anyone in my new school.  All the unhealthy traditions from my previous elementary school seemed to carry on to middle school, only with more intensity.  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.  Tired of being alone, I started making friends.  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).  I talked to them.  It was hard, but worth it.  I use to only see “groups” or “clicks”, but now all I see are people.  Friends.  The greatest thing happened, once I accepted others, they accepted me, despite our differences.  My only regret is that I waited so long to be accepted, before I gave others the chance to be accepted by me.

A Childs Freedom

          My brother and I sat in our separate elementary school classrooms counting how many times the painfully slow hand went around the clock.  Each minute in our last hour of class seemed to go slower and slower.  I quickly learned as a child that the key to making time go by faster was day dreaming.  I imagined the cool, refreshing water I felt as I jumped from the tree overhanging the bank of the river behind our house.  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.  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.  I will not daydream in class.”  My lines started straight, but around the 4^th or 5^th line they took a slight curve towards the bottom of the chalk board, along with my desire to succumb to my teachers command.  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.

                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.  My fingers screamed with gratitude as I dropped the piece of chalk causing their suffering.  As I ran past my desk I quickly grabbed my back pack and shoved all the loose papers in.  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.  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. 

                As I approached the bike rack, I could feel my day dream inch its way to reality.  My brother already had my bike unlocked and sat on his bike waiting for me with a smile on his face.  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.  Our conversations had the ability to make the slow hand on the clock go a bazillion times faster.  Our simple, white washed, two-story home was finally visible in the distance.

                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!  WE'RE HOME!”  The smell of freshly baked bread filled the house, but wasn’t strong enough to detain us.  We carelessly threw our backpacks on our bedroom floor and ran out of the house screaming “WE'LL BE AT THE RIVER!”  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.  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.

                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.  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.   The only thing that lied between us and the river was our neighbors mile long alfalfa field.  We kept to our usual path, where the alfalfa had been smashed down and matted to the ground from previous trips to the river.   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.

                Once we broke through the alfalfa field, the tree line blocking the river from our view waited for us about 50 feet away.  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.  The tree line was very dense, even thick.  We began to regret taking our shoes off early as we fought through the tall grass, low tree branches, and prickly bushes.  But what awaited us was worth all the pain and agony in the entire world.  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.

                It was our secret spot.  The narrow river emptied into a large, oval shaped pool of water.  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.  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.  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.  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.  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.  Once dry, we took our fishing poles out from hiding, and tried to trick the fish with our dead worms and catch them. 

On weekdays, we were to return home in the evening, wash up, and get ready for bed and school the next day.  On a Friday, however, we were free.  After fishing, we would start a fire and cook the fish we caught for supper.  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.  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.  Slowly, the soft light from the fireflies that lit up the trees above and the warmth from the dying fire put us to sleep.  No homework, no chores, no mean teachers, nagging sisters, or worried parents.  Freedom.