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.  

Ecstasy

“Wyatt, if it's a boy.  We're thinking Emma, if it’s a girl.”

“Wyatt Hawk.  Emma Hawk.”  I paused, repeating the sound of the names in my head.  I turned from my locker and looked at my older brother, “You have my stamp of approval” with a sarcastic smile.

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.

We turn back towards our lockers, and continue getting ready for our swimming class at the University pool.  Removing my towel, swimsuit, and goggles from my backpack, we continue our usual conversations of what we consider ‘life’.  We make sure to stare directly at what we are doing; the slightest divergence could result in seeing naked old guy butt.  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. 

“There's a guy that built a bunker for this other guy who runs a gun training place that was 1100 square feet.  Theres a door on it that cost 8,000 dollars that is specially built for F5 tornadoes approved by FEMA.  They shot a piece of wood at it going 600 mph, but the door couldn't withstand that.”  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.   “With 8,000 dollars down the drain, they bought a new one, a better one.  The inside of the bunker is fully furnished.  It has an unlimited supply of water because it was built over an aquifer, which is basically like an underground lake.  It also has a fully functioning sewer system.  There's a kitchen, sink, shower, toilet, EVERYTHING!  There's even a six month supply of food.  It can hold up to six people.  Not to mention he has every gun you could ever imagine.”

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.  Not completely, but enough to make my brothers voice sound like a faint whisper.  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.  Once the tension arrived to my face, my eyes slowly closed, requiring me to focus all my attention on this uniquely relaxing experience.  Then it happens, time stops.  Everything paused.  My head slowly emerges from its hunkered down position, and extends backwards, I feel like a giraffe.  Once my neck hit its peak length, it shot forward, almost violently.  All the built up pressure was finally being pushed into one area, my nose.  Half way through this powerful jolt forward, I take a deep breath.  With my face now facing forward and slightly at a downward angle, I exhale a stinging blast through my nostrils.  The sneeze.  I am completely lost in ecstasy.  I take in another deep breath trying to take in the moment.  All my cares, worries, and responsibilities seem so far away, I’m floating in the clouds.  Time finally catches up to me, and I nod to Kyle's story, realizing I've missed most of it.

“So, once I have enough money, I’m building a bunker.  You in?”

I turn to him, nodding in agreement, “of course”.