What Else?

I saw you and sped by, cautiously. I didn’t want to, bump you, on my way, so I strolled with my head tucked downwards, so you wouldn’t see my face. But you probably recognize my walk, and the long strides I take, which I’m known for. And after how long we’ve known for, you most likely know more, than anyone else would. Yet it still amazes me the way bad emerged from good. You burned me like a fireplace, guess I was just wood. When I take a look back, and analyze the way that you reacted, it almost leaves me laughing. I don’t even know what happened. And now we’re complete strangers, and the only thing stranger, is that a mutual love isn’t shared, even after I framed her, picture. Picture her stealing my heart, no I’m not trying to frame her, because she did do the crime, on purpose or not, she implanted herself into my mind. So as the days unwind, I put the cold past behind, with maybe my morals too, I mean I’m still faithful…just faithful to more than two. A few… that’s the way I look at it, we’re all together, the relationship might not last, but memories go on forever. Tired of letting karma hold me back, what’s the worse that could happen? Things could go bad? I’d get played?-already happened, if it happens again, then it’ll just be a pattern.

When...

Physically, it's there.
Mentally, I'd tweak a thing or two here or there.
The problem with that is, it could be tomorrow or a few years,
The mind is funny, we can't control when it switches gears,
No matter how heavy our foot weighs to the pedal,
You can't meddle with the process, so you live and you learn,
And this love thing, it's like don't trust or get burned.

Tic.

You know as I move on with the progress of my blog, one thing I want to establish is my short story presence. The following is a snippet of an extended short story titled “Tic” that I think many people would enjoy reading, so I will post the first bit of the story and based on your response, I will either post the rest of the story or leave it at that. Enjoy…

Imagine back. Look back to the early 1900s. Now imagine a third-world country not too far off from Florida. Luscious fruits hang from a vast majority of trees, waiting to be plucked, as children in the park salivate at the anticipation of ripe. A society different than the one in which we live today, where the man made green rules over that of Mother Nature. A time span where a wise man, not an individually spouting fallacy filled statements through nostalgic flashbacks, would say was”the good ol’ times.” There weren’t many roads, and the few roads that were only had to bare a few carriages a day. Most of this land was made of beach, and the farther you got from the water, the more “rural,” you’d find. In a small village, where babies are born natural amongst the household they’ll spend the rest of their lives in, a laboring mother screams in angst, welcoming to the world a baby girl she would never raise.

Now it’s not clear whether this mothers absent was presence threw acts of abandonment, death or etc. Perhaps she died that very night in labor because back in these times, the rate of successful child births was not as high as they are now, especially in a country fairly stricken of poverty. Perhaps the thought of raising a kid under the immense financial burdens at hand drove her insane and she fled leaving her dear child behind. This we do not know, however we do know that her lack of presence caused her bundle of joy to grow up under the roof of an uncaring step mother, who similar to the step-mother depicted in the story of Cinderella, only showed a love for the children who came out of HER womb. The overbearing step mother automatically blueprinted her life to have no form of education associated with it, unless you consider cooking and cleaning seven days a week an apprenticeship.

Not exactly prince charming, but the next best thing came galloping into her life after prominent success through a business venture of some sort in another island not too far off. His persona was pure and loving. An avid card player, up into his eighty’s he contended in competitive sit downs, always with a wide smile from sideburn to sideburn, slapping each winning card down with an extra UHMPH. He liked to make others feel special. He enjoyed giving gifts and the presence of others. The man had almost twenty years on the now grown baby, but the attraction was still strong, and insurmountably drawn to each other they were. Maybe it was love at first sight, maybe it wasn’t but one assertion that can be stated is that no one thought 11 children and fifty years of marriage would come from this union before the good man would be called for his appointment at the roads.

Without an education, the mother of 11 couldn’t teach her children how to make a life for themselves or carve a place in this cluttered world, but she could present them with the opportunity to do so, making sure they got their education, giving them a household they could always come back to, with a promised love filled environment, no matter what matters of commotion were existent. A sanctuary; a space where one could clear there mind; a space where one could de-exist from the outside world; a space where one entered with a bag full of problems and left with a bag full of clean laundry. Love was all she could offer, and although she didn’t have any diplomas or job history, her resume as a mother was abundant and plush. And being such a giver, each of her 11 children would adopt one of her characteristics (more than just one, but would be known for one distinctly).

Urgent

This just Isn’t for me,
Yes, I understand the magnitude of degrees,
But instead of learning from others, I rather be teaching me,
Don’t mistake me for lazy, I’m not just shooting the breeze,
But what’s the point of borrowing thousand to succumb to shooting sprees?

I’m tryna go by the mold, but I’m not being true to me,
Why stay on the surface, when there’s deeper blues in the sea?
Some things will never see, trying to get our masters,
Spiritually, I’m tryna get like a pastor,
Priest, strengthen my beliefs

Those theories are interesting but learning should be organic,
If the passion isn’t there, then were all too mechanic,
Like a robot, everything is planted,
In our minds and yes, it may seem that I’m being dramatic,
But drastic times cost for the measures to be drastic,

Einstein saw it, so did Bill Gates,
They both succeeding after what others would perceive as mistakes,
Its like the theory of relativity,
Curiosity led to that, like Ben Franklin and electricity,
Show me where, a professor will tell a student to put a key on a kite,
Before they wrote books on it, we learned to ride bikes,
And we designed air planes to overcome heights,
And Invented night lights, to dissolve our frights,
So why not just live life to learn to better write?
We should act on our instincts not just dollars,
Kids who sewed together their teddy bears, should grow up to be doctors,
That’s why we got so many law suits,
Cause anybody who could afford a good tutor could go to Harvard law school,

Charisma is a gift, it can not be taught,
The skill to move crowds with speeches cant be brought,
Examine George Bush,
See how stupid he looks,
Every time he takes the podium, he’s no Kennedy,
There’s a reason why celebrities become celebrities,
You could hire a stylist and have a good image,
But if your shy no matter how hard you try, we will sense your timid,
Some people have visions,
Like MLK’S dream,
And some people dream of riches, and in the end it seems,
There always unhappy,
Check out Brittney Spears,
So much talent, but in the end, she couldn’t cut it like she did her hair,
Our destiny should be natural, like breathing air,
Who cares, whose daddy wants them to be a surgeon,
I’ll never give up my dreams, call me a virgin,
This society makes me sick, call me allergic,
And this is long over due, so I titled this one…

"No Homo"

Similar to the oppression minorities and women were once displaced with homosexuals find themselves fighting for equality in the 21^st century, a time where we’d hope we wouldn’t be facing so many prejudices. Similar to how women overcame and still are challenged with sexism, how minorities endured racism, homosexuals are in an upwind battle with homophobia that may be the most difficult obstacle to overcome that any group persecuted against has ever seen.

In a society broadened with so much diversity, where writers such as Walt Whitman are idolized, its surprising that homosexuality raises so many red flags. Especially in a country that bounds its principles on freedom: the land of the free; when you’re straight.

A ride on the e-train could show you how frowned upon being gay is. Your riding down to Penn station and you see two high school kids flipping through a magazine further down the cart. One of the kids points at an add advertising the I-phone for two hundred dollars cheaper then its original tag price and remarks: “that’s sooo gay man…I brought mine for $600!”

That’s the homophobia that northeasters are accustomed to, but places down south, gay teens face similar dilemmas as the Jena 6. In the past twenty or so years, that’s what gay has become, pretty much a joke. But there are always some people not willing to let it go.

Elderly people living in retirement homes are subjected to isolation and verbal bashings on a regular basis. Old people are lonely enough when they make it to a retirement home, but then they get to an environment that’s supposed to be more social than sitting in their children’s basements all day only to be confined to solitary for the way their hormones react by fellow baby boomers.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating we all dress up in purple and go to the gay pride parade but at the same time like they say “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

The same way women are born with breasts, minorities are born with darker pigments in their skin; gay people are born with different hormones. And does that make them bad guys? It’s hard for me to imagine someone telling themselves “hey, gay people are harassed on a daily basis, and are at a huge handicap…maybe I should be gay.”

Who would chose to be part of such a hated culture. If you hop in a time machine and go to a cotton field and ask some of the slaves working diligently if they would change their skin color if they could, I’m certain you’d get a unanimous poll.

Homophobia should be just as punishable as racism and sexism is. It’s hypocritical for any activist to frown on homosexuality as they promote political and social change.

I believe in God; however I know its wrong for me to punish atheists for not having the same beliefs, the same way its wrong for heterosexuals to punish homosexuals for practicing their beliefs.

Those of us committing hate crimes specifically stemming from homophobia need to understand, sexuality is like an Almond Joy candy bar: some people feel like a nut, some people don’t.

Careless...Care Less

She was feeling numb. She was being dumb.
Matter of fact, I take that back, she was being young.
Absent minded, mind you, by the time she finds it,
She’ll rewind it, re-live it,
The events so vivid, missing all the things that I didn’t do…isn’t that ironic?
It’s not what I gave, but what I didn’t take away…
Not what I said but the things I didn’t say.
The things she has to hear now,
Her friends have to hear how,
He left her for a bird, “the nerve.”
Had her actions never occurred,
Her nest would be protected, worms would be collected, for her and her eggs,
Kids would never be neglected.
She should be shunned, no right to complain,
She personally decided to be one of those dames.
You should’ve gone away for him, but you stayed for him.
Played him and then got played for him.
You should have paid him, now you pay for him.
Forget what you meant to him, you shooed him away, forget how long you knew him,
the new him found a way to out-do him,
HA….
The humor in that.
Doesn’t mean he read you better, because his pace is fast.
The other him went back and read back, certain chapters, read when you said that, and said this, the little details the new him missed.
But he still got to see the end, and I guess in the end, that’s all that matters?
Once again laughter…HA…he read the end before the very first chapter…
What type of author art thou?
Revealing your master piece at the start of the show isn’t really like art now, is it?
Why didn’t you set limits?
You know, lace the final piece with that big red ribbon?
Make him wait in line for at least ten minutes?
Make him pay bail before he gets out of prison?
And while he was in it, ration his visits?
Why shorten his sentence?
Why not put him on parole first and see how he’s living, then rethink it?
It’s the essence of life, why weren’t you thinking?

Pain & Homage

Pain & Homage

Dues must be paid to those once enslaved.
Without the roads they paved, we wouldn’t know the way.
Lost in the dark, trapped in a cave, they gave us an opportunity to be gay, in more than one way; the pursuit of happiness and freedom to believe.
If they hadn’t prospered we wouldn’t aim to succeed.
As time proceeds, we attempt to do what they did, so we donate proceeds,
to various foundations, some named after these,
forefathers I speak of and go to those found in need.
And those not found remain un-reached,
like the forest and the tree,
does that still happen with no witness to see?
Let’s not be naïve,
that mass went timber, before the king of the jungle and his young son simba.
We once sung signals to a secret passage way,
now most railroads run underground in a similar way.
They fought their lives away to break free from chains, now we assort them as a fashion.
They never would’ve imagined, these chains around there wrists and necks would soon be a style.
Maybe they never should’ve risked their necks, so that their great times ten grand-child,
could wear these same chains that once caused them pain,
and not only wear them but to do so they’d pay.
Irony trickles through society
opinions we exclaim were once considered impiety.
But we just believe them so we don’t know what that word means,
or many others it would seem.
If only we were wise enough to use the context clues.
Maybe your dream college would accept you.
Look around and see the world as it affects you.
Butterfly effect, each step determined by another step.
If they hadn’t walked before us, we never would’ve met.

It Was All A Dream...

It Was All a Dream…

One of the biggest discouragements associated with being a journalist is censorship. The following is an article I wrote in December of 2006 that was never allowed to hit the press. It’s funny how…two and a half years have passed and it still seems relevant.

“What happens to a dream deferred?” Hughes couldn’t have asked a better question and it’s answered best by racism’s fifty year impersonation of the possum, well worthy of an Oscar. When Martin Luther King proclaimed “let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York,” I strongly doubt he expected the cadence of liberty to compete with the blare of fifty some odd gunshots ringing out in the streets of New York city or the monotone in the scolding voice of an all time favorite sitcom bit player, revealing his feelings regarding the African American race.

It all started when Kanye West went on ABC, shivering in rampant fury as he pulled up a seat next to Mike Meyers, looked directly into the live broadcasting camera with a state of odium amongst his pupils and courageously asserted that our president “does not care about black people.” Well…actually I guess we’d really have to blame Katrina because if she didn’t have a temper tantrum across New Orleans, maybe Kanye never would have flipped out on national TV. But then again…had George not been off in Iraq trying to get his hands on some oil reserves, perhaps our nation could have focused on domestic issues and contained that hurricane from wreaking a record breaking toll on the country. Or maybe Bush never would have found the gall to offer us the notion that there were “nuclear weapons,” in the Middle East as grounds to venture into Iraq in the first place if we hadn’t begun playing a game of “Where’s Waldo,” with Osama Bin Laden after we developed cravings for a scapegoat to take all responsibility for the demolition of the World Trade Center, giving George W. the “O.K.” to use any military force necessary to “make a stand against terrorism.” So in theory, 9/11 marks the day racism began to rear its ugly head again.

Ever since CNN broadcasted footage of minorities stranded on roof tops of Louisiana, eyes began squinting, fingers began pointing and a nation which once symbolized unity trickled down to a nation divided. It took a natural disaster for us to realize we weren’t fighting anyone but ourselves. The only thing terrorizing this country is the underlying prejudice which lies throughout.

I’ll go as far to provide controversial insight on the situation. Kids these days refer to each other using the “n” word in phrases such as “That’s my n****,” and “What up n****.” Anyone even a bit familiar with the civil rights movement will agree with me that Malcolm X would turn in his grave if he heard his brothers and sisters using the word that bigots once used to oppress the African American race as casual slang.

So in 1863 Lincoln issues the Emancipation Proclamation, signaling the beginning of the journey to racial equality and forty three years later a twenty-three year old man by the name of Sean Bell is murdered Amadou Diallo style leaving his bachelor party, hours before he would’ve gotten married. Four undercover New York City police officers shot at the innocent Bell and two of his unarmed friends over fifty times as they sat in their car on “suspicion” that “one of the men were armed.” I personally believe that after five or six rounds of shots are fired, someone supposedly in possession of a fire arm would start shooting back but…I graduated from no policy academy. Then the cops file a police report stating how one of the VICTIMS of the shooting was an ex-con and how he might have been planning on retrieving a gun from another location and then returning to the club even though they didn’t find one on him. And this wasn’t the only race related issue publicized throughout the week of the event. This incident occurred only six days after comedian Michael Richards, best known as Kramer from “Seinfeld,” broke out in a racial tirade against African American men in the audience at a stand up show at the Laugh Factory comedy club in L.A, which he claims was an angry reaction to his act being interrupted. Richards shouted “shut up! Fifty years ago we would’ve had you upside down with a F****** fork up you’re a**,” and the only thing more upsetting then this display was the outbreak of laughter followed by his “joke.” It wasn’t until he proceeded to use the N word redundantly that someone in the crowd shouted “Oh My Go….” And soon after attendants began filing out, bringing his end to a show…leaving us to imagine how much further he would have gone given an audience to project the rest of his thoughts to. The targets of Richards’s verbal assault were in attendance to celebrate a friends twenty-sixth birthday party which they had been looking forward to for weeks. Two of Richards targets appeared on the tonight show and explained that as they walked in the door in a group of fifteen, a diverse group, Richards announced “a bunch of dirty black people and Mexicans have just walked into the club.” They later revealed that Richards told them that he had enough money to purchase them or put them in jail and that when he wakes up tomorrow “he will still be rich but we’ll still be a n****.” Richards claimed that since the Hurricane Katrina incident he had been harboring aggression towards the black community.

Since our current president has come into office, he has placed militants along the border of Mexico to prevent Mexicans from entering the country, been accused of having low regards for the African American race and has seemingly given more aid to the countries he helped destroy than he has given to the states torn apart after the last years hurricane season.

Minorities stranded in flooded cities, minorities being verbally attacked on their birthdays and minorities getting gunned down hours before their wedding. I’m no politician. I’m just a seventeen year old kid who reads the paper. So someone please let me know, where does a multi-cultural nation go from here?

I can’t say we’re better off now than we were before,
in synopsis this is my minority report.

Me to She...Continued

The base rumbling, as the trumpets boom,
Overwhelmed by the music, southern ladies begin to swoon.
What ever sickness they fell to, she was immune.
Numb from the obvious, trying to cajole her had me feeling like a lobbyist,
Because she had a different kind of party in mind…
So as the audience applauds, over come by awe, she would just daze.
So went days and days, I would go aberrant from her curious ways.
September passed the baton to October, so ran weeks from days.
October became May, so went months from weeks.
So as the orchids bloomed, news that she called left my mind in drawl,
And my eyes rolled satirically, as it appeared to me that my decision had stalled.

Me to She...

Like the left side of the pool…I was too deep, and she was too shallow for me…
We’re comparing a pond to a sea…she was the biggest bass in the lake, but the ocean had many other amphibians for me to see…
I had aspirations; she was too asleep to dream.
How beautiful it would be if she’d break free from her cocoon.
Embrace the sounds of the violin and jump the moon, feel the pain in the jazz as Armstrong croons…

TO BE CONTINUED.

Van Gogh...Meet Death

Some of us like to personify Death as a “Grim Reaper,” and would best describe him as a dark, mellow, loner, draped in an all black cloak making any Goths attire seem like the formal dress code for a hippy convention in comparison. I like to think of Death as an artist. He can simultaneously summon any emotion, evoking deep pain, sympathy, relief, honor, pride, or even happiness (for some sickos) with each of his pieces. He has many different forms of art, and as predictable he is, he always seems to shock us, his style never growing old. And he may be the most persistent artist ever; Death takes no days off in his craft.

Some people might be grieving a recent or even a long time death (I’m in the same place) and might have found my metaphor a bit insensitive however as I progress, my analysis will broaden providing better understanding. A year ago to this day, I was going crazy trying to grasp an understanding of Death.

At times of death some people offer words of wisdom something along the likes of “she’s in a better place…” and to those I’d respond “thanks…but I’m not there with her.” Being a close friend of someone grieving a death can be tough, and some people don’t know what to say…but take it from me PERSONALLY…not saying anything, and not calling someone consistently to check up on them DOES NOT help. I’m not telling you to buy a book of 101 cliché things to say after one of your friends close one dies, but its good to show support because when people are grieving they start to see life in a bigger prospective, and may rate the strength of friendship from a friends actions in their time of needs.

Now back to my main idea concerning Death and his art form. I’d like to employ an anecdote that begins dating back to 96. A young Greg sat in a funeral home chair with his feet dangling, not yet long enough to reach the ground, itching and fidgeting in annoyance from a bowtie, strapped on a tad too tight. This young Greg sat in the back of that funeral home…thirty feet off from a golden brown rectangular prism, too naïve to realize its contents, counting down the time till he’d get home and bust out of his clothes and plop down in front of his Nintendo similar to what he did on Sunday’s during church. Surveying the room looking for one of the clocks he recently mastered reading in class (‘big hand…hour…small hand…minutes’) he noticed, amongst his family, several Euphemisms he’d never seen before. Never knew one day once again he’d be sitting in this room, and some little kid would be surveying his face, and his grandma wouldn’t be the loudest person wailing, she’d be the quietest. She’d show no emotion.

Shock came in March when we got that phone call that Uncle Paul was found unconscious in his room. “He’s alright though right? -- What hospital are we visiting him at? -- Can I stop by the store and get him a card?” Looking back those 14 some odd months ago, I realize this was Deaths rebuttal to me questioning his art a month prior while helping close friend’s aid from a catastrophic event that claimed one of the community’s better role models. I distinctly remember telling my friend “I honestly can’t say I know how you’re feeling…I’ve never experienced that…” and those of you who believe in jinx will nod your heads accordingly.

For a week I didn’t sleep. Not because my Uncle was gone, I was strong enough to cope with the loss, but maybe too strong, and my inability to muster one tear, brought me back to 96, and it drove me nuts. I still didn’t understand his art. This man was healthy. Why him, what was the cause? I’d never find out.

And maybe I should’ve reserved all questions in the back of my mind…never asking God for these answers…because like they say the lord works in mysterious ways.

I remember getting that call…”Greg…you at work?.. At The Garden? Come outside….We gotta go…NOW!” And a Naïve Greg still didn’t get it yet, not even as we pulled into the parking lot to find my Uncle outside on the phone, only to immediately hang up upon our arrival. Not even as the elevator seemed to move in slow motion when we only had three flights or so to go up. Not even as the drummers drum, hummed, “thump, thump…thump thump…thump thump.” Not even as my cousins broke down upon seeing my face. Not even as we stood in a circle around her bed, holding hands. I’d place my hand to my cheek to prove to myself: there must be something coming out…HAS TO BE.

Another sleepless week. Another dry faced visit to the same funeral home room. Another reason for me to get it but I still wouldn’t. Not yet. Not till I opened my eyes in that church across the street from the funeral home and found my cousin holding me up, because my legs had given up. Not till my vision became distorted, as if I’d been swimming. Not till the pastor said ‘Amen,’ not till the youngsters started frowning. Not till the Drummer slowed down his rhythm, “Thump….Thump…Thump.” And then it made the most sense it ever would. Death’s art lent me the first cry I’d experience in almost a decade. Yes the pain was present, but oddly enough, it felt good. I embraced it. And although I wish Death would’ve marked his canvas using other paints, the big picture opened up my mind.

Idamonte

Things are changing so fast, and I don’t like it,

Domino effect, falling one at a time like bowling pins when you strike it,
When you bowl a strike,
Am I really never going to eat another bowl of rice,
That you supplied?
Tonight you died, and I couldn’t even cry,
and I call myself human…
I promise, ill forever pay you homage,
We should pour your ashes in the sand by the Bahamas,
Let you go off to sea with the tides,
Cant believe what I seen with my eyes,
Is that you Grand-mama,
Is that you laid down?
Is that you saying goodbye
And you’ll no longer be round?
Feel like I’m drowned in all this commotion,
From Uncle Paul’s funeral, to Emmanuel’s wedding to my graduation to your promotion,
Yeah that’s what I call it, cause I feel your moving up,
And my only regret is that I never really loosened up,
When I visited the hospital, I just wasn’t feeling the ora,
I sort of, anticipated you leaving, like gas after soda,
I had that feeling in my gut,
But all I could do was trust,
That the lord wouldn’t let you go out like that,
But you a fighter, so you had to go out like that,
Never did I think things would turn out like that,
But life’s mysterious, sometimes candles burn out like that…
But look at you grandma, a true Haitian Cinderella,
Went from nothing to something,
Built a family, nah…built a dynasty,
Built some morals, that will always reside in me,
Built a lasting image, that will always be inside of me,
And your presence is infinity, its like your standing to the side of me,
My knees buckled in the chapel, guess its your way of saying bye to me,
Orevua, Ill make you proud by all means,
That means, I’m gonna work hard, and then some if I must,
And if ever I fail, I’ll always pick myself up,
You aint beat me with your belt, put me on knees for no reason,
Theres no excuse for me to not be what I could be, theres no reason…
Idamonte, my Cherie amor…my Cherie and more…
Ill pass on what you taught me for centuries and more...

We Grow Up

Sure enough, we grow up,
And the things that we used to love, no longer interest us,
Looking at the 3X tees, thinking: this Isn't me,
This is a fad that I adopted, trying to be,
In sync with the rest, now I try to separate myself from them,
Matter fact I’m not trying, it’s more like I am,
I’m trying new things, like green eggs and ham,
Not the engine that could, more like the engine that can,
Not trying to be like rappers, I’m trying to be like the men,
That wrote the constitution, and have institutions, named after them,
I’ll be real blunt, success is my drug, I’m addicted to it,
It was scripted in my future and I’m sticking to it,
No need to improvise, cause I know that I’m,
On my way to the top, long as the gun shops,
Watch who they sell they guns to,
And I don’t run into,
Some sick demented kid, what has this world come to,
SHOCKING NEWS:

Over thirty shot in school!

I just don’t get it,
I try to go to sleep at night, and I wake up sweating,
Cause the thought of one altering other peoples fates,
With all the killings and rapes,
And all the terrorist plots, shows that no one is safe,
But still…I work hard, accumulate that money in the bank,
And bitter dudes talk about me, that doesn’t even fuel my tank,
It used to, but by now I’m too used to, their childish ways,
I’ve grown up a lot, since my childish days...

A Taste Of Whats To Come...

I want to keep all the blogs current, to the way I'm actually feeling at the time of post, this way the blog stays up to date. In all honesty, I haven't written an editorial in some months now, because I haven't had a form of distribution (until now). So being that this is your first visit to the blog, I figured why not give you a taste of one of my past pieces, this you'll know what to expect. Please feel free to comment...whether you have a similar story...or you just want to relate, or just to start discussion. This is my college admissions essay...and besides the colleges I've sent it to...only three people have ever read this:

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the fabric used to conceal the incision they created as I slept. I felt no pain, so I knew they were wrong; I knew this was no tumor my rear cranium had been pregnant with. This was the embryo of my first-born epiphany. This was no tragedy. This was a gift. This was no threat to my health. This helped me get well. This gave ink to my ballpoint.

The nurses said they had never seen anyone in my situation up and about so soon and they offered me any drug you could think of, “just to be safe.” Throughout my stay in the hospital, I received one phone call from my aunt and a visit from my two brothers. After two days of witnessing my roommate being pampered by his friends and family, the only thing I was sick of was my so called friends and relatives being too “busy” for me, so after two days of hell I demanded to be discharged from the facility.

For a week or so all I did was lay in bed, day after day, forlorn and bored out of my mind. I quickly grew tired of being so furious at everyone I had done so much for who “couldn’t” find the time to give me a call or spare a dollar to buy me a card, and those who simply didn’t remember to care. After a while I was angrier with myself for not having anyone there for me. The only people I didn’t hate at this point were my mother, my two brothers, and my two close friends, who visited me frequently to keep me updated with all school affairs, and God for sparing my life.

As I lay there, thoughts were streaming in and out of my mind. I thought about every time I sold myself short and how I would’ve been remembered if my surgery had gone wrong. I realized that my life amounted to barely anything and the thought of being a failure was far scarier then the thought of being deceased. I set off to be like the great forefathers; who had paved their way through history, carving their names in every textbook across high schools in America. I recalled once reading that all of the Enlightenment Philosophers kept in-depth journals, so I began to write. I began milking my life like a cow using the paper as a bucket, writing down anything I felt worth the ink.

Amongst my journals I recorded some of my inner most thoughts.

I wrote about the last time I saw my father. I remembered the scene vividly: My mom slowly rolling her window up until my father finally slid his fingers out of the way of danger. I was positioned in the back seat of our worn down Toyota surrounded by black garbage bags containing all our possessions. I looked back at him and our home for the last time ever through a little opening between the bags that I was able to create using my six-year-old arms.

I wrote about being at my grandfather’s wake confused, still not yet seven-years-old. I didn’t understand the significance of my grandmother breaking down before her ten kids for the first time. I examined the room, observing nothing but somber faces until one of my oldest cousins approached me and said “You’re not crying…you don’t love grandpa!” I can’t guess how long I thought about those words.

I wrote about my first and maybe even my only best friend ever, who moved away as we started junior high school, leaving me without any real friends to pass time with. I wrote about how shy I was and how hard it was for me to be myself. I hated smiling in my school pictures because for years I was teased by my older cousins and brother and found myself uneasy in my own skin.

After elementary school I became tired of being the smart kid who got straight A’s, the kid who only the other smart kids talked to and of not being acknowledged by any of the kids who were into sports as much as I was. I was so determined to bond with these kids, only to regret it five years later in my junior year of high school.

I wrote about how it doesn’t make sense to me that they want us to learn so we could fill in the right bubbles with lead residue, and why we couldn’t just learn to perform the trades we wanted to practice like they did in previous societies.

I wrote about how for so long basketball was my life, and how every practice I proved I was the best player on my third grade team, but once game time came I was unable to perform. I was scared to play with so many foreign eyes beaming down on me. “WHY DIDN’T YOU JUMP ON IT GREG!” my coach would yell, as he scolded me for not diving on a loose ball. Nearly a decade later I would hear those same exact words from my junior varsity football coach after I opted not to recover a fumble. I knew I was good and that I was better than most but for some reason I couldn’t…something was holding me back.

So I kept writing. After a while it became natural, and I didn’t even realize I was still writing. After a week or two, the staples in my head began falling out just like the doctors said they would and I didn’t even detect it because I was too engulfed in my scripts. I even forgot how angry I was that my friends had abandoned me. By now I wrote down almost everything. I wrote about my aspirations. I wrote about how I would have a magazine one day and everyone who ditched me — from my friends to my father — would read my name in vain as I soaked in the rain of success. I wrote about how adversity struck me and inspired me like the apple struck Newton and how I needed to taste failure to acquire a thirst for success.

Two weeks had passed and my pen ran out of ink, but there were still pages of my marble notebook that needed to be filled. I was determined to get myself out of my bed and finish filling the pages of this notebook. I knew that the notebook needed to be filled, and that no matter how many pens and pencils I had at disposal I couldn’t fill the rest of that composition notebook until I had more to write about. I got back on my feet, peeled the bandage off the back of my head — which had practically fallen off by now anyway — ate a hearty breakfast, hopped in the shower, got dressed and informed my mom that I was going back to school again that morning.


-The Ant From Aesop