Honestly, I was ashamed
February 17, 2012
My roommate’s name is Mark.
I’m only going to stay here for one more day, and then, hopefully, I’m out. At least that is what they tell me. Since I got here, I never talked to him. Mark often isolated himself in the corner, pressed his hands together, and prayed for long periods of time. “I don’t want to bother him,” I’d say. The truth is, I didn’t want to speak to him. He seemed to have his act together. He understood himself. I didn’t.
Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institutions Code is a 72 hour hold. Mark has been here for two days. Tomorrow, he will leave as well.
I told them I liked to write, so they gave me a small notebook and a blue crayon. They said that giving me a pencil would be too dangerous. Normally, I would scribble little stories in the notebook, but for some reason I couldn’t tonight. The tip of my canyon kissed the corner of the page, but that was it. Nothing else.
Mark sat at the edge of his bed and pulled out a small bible. He looked at me.
“Hey.” He noticed that I wasn’t writing. I shifted my eyes towards him, but I said nothing.
“I’m sorry if we never talk. We could talk now. I see that you are a christian.” He pointed at the cross hanging on my neck. I quickly grabbed it and hid it under my shirt. Honestly, I was ashamed. A christian wouldn’t mess up like I did.
Mark flipped through several pages of his bible. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to find an appropriate verse that he thought would inspire me and fix everything. I hate that. Nothing he says will help.
He continued to looked, but then he closed it.
“I don’t know what you are or what you did, but I’m bipolar. I’m sure you know that. It’s something that I will have to live with for the rest of my life, but I want to be a missionary. After this, I’m moving to Mexico, and I’m going to help people. I’m not going to let my condition stop me from doing what I want to do. I hope you understand.”
He opened up his bible again and carried on his search.
“I understand,” I whispered.
I call her Red
February 13, 2012
Image Credit: http://media.photobucket.com/image/first%20grade%20crush/amyjohi/IMG_3012copy-2.jpg
The thing is, I don’t know how to communicate with girls. I really don’t.
I barely showed up to kindergarten last year. I had a combination of chicken pox and bronchitis most of the time. I spent most of my days staying at home watching Looney Tunes. During the commercials, I would don a blue cloth around my eyes and pretend to be the Ninja Turtle, Leonardo. It didn’t have any eye holes, so I often stubbed my toes trying to karate kick the air. The point is that I was doing things solo.
First grade is different. I’m healthier now, even though my diet consists solely of chicken mcnuggets and juice boxes, so I can’t skip school to watch TV. First grade is serious business. I have to interact with my peers.
Talking to the boys is easy. I know what they think and what they like. I am one after all. The girls are different. I don’t know what to say to them. I really want to talk to them though. I don’t care if they got cooties. There is something about them that I like, especially this one certain girl. I call her Red. There is nothing red about her, and she doesn’t even wear red. Red is just my favorite color.
Justin is the popular guy. He doesn’t approach girls. They approach him. At recess, he would often pull down his pants to show his tighty-whities, and he would do a little dance. The girls would blush and giggle, telling him how cute he is.
I saw Red sitting with another girl on the bench during recess. She was eating carrot sticks. Carrots are my second favorite vegetable. My first being chicken mcnuggets. Talking about carrots would be a good introduction I thought, so I walked up to them.
Red looked up at me and smiled. The other girl beside her raised an eyebrow.
“Uh….c-c-c-arrots,” I said.
“Oh, do you want some?” she replied.
“I… uh… carrots are… uh… carrots.”
I wasn’t doing too well, and I needed to fix it quick. I looked over at Justin dancing about with his pants around his ankles and thought, “Hey, it works for him.” I unbuttoned my pants and danced around in my power rangers underwear that my mom bought two days ago. Red blushed. It was the first time her nickname made any sense. She grabbed her friend’s hand and they ran off giggling.
Success, I thought. She likes me.
I stood in place with my pants still down. I felt pretty proud of myself until I saw Red and her friend appear from behind the wall, and walking beside them was my first grade teacher and the principal.
“Ryan. Please pull up your pants and come with me to my office. We need to talk about your behavior,” the principal said.
Red and her friend laughed.
The thing is, I don’t know how to communicate with girls. I really don’t.
He told me I didn’t belong here
February 10, 2012
I found myself a chair in the corner of the room. My eyes are dry, and every blink stings. I tell myself that I won’t cry.
These people have problems that I will never understand. They seem so different from me. Yet, for some reason, I feel that I belong here.
It pains me to think that, but I do.
We’re all gathered in one room, but everyone is silent. We sit and wait, watching as the white walls surrounding us blend together into a canvas. A lot of sorrow is painted here.
Mendoza stands up and walks towards me. He is 40 something years old. His face is veiled with mixture of tears and guilt. He is an alcoholic. I don’t understand alcoholism honestly. I don’t think I ever will. But I can sympathize. He is hurting. I don’t need to be an alcoholic to know that feeling.
He places his hand on my shoulder, but his eyes focus on the walls. He is familiar with their stories.
“Listen,” he says. “I don’t know what you are feeling, but you aren’t alone. You are young. People care about you. I’m might just be a stranger to you, but I care about you…”
The counselor in the other room calls out his name. Mendoza takes a small handkerchief from his pockets and wipes his face. He walks towards the door, but he stops. He turns to look at me.
“People make mistakes kid. The difference between you and everyone else here is that you can change. You don’t belong here. Once you are out of here, if you can’t live for anyone else, at least live for me.”
He opens the door and disappears.
The unfamiliarity
October 23, 2011
I think the most painful part is the unfamiliarity.
His face is the same as I remember growing up. His smile surrounded by a bouquet of wrinkles. When I was younger, I used to push them aside with the tips of my thumbs thinking I could fix the signs of old age.
Of course, now I realize that is silly. Yet, I still want to try it. I rub my index and thumbs together and reach towards his face.
The wrinkles shift back and forth like waves. It used to make me upset years ago, but now it comforts me a little. Everything about him is the same except for one thing.
He’s cold.
Hey There She Said
October 14, 2011
I spoke with my friend the other day. I hadn’t seen him a while. We talked about life, school, the usual. I unconsciously brought her up, and he laughed.
“Hey. Let me pray for you real quick,” he said.
He’s a christian. Many of my friends are, so I’m used to prayer. Our heads bowed, eyes closed, a hand gently touching my shoulder. It’s pretty standard stuff, I suppose. He prayed for the usual. My parents would stay healthy; I would do well in school; I wouldn’t get into any trouble.
Then he prayed for her.
I don’t see her that much, nor do I often talk to her. I wish I did.
I can count the number of times our paths crossed on one hand; the same number of times my mouth failed to release a single breath.
I sat on the curb, across from the bus stop, my hands caressing the asphalt like a deep massage. The sun burned the back of my neck. I was too far away from the tree behind me to be blanketed by its shade. I was also too lazy to move.
I heard a cough. It was gentle and almost sweet. I stood up, believing the person wanted me to move. However, the shadow still lingered. I turned and shaded my eyes, but the sun blurred my vision. I could only see a smile.
“Hey there,” she said.
His first guitar
September 28, 2011
Two years ago, I bought my son his first guitar.
He has been practicing everyday, and just recently, he started writing his own songs. He refuses to let me listen to them, let alone read them. It’s a shame. It’s peaceful to hear the little remnants of my father’s voice echoing our hallways.
smack
August 22, 2011
Smack!
We were playing a game to see who can spin in circles the longest without getting dizzy, and it was my turn. I closed my eyes, raised my arms, and shuffled my feet in tiny circles until I looked like a mini helicopter. I even made the “duga-duga-duga” sound effects to complete the package.
I only accomplished around seven spins before I felt my palm hit something.
It sounded like a face.
I opened my eyes and saw Rob curled over crying, his right hand attempting to soothe his cheek while simultaneously hiding the shame of being slapped by a small first grader.
He screamed at me. I was only able to make out “older brother” and “hurt” before he vanished. Everyone around me knew exactly what was coming up. Trevor grabbed my arm and told me to run. I pulled away.
“No,” I said firmly.
I figured I watched enough kung fu action movies to understand how to defend myself in a physical conflict. I had everything planned out. I would try to convince him that it was a simple mistake. It was an accident after all. We were playing a spinning game and my eyes were closed. If that didn’t work, I would wait for him to throw the first punch, quickly duck, do a spinning leg sweep knocking him to the floor, and then glare into his eyes and tell him, “fighting is wrong.” He would run away in fear of my kung fu mastery. I would become the most popular boy in school, win the girl, and bring glory to my family.
It was perfect.
I continued to rehearse my simple strategy until a large shadow clouded my vision.
I looked up. I guess I forgot that older also meant bigger, much bigger. I clenched my fist.
“I heard you hit my brother,” he snarled.
First step. Tell him that it was an accident.
“I…”
Pow!
My breath vanished and I fell to the ground.
Rivers poured from my eyes as I clenched my stomach.
“Not enough kung fu movies,” I told myself.
Her first scary movie
June 6, 2011
My daughter watched her first scary movie today.
My wife and I have been trying to avoid introducing her to horror films in fear that she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, but she has a rather cute, yet entirely annoying way of getting what she wants.
The three of us cuddled on the couch and watched a standard ghost movie. I tickled her feet whenever a scary scene popped up. My wife laughed as she shrieked every time my hand touched her toes. When the movie was done, we sent her to her room.
When we were getting ready for bed, my daughter walked into our room, clutching her favorite bright yellow pillow under her arms. My wife asked if she was scared and wanted to stay in our room for the night.
The golden beams of my desk lamp painted the left side of her face. Her lips quivered.
“When you guys die, are you going to come back as ghosts and see me?” she asked.
I giggled.
“Of course,” my wife laughed. “And everyday, your dad and I are going to tickle your feet when you are sleeping.”
She smiled happily and began to walk away.
It wasn’t quite the response I was expecting. “Aren’t you scared?”
She turned around.
“I was more scared that you were going to leave me when you die, but now I know you’ll always stay. Good night. Love you.”
She stretched out her hands and politely closed our door.
Our eyes locked from across the room again
May 29, 2011
Our eyes locked from across the room again.
There is no smile, no friendly gesture. Nothing. Just a long, silent gaze.
It’s silly, but sometimes I think she can read my mind. Every time I quietly scan the room, her eyes look up and catch mine. Maybe she knows that I’m looking for her. Maybe she can feel the sudden shift of my heartbeat, hear the faint gasp of my breath.
What time is it? My eyes keep steady. I only have the rhythmic ticks of the wall clock to guide me.
She blinks.
The person next to her taps her shoulder, and she turns to speak.
My eyes close as her voice tickles the air.
