Before we get down to brass tacks—(what does that MEAN anyway?), a bit of housekeeping.
Not sure if anyone has noticed it, but for your convenience and assistance, I posted 2 links designed solely to help with the whole speech thing you guys are doing. One is some Q&A tips, the other is some tips on public speaking. There is also 2 speeches linked—the TED talk on creativity, and Pacino’s speech from my favorite football movie of all time Any Given Sunday. Despite some of your aversions to Gilbert’s sweeping hand gestures, her speech stands to demonstrate what it is to be completely comfortable with yourself. That, besides the message she brings, was one of the reasons I posted it. I plan on centering a class discussion around the message, which I think has some pretty deep implications for my AP babies, so be prepared to give it another look-see sometime in the next 10 days.
To Mae—thanks for the heads up about the Itunes thing—TED talks are always free, but it was quite a boon to hear about the Obama thing. Many thanks, pumpkin.
I am not at all thrilled at the prospect that there is a better than average chance my 9/10 will be missing class tomorrow, but as my man Vonnegut would say, so it goes. Be ready to blast out speeches this week so that we can have the analyses (someone has asked me what the plural of analysis is—I forget who, but that’s it) done by Friday. Ambitious, I know, given the fact that you’re off Wednesday, but I think we can do it. I may have to limit the Q&A period to 5 questions max.
Speaking of being off Wednesday, vocab quiz will be moved to Thursday; blogs are still due Wed night.
I think that takes care of the daily minutiae. Now, onward and upward.
Sunday night. This night has sort of a paradoxical connotation tied to it for me. It goes back to, for lack of a better (read: trite) euphemism, my extremely crappy childhood.
Let me explain. I was, like many of you, a child of divorce. I lived with my mother, saw my father on weekends (when he remembered he had a daughter waiting for him to pick her up) and dealt with all of the guilt, sadness, and overall wistfulness of being the kid caught between parents that hated each other. It was, as I mentioned, extremely crappy. And Sundays were the worst because that was the day that my father would drop me back off at home, and I knew it could be the last time I ever saw him. I would make my way into the house where my mother would be waiting, and if I looked even the least bit sad, she would launch into attack mode. “Oh what’s the matter—had so much fun with your dad that coming home to your boring old mother is too depressing? Well sorry I have to work two jobs to support us since that fun-loving s.o.b. doesn’t bother to pay child support….” And on it would go until her energy was spent and I was completely demoralized. My saving grace was, ironically, the fact that my father didn’t see me every weekend, so the times when I was forgotten actually saved part of my soul. Paradox extraordinaire, oui?
This childhood memory, glum though it may be, completely shaped the person I am today. For better or worse. What did I learn? Well, for one, I learned that being yourself and feeling what you feel has consequences. It seems like a crazy lesson, right? But it is one that I draw on to this day. I spent so much time trying to hide who I was and how I felt as a kid, that I eventually lost sight of who that actually was. When I was little, the price seemed way too high, what with listening to my mother rant and rave and tell me how ungrateful I was, so I really felt that masking my true emotions was worth it. And into my teen years, I sort of just grew accustomed to doing that. It wasn’t until I was living on my own that the impact of that mindset became clear to me: Nobody knew me. Oh sure, people knew who I was-my name was out there. But nobody actually KNEW me. And it was really scary, and really lonely.
I wish I could say that once I had this epiphany, my life magically transformed and I became a mature, well-adjusted, productive member of society. But, since I would never lie to you guys, I can’t say that because that’s not what happened. It took time. A lot of time, with a lot of very painful repercussions resulting from my journey of enlightenment. But, now, here I am. A bit worse for the wear, but soul utterly intact and identity firmly entrenched in each decision I make. Was it worth it? Absofreakinglutely.
So, now it’s your turn.
What childhood memory thus far has shaped who you are? Do you want this memory to be the blueprint for which you design your “true Self?” If the answer is no, think about how you can change your perspective on it. What can you learn? If the answer is yes, talk about how you can impact the world and those in it who are most important to you. What lesson would you want to impart that has its root in this memory? I know this is hard; take your time. Nothing worth having is ever easy. And this answer is worth having. Trust me.
(450-500 words/85pts)
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101 comments:
I think this will be hard for a different reason than you think, and here's why- we're all like 16-17. I would venture to guess that most memories before we turned 10 are vague and most from before 5 are just images, or feelings, not scenes we can analyze. And unfortunatley, for us at 17, it is those things that occured way before 10 that did alot of our shaping thus far, and i don't know about everyone else, but I can't really remember much from that time period.
So first Fiona:
I agree with you completely. My most shaping memories are probably vague at best but maybe just thinking about it will bring up something. Right?
Second, Ms Bunje:
So, i decided to look up what " down to brass tacks" means and where it originated. So here it is:
Meaning: usually means clearing out confusing details and finding out the real facts about something
Origin: No one really knows here are some of the best guesses:
1) Cockney rhyming slang; brass tacks = facts.
2) It has to do with the old time draper's shops. they had brass tracks on the counter to measure out exactly the length of the material, so there was no confusion or mistakes.
3) It is definitely American in origin and possibly a Texanism
Hope that was helpful :)
Dear Ms. Bunje
Thanks for stealing my Kurt Vonnegut reference straight out of my last occasional paper. Just kidding, kind of.
Matt:
YOU WOULD.
=]
Jen, you're right; I would and did but that's besides the point...
I just heard the phrase used for only the second time in my life, this blog being the first, on MIB II. What strange coincidences!
Fiona,
First, I don't think you're right at all. If something as concrete as a personality-shaping memory occurred, you will remember it in exquisite detail. That's sort of the point, isn't it?
Matt,
Thank you. That clears it right up! :) NOT!
This blog is a toughie. I have to search my memory bank of wee bambino moments... maybe some Savage Garden will jog my memory. :)
I think that my childhood can be summed up in a few memories. One alone will not do the trick. But let’s launch into it.
I’m standing at the kitchen door. I’m not sure how old I was, but I had to reach up to reach the second of the three hinges. Some sort of mosquito or wasp buzzed past me, and I crushed it against the glass. “What are you doing?” my mom asked, surprised at the sound.
“I just killed a little waspy thing.”
She jokingly said that it had been her pet since she was a little girl. Convinced that I had killed something very important, I started to cry. Though she consoled me at great length afterwards, I felt guilty for nearly two weeks. I don’t think I’ve killed an insect since.
I’m sitting on the deck. My mom is hanging laundry on the clothes line. This must have been very early, because it predated our dryer. She put the wet jeans over my legs, while I chattered about hobbits and elves and some computer game my sister had found. While I was talking a yellow-jacket landed on my legs and stung me through around three pairs of my dad’s jeans. I didn’t mind the pain, but the raw unfairness of it set me crying.
My sister is typing some report on the computer. I jump up next to her, and ask her to write for me. Being bored, she obliges. “Write a T!” She does. “Write an X!” She does. “Write a Y!” She types in the letter, and asks “Is that what you wanted?”
“Yes!”
“No, it isn’t.” She removed the letter “Y,” and replaced it with “Why?”
We often had moths and butterflies in the house. It was a rare treat to find one of the huge silk-moth caterpillars in the pine trees. When we did, we brought them home and raised them.
At one point we raised a Sphinx moth, and waited eagerly for it to emerge from the cocoon. When it did, my sister and brother and I passed it eagerly from one to another, waiting for it to pump the fluid in its body into its wings, for the wings to expand and harden, for it to buzz its wings while wandering over our hands, and finally for it to take flight. But after a few hours, its wings were still crumpled rags, awkward over a swollen body. They dried without ever expanding. This moth would never fly, not in the few short days it would live. We decided to keep it as a pet. So we played with it through the day, and put it in a cookie-tin outside for the night.
When we opened the tin in the morning, it was full of large, red-and-black ants. The moth was gone, except for the crumpled rags of its wings. For the rest of the summer, I would pour water on every ant-hill I could find.
I’m in 5th grade. My sister took my mom and brother and me up to Ithaca, NY. It has to be the most beautiful place in the world. Waterfalls, forests of yew and hemlock trees, rocks worn by weather to shapes more beautiful than human hands could make… It was perfect.
Along one trail through the hemlock trees, we found a small snake. It was no longer or broader than a pencil. A careless foot had stepped on it and broken its back, but it was still alive. It was beyond our power to heal it. My sister took a pair of smooth stones, and crushed its head. And then we walked along, admiring the waterfalls and hemlock trees.
You should be able to trace my current personality through this. There are more examples, but all in similar veins. My life has been spared from human loss, but my family has always lived in a world of metaphor. The wasp I killed at the beginning was any innocent.
Fiona: you don't remember? The images and emotions are still really clear to me. Though I can't remember ever thinking like a little kid. My thought process has always worked the same way.
Alright, since I seem to be completely and utterly alone in my lack of long term memory, allow me to explain.
Before Massachusetts, I have only two memories. One is of a yellow wall, just an image, and the other is my montessori school. Not any events, not any people, just two places the signifigance of which is lost on me now. By the time I moved to Massachusetts, I was already most of the me I am today. True, I have changed gradually since, but never have I found a particular instance to permanently change who I am or my personality. And clearly it was niether that yellow wall nor my mental picture of the inside of my montessori school (just the inside, mind you) that made me who I am today. Hence I find myself rather lost in the sauce on this one.
Also, as far as the yellow wall goes, my parents have told me repeatedly that in all the apartments and homes we lived in out there, they don't recall ANY yellow walls. So there's a valid chance that didn't even exist.
by the way, side note. I was almost six when we moved to Cape Cod.
Yellow walls....hmmmmm. That is very interesting.
Eva:
I went to Ithaca, NY for a softball tournament this summer, and while we were there my family went to one of the many waterfall and hiking sites they have. It was BEAUTIFUL! I love the boulders and the waterfalls, and everything else. This has nothing to do with the point of the blog but I wanted to comment.
Bunj,
I read The Yellow Wallpaper in Comp 101 and if that's what you're thinking about, don't. =P I can assure you that I am niether trapped by domestic life nor insane. But thanks for playing. <3
Love,
Fee
Corie and I were both in tears as we sat next to each other on the floor of the principal’s office. I remember burying my hands in my face at only six years of age as a pink piece of paper was being waved in front of my face. The principal was not only handing me this paper; she was crinkling it, waving it frantically, and giving me orders to lift my head up and take it. The truth is that I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t understand why our bus driver had pulled up to the school late, and then exclaimed that she was writing all of us up before she let us off the bus. I didn’t understand why I was being dragged down to the principal’s office, and, more importantly, I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. Looking back, I would do anything to go back into that room right now staring at my younger self in tears, snatch that pink paper, and shove it into the face of that being who was anything but an educator. No child deserves to ever feel that lost or hopeless as I did.
What happened that day is that I, along with every single student that went on my bus, was being written up. The bus driver, whose name is Melissa Turner, and currently plays the flute in bands throughout our county, refused to give us a reason as to why we were being written up. Corie, my best friend at the time, and I looked at each other as we got up with shaking limbs to get off the bus. The day proceeded normally until I was called down during my math class to go to the principal’s office. I was escorted there by another woman, of whom I should have stepped on their foot. She opened the door to the principal’s office for me, as if I had no idea what that shiny silver thing called a doorknob was. In the room, I saw the other ten students who were on my bus, along with Corie crying near the center. I was told to sit down on the floor and pay attention. Of course, I sat down near Corie, and then stared into the eyes of our principal. Principal? Ha, she was no principal. She was a woman who lacked the knowledge of what the mind of a child was like, and had most likely been to Hades a few times before somehow landing a job at a school with kids who happened to have hearts. “Now, I’m sure you all know why you’re here. So, we’ll just make this as quick as possible. I’m going to call on each of you, and I want you to tell me what you did bad on the bus today.” Did bad on the bus? Does this woman really qualify to educate others at all? She called on one student who really had no idea what he had done wrong. So, after huffing a few breathes, she punched the keys on her key board and brought up a list on the screen showing signs of “misbehavior” on the school’s transportation. She read them aloud considering the fact that most of us could not read all of the words. Finally, she got to one that said “feet in the isle”. I reviewed the way I had been sitting. Corie and I were in one of those small seats on the right side of the bus. I was carrying so much stuff with me that I put my backpack on the floor and the rest of the books and lunchbox on my lap. Since I had no where to put my feet, they were mostly in the isle even though my knees remained foreword.
When she got to me, I simply told her “feet in the isle”, and that was when she handed, no, frantically waved, the pink slip before me. So, that was it. I was given a referral for caring way too much about school. I took home every single one of my books every day because I was afraid to leave them in the desk. I cared too much. What’s more, is that when I got home and showed it to my parents, the unforgivable crime I had convicted served me even more punishment. My father yelled at me to sit down in my chair at the kitchen table. Then, he grabbed hold of my knees and said, “You see this Ashley, this is the way you sit on the bus, not like this,” as he shoved my knees to the side of the chair. He did it four times. I can still remember how firmly he held my knees in his fists. I was crying hysterically, screaming at my mom to make him stop. Yet, my interpretation of “stop” was his interpretation of “go”. If I could go back in time, I would have spat in his face. I want to say that I hate my Dad for it because I believe that in order to love someone, you have to be willing to forgive them. For this, however, I will never forgive him. I have yet to understand how any adult finds it okay to punish a child even when the child does not fully understand what they did wrong; even if it was a mistake.
It’s one thing to feel terrible for doing something you knew was wrong, but it’s another thing to not truly know what it is you are being convicted of. The reason why I should have shoved the pink piece of paper in my principal’s face, stomped on the foot of the woman walking me down the hall, and have spat in my father’s face is because at least then I would have actually had a legitimate reason to be punished. That’s all I want. I want to know that what I did was truly wrong. Instead, I was left in a state of ignorance and frustration. Hence, this memory has certainly shaped who I am today because I never want to get in trouble to the same extent as I did that day ever again. Because of this fear, I don’t talk as much, I don’t get involved with many afterschool activities, I don’t talk to teachers often, I don’t disappoint my parents, and I don’t forget to keep my feet in the isle. I cried for weeks because of this stupid occurrence, and it has changed me to become a person who is afraid to take chances. To be completely honest, I didn’t want to have to write about this for the blog this week because I want to get rid of it, but it was this memory that I kept coming back to. For once, I want to put my feet back in the isle because, you know what, I have realized just how much happier I would be if only I took that chance. I would finally be able to come into school and not have to feel that overpowering sense of loneliness that has plagued my social and emotional life because of my own actions. I hate the person I have become. Somehow, I have to walk down this hypothetical isle, even if I wind up going through the windshield because at least I’ll end my life happy; a happiness that I am already beginning to feel is unattainable. When you think about it, your life is going to end at some point anyway, so you might as well make the time you have left worthwhile.
This memory is certainly not the blueprint for which I wish to design my true self. Instead, I wish for this memory to serve as the polar opposite of its blueprint. This memory shall serve as the reason why I must not be afraid to take chances. I must use my curiosity of what lies in the isle to guide me to better things because nothing will come to me for as long as I stay in my seat. The answers I personally wish to find for myself are in that isle, now is my time to take a journey down it.
From this memory, I can impact the world by having people realize their actions, especially those of adults. No longer can they use the excuse that they “forget what it’s like to be a kid again”. My life, to this day, has been impacted by the actions of one woman who managed to steal my happiness as a result of just one decision. Parents, as well, need to stop concentrating on making their children perfect. They themselves are far from perfect. Thus, they have no right and no reason to punish their child to an unnecessary extent. As for the children, I want them to know that it is essential for them to explore what is right and wrong. They should also be aware of the fact that there is always someone there for them. Plus, if they make a mistake, it’s a good thing because it is from these mistakes that we learn to shape ourselves into better people. It is not punishment which does so. Parents must show children the consequences of their mistakes and guide them towards a better path, but just as we say “violence is not the answer” in war, “punishment is not the answer” when it comes to the misapprehension of children. Young minds, however most creative and complex, are one of the most delicate, and can be easily swayed or damaged. Thus, we must protect them to the best of our capabilities. After all, we owe it to them since they will one day be the ones in power once we become too weak and enfeeble.
From this experience, I wish to set a better example than the generations before me have. When my own child someday makes a mistake or is considered to have done something wrong, I will first ask them if they understand what they did wrong, then why it is considered wrong, and why it is better for it not to be repeated. Increasing the volume of my voice, making them sit in a chair, and repeating a correction that seems useless in their eyes will do nothing. It will not teach them right from wrong, and it may very well cause them to be rebellious or unhappy in the future.
Overall, the lesson I wish to teach is that mistakes are necessary, thus chances should be taken. The realizations we obtain from our mistakes, which includes the guidance we receive from other people, helps to make us who we are. Without these realizations, we would never know or be able to tell what is right or wrong. When you don’t know what is right or wrong, then you rely upon your own opinions. When everyone has their own opinions, nothing can be deciphered as right or wrong. Since we rely so much upon the guidance we are given in this cycle, the proper guidance is imperative. The future lies in those we teach, so teach them, do not punish them.
In response to Eva B:
I remember in elementary school when, during recess, you seemed to share a special bond with wild life, specifically between things that no one else seemed to care about. To me, it was admirable in a way. It is what has made you very unique as a person, and uniqueness is certainly something admirable. The only thing that I was confused about in your blog was that if the wasp was innocent for stinging you, why is it that the ants are guilty for eating the moth? Perhaps there is a difference you see in such a circumstance that I cannot understand. I just happened to be confused about that part. Your blog was inspirational, on the other hand, because it shows the importance of not only “keeping your childhood innocence” (a quote from Under the Tuscan Sun), but also having a respect for other people’s perspective, such as your perspective of nature and life. Trust me, your perspective is something to certainly be respected, and one which I myself have great respect for.
So, I have a childhood memory that changed my life forever. And I can easily say that, for its repercussions will forever follow me. But I am not yet secure with myself or with that memory, (for it isn’t yet a memory, it still lives) to share it with my peers. So I will share another.
This other memory, although not as significant as the pervious, still has an impact on my life, and the person I am today. It may seem like a trivial memory to some, but to me, it has forced me to think about how I act.
My brother and I are close. And when I say close, I mean incredible close. I have to older sisters and my brother who is in the middle of them. I can easily say that Erica was too old for me to connect with her on the same level that I connected with Eddie. Although we still are close, it just isn’t the same. Shaina and I are close, but more sisterly close, if that makes sense. I will go to her and tell her secrets, and she will cure me when I am sick, but we also fight like none other. But Eddie and I are different. He is a father figure, a best friend, and the best brother all in one. Eddie always wanted a baby sister, he had Shaina, but they were too close in age. He always wanted someone to teach, someone to guide, someone to love. And I was that for him. He taught me how to walk, how to hit a bat, how to parallel park. He is always there for me, and always will be. We have this joke, which I know has a bit of truth to it. We tell our mom that wherever I go to college, Eddie will move there and stay with me. I picture Eddie and I living next door to each other, our kids being best friends. I picture myself always having him.
So the memory comes from about eight years ago. Eddie was off to college. Eddie was leaving me. At that time, all I thought was that I would have no one to play board games with, no one to hug, and no one to love. We dropped him off at college, and it was the time to say goodbye. I started crying and so did he. It hurt to leave him, because I knew he was lonelier than I was. The drive home was painful, I just cried and yelled and screamed. When I got home, I ran to his room, half expecting him to be there. The empty room was dark and gloomy, nothing like what it was the day before. I went into my own room and gathered up all my money, all two dollars of it. I wrote Eddie a letter, and I put the money in it. I was afraid that he didn’t have enough money, thinking he wasn’t going to make it. I was honestly scared for him; I didn’t want him to be alone. And thinking back to that moment, that is what I wanted and still want for Eddie. I didn’t want him to miss out, to be alone. Even today, when we order pizza and he isn’t home yet to eat some, I get OCD and make sure that people save him a piece. When there is a little bit of milk left, I make sure to save some for him. I never want him to miss out.
Although he had to leave, college was more important than what I wanted, I felt abandoned. And although he isn’t the root of my trust issues, (I know where they come from, believe me) I can’t seem to find anyone else I trust more than him. Ever man that will ever be in life will be compared to my brother, because he is the one person that I will always love with all my heart. I feel like he is the ‘perfect man.’
Part of me wants this memory to shape my life; I want people to realize that there are those people out in the world that you can trust and love with your heart. But part of me doesn’t. I don’t want to have to question everyone’s morals and values that are brought into my life. But that has to deal with my own trust issues with the people around me.
The lesson that I want to learn is that I need to start to let myself ease up. My own trust issues have affected many relationships in my past, and I need to learn to overcome them. I need to learn to open myself up, share my own story, and allow myself to truly connect with people.
I love you, Eddie. More than you will ever know.
Ashley-
Your blog was amazing, and I honestly felt your pain with you. I want you to know how brave you are to share your memory, for I have yet to be able to come and write in words the memory that truly shaped me, but I like to think that everyone is allowed to keep their own secrets. You are a wonderful writer, and I hope you never are afraid to talk to people ever again in fear of them punishing you, because most people have more heart than that ass of a principle. And I want you to know that I wrote down one of your quotes from your speech, the one about the trauma in your life, and it is on my wall.
To Molly: Thank you. :-)
Ashley: That blog summed up everything that was wrong with the elementary school system. On the bus, you're assumed to be guilty, regardless of your actual actions. The administration doesn't actually care about the students, only about the numbers they churn out. And parents assume there's some validity to the whole system. It's a shame that had to shape you.
The first wasp didn't actually sting me. I reached out and killed it for no reason at all. I can't ever do that again.
The yellow jacket actually lived. It flew off after stinging me, and there was no point in spraying for other wasps. I've always hated wasp-spray anyway.
Ashey,
I can definatly relate with your bus story, because almost the same thing happened to me. They called our whole bus down into the office at Hess, and started playing a video, and there were kids standing up and jumping around. They were throwing stuff and yelling, but within a few seconds I realized that that wasn't my bus. They scolded us and ranted about behavior, and when they finally asked if somebody had something to say, I raised my hand and said 'Yeah, this isn't our bus.' And then they just let us go like nothing had ever happened, and didn't even admit that they were wrong.
This is one question that I’ve thought about constantly and one question I try to avoid. Like you Bunje, during my childhood did I not only grow up as an only child, but I experienced too much loneliness for my own good. I was as young as three-four years old when I can remember like it was yesterday how my parents fought with each other. My mom in the past was a very selfish,, violent unhappy person. She tried keeping me, my fathers surprise from god (he had a vasectomy, so I was a gift), from him. I only remember a few fights where my mother would push my father away in utter rage by ripping his shirt and hitting him. I never once remember him putting a hand on her, but she claims he even pulled a gun on her just to take me away from her chaotic hands. She got a restraining order against him, while they were still married. He had to move out about fifteen minutes away from the house we still have to this day. They weren’t separated or even divorced. I guess it was a separation period. My dad had a lot of health problems. He was on the list for a heart transplant and he had diabetes. I was four and half when my mom and now my mom’s fiance (I call him dad today) took me to the park ( she was still married to my father). When we got home, a cop car with my dad came to my house, since he had the restraining order against him. He owned many landscaping businesses and his business was basically at the house he once called home. I hate how I can remember this day moment by moment as I saw him walking in through the door I was ESTATIC to see him. He was my father and I swear if he was still a live rather being a mother’s girl.. I would definitely be a father’s girl. He acknowledged me by picking me up in his arms ignoring my mother’s nasty attitude toward him dropping by and of course I can remember my dad’s beautiful, soft blue eyes looking worried. He saw my mom with another man. When he reached upstairs to get the computer, the records, and all the files concerning the business he collapsed having a heart attack. I was downstairs, and all I heard was my sister running down the stairs her eyes flooded with tears telling mom to call 911. August, my sister, ran outside in the comfort of my mom’s fiance’s arms. I didn’t realize what had happened. At that moment, I followed my sister just with confusion and I remember just hugging her. I was brought to the hospital. I remember waiting and being so bored. Everyone’s faces were altered by stress. My mom didn’t even go to the hospital. At the hospital, it was of course announces that my father was dead. Just typing this makes me cry still. I don’t know how I could have ever grasped my father being dead at such a young age. I still can’t grasp it today. I wasn’t even suppose to be born and he was obsessed with me for the factor. There are so many tapes of me just sleeping or eating, even one just me sitting in my play pen for an hour. He loved me and he was gone. I remember the funeral, too. My mom wasn’t there either. She only went to the viewing. I didn’t quite understand at the funeral either. I still didn’t understand that my father was gone forever. Everyone was so sad and I was worried about my hunger. My PopPop took my hand and brought me somewhere to get me a cheeseburger because I love cheeseburgers. And I was okay. It wasn’t days after that I realized my dad was gone. I would write letters to my dad and put them in my back yard on a tractor just thinking that they’ll go up to heaven and he’ll write back to me. I just wanted some form of communication with him. This moment in my life is the blueprint of my true self. If this didn’t happen, I’m not sure how I would be. I don’t think I’d be the easy going, sweet, kind person. I think growing up as an only child and having both parents.. I would be a self-centered brat like most kids are that grow up with no siblings. I’ve thought about this so much its ridiculous. Growing up with this whole experience, I’ve swallowed a lot of deception that my mom has thrown at me. Yet she is so deceiving about this topic, she’s the one person I put all my trust in and the one person I stick to. I love my mom, but I feel as if she killed my father by emotionally draining him and giving him that heart attack that led to his death. I would have picked divorce any day over his death. I would give anything to learn who he was, to have his embrace, for him to comfort me, and do fatherly things with me. I won’t have my father in my wedding. I didn’t have him to teach me how to drive a car. I don’t have him for the most simplistic things. And It KILLS me inside. Because of this, I trust very little and I close myself up. This has contributed me to bottle things up way too much and to bring me every once in a while to emotional break downs quietly in the confines of my home. I break down then recollect and I remain happy. It has shaped my outlook immensely. I deal with death fine now. I’m not afraid of it because I desperately want to be with my father whether there is an afterlife or I’ll just be next to his body in the ground. I want to be reunited with him. I never take anything for granted. I overly appreciate everything and thankful for what I have. I never fight with my parents or with anyone. I never know when will be the last time I see that person. In reality, I wish this traumatic experience didn’t shape who I was. I know I’m mentally screwed up from it. I always wondered how I never became depressed, hooked on to drugs, or an alcoholic. Because I always needed/wanted a way out of the pain I felt. I still feel pain. Everyone will lose their parents, but losing your parents when you’re four years old, the most crucial part of you’re life, is tough. Because of my experience, when others lose someone they loved I’m always a great person to comfort them because I know what it’s like to lose one of the closest people to you, a parent. I wish that my mom knew how I felt. This is one topic I feel as if I can’t openly talk about to her. She doesn’t even know my perspective on it. Growing up, she didn’t even let me watch any videos of my father or look at pictures. It was truly like he was a ghost. He just didn’t exist to her. I still never understand why that is to this day. This is probably why I try my hardest to be independent and not get emotionally attached to anyone. What doesn’t kill you, does make you stronger. Never take what you have for granted. Never hold grudges on anyone. You never know when someone will just leave your life forever.
Fiona-
"I think this will be hard for a different reason than you think, and here's why- we're all like 16-17. I would venture to guess that most memories before we turned 10 are vague and most from before 5 are just images, or feelings, not scenes we can analyze. And unfortunatley, for us at 17, it is those things that occured way before 10 that did alot of our shaping thus far, and i don't know about everyone else, but I can't really remember much from that time period."
I disagree. If you decide to read my blog, I remembered way too much for my own good only being four years old. A moment that changed who I was forever. A moment that still is altering me today. A lot can be discovered from one's past. It just takes time to think about it and ponder on what moment really altered who you were going to be or turn out to become.
Ashley-
"I want to say that I hate my Dad for it because I believe that in order to love someone, you have to be willing to forgive them. For this, however, I will never forgive him. I have yet to understand how any adult finds it okay to punish a child even when the child does not fully understand what they did wrong; even if it was a mistake."
I agree with you when you state that you have to be willing to forgive someone in order to love. Everyone makes mistakes and it takes a bigger person to forgive then to fret. I can't believe something like this happened. How did administration even have time to enforce something so dumb?
Toni-
Your blog literally made me cry. Granted I was kind of prone to doing so beforehand, but still. I cannot express to you the appropropriate sympathies, but I do hope writing it all out helped to some degree. As for my blog about our ages, clearly multiple people have already disproved that. But I don't know if you read the blogs following that, but I'm beginning to think either A) I was born a smaller version of the Fiona I am today or B) I caught amnesia at some point in my short life, because I have none of the memories other people in the class seem to, and even if they're horrific or upsetting, I'm actually jealous of all of you for having that hindsight. For instance. My grandmother died when I was seven. I can remember what she looked like, and I remember we were close. I remember she's the one who encouraged me to start sewing, (if any of you saw my prom dress last year, you know that's encouragment I took to heart) but all of those are more general knowledges than memories. They might have been absorbed by my parents telling me them so many times that I've just come to believe I remember them. The only specific memory I have, the only scene-like memory, is just another picture. She was teaching me to wink, sitting in a big arm chair, and based on what I can see behind her, we're in her living room. But that is literally ALL I have of my grandmother, who was such a help to me and my family for those seven years. Then after her death, I remember my dad crying on the couch. Again, nothing more than a picture. I remember no funeral. I remember no burial. I remember the cemetary and that she's near a wall only because of visits since. And even though it was a horrible horrible event, I wish I had more of her to cling to. But I don't, and probably never will because of my seive-like memory.
It kind of makes me worry. Going to college is a time of leaving people, no matter how many new people you meet. If I can't name all of my teachers from M. E. Small Elementary School, or tell you about my grandmother, then will I, ten years down the road, remember those who are impacting my life and mind now? Because I swear to God if I ever forget Mrs. Rock, I may have to just kill myself right then.
I might have to start this and then finish it later tonight, because I'm heading out for DC soon and I don't think that I'll be able to finish. That being said, it's extremely hard for me to think of a single childhood moment that really acted as a "blueprint" for the person I am today. Like Fiona, all the memories I have a just vague images of events and interactions with people. There's only---
Shoot. My dad is yelling at me to leave. I'll come back to this later.
Bright, fluorescent white lights glare down. All I can hear is whispering and hushed talk in the background. I am barely conscious, only able to make out hazy blobs floating across my narrow line of vision. I have no clue where I am or why I am there; all I know is that I AM. I hear wheels rolling in the distance, I can tell they are getting closer but only because of the slight change in volume that they produce across the white, linoleum. One of the hazy shadows moves towards the wheels, grabs something, and returns to his position standing over me. I feel him place something on my face and within seconds the room is gone and I am left in a pitch-black nothingness.
This day proceeded as any other normally did for me when I was six. I was dropped off at my babysitter’s house in Egg Harbor City before the roosters where even up, the sun was barely shining it was so early. I watched, disheartened, as my dad left but I quickly assuaged my sadness with a few handfuls of Cheerios and two Tonka Trucks. Slowly other kids poured onto the enclosed, heated deck and we began to play together, wreaking havoc as we created pile-ups and car crashes everywhere. By the time we are done, the deck looks like a tornado hit it twice over and a meteor came crashing down.
We were promptly told that we needed to clean up before we even thought about doing anything else or else we would find ourselves with a one-way ticket to the corner. So, reluctantly, we trudged back to the deck and slowly began picking up all of the carnage we had created in mere minutes. The pace eventually picked up as someone decided to sing the infamous “Clean up, Clean up” song from Barney. We quickly hastened our pace in order to keep up with the ever-quickening tempo. Within seconds, the desk was back to its original state of cleanliness.
We rushed into the kitchen to inform Ms. Stef and she examined the deck. She congratulated us own our teamwork and quick clean up. She walked us into her blue-carpeted living room. We quickly picked out a movie, VHS (what does that MEAN?), and she popped into the player and we were glued to the television set. I don’t really remember the movie but that’s not important; what happened after the movie is what ultimately altered my life at six years of age.
After the movie ended and the credits began to roll, we all got up and began spinning around in time to music, which of course was not allowed. I began to spin faster and faster, soon I was unable to control myself; I was a top with blazing a trial of utter chaos. The room blurred together as red became blue and orange became purple. Then my world froze as I slammed into a wooden VHS holder. I flew back on to the floor, woozy and unable to gain any bearings. I heard someone scream, but it sounded muffled, as if my ears were filled with cotton. Soon my vision, what was left of it, was washed over in a transparent shade of red. What happened next is somewhat fuzzy.
Ms. Stef rushed into the run and shooed the rest of the kids out of the living room. She rushed to the telephone and hurriedly asked something of my parents. The mean while my red-hued vision is soon accompanied by a blaring headache and nausea. I feel a warm liquid slowly dripping down my cheek.
My senses are then sent whirling as Ms. Stef picked me up and quickly strapped me into her truck and she place a wet rag on my head and wiped my eyes and face. We then quickly rushed to…I’m not exactly sure where considering I was fading in and out of consciousness but I do remember the speed and hast with which we traveled.
When we arrived at our mysterious destination, I was strapped onto a stretcher and rushed to an OR. I was moved to a somewhat soft reclining chair and eventually knocked out. I was stitched up and sent home…
The question is how did this shape my life….
After this incident, I rarely ever broke a rule again. Not only did I not break rules, I refused to take chances, and tried to enforce the rules on everyone else. To this day this entire mindset is still with me, I rarely do anything where I could hurt me mentally, physically, or spiritually. It isn’t as bad as it originally was but I still barely experience life because of my fear to take chances, which could definitely contribute to my fear of change.
This memory flashes into my mind very often before I do something new or challenging, often it tends to halt my attempts but once in a while I can shoo it away. It is quite a pain, especially since I feel my life could be some much more productive if I could get over fear that has been instilled in my mindset since childhood. Which leads me to the next question.
I absolutely do not want this to be the blueprint for my “true self”. If anything, I would use it as a learning experience to be cautious but not to hide in a shell in order to protect myself.
I think that if I were to maybe look at this experience in a different light. Instead of using as the template for what could happen by taking chances I could use it as an example for what experiences come from taking chances and how they change can my life, for better or worse. If I look at it as a learning experience, how can it possibly hinder me anymore, right? The main step is just being able to change my mindset from everything bad comes from taking chances to life is a big chance and it is all a learning experience so go for it, have no regrets. Having regrets is one fear that is greater than this one and hopefully it will push me onto the right path help me see this experience as beneficial and remove the hindrance that has been created because of it.
I hope to learn that life is a myriad of mistakes and chances and trying to live without them is no life at all. Life is about learning from failure, which is ultimately what I am scared of, failing and getting hurt in the process. I want to come out with the knowledge that I have nothing to regret and that I can overcome this fear of mine.
I guess there has to be a reason I turned out the way I am. As many people have pointed out, I'm incredibly shy and antisocial (although I've been working on that tremendously). But what people don't really know is who I am. Like Molly said, there's a childhood memory that's still shaping my life as we speak, and will probably impact me more than anything else, but I'm not willing to disclose that over a blog and to peers. So I'm going to tell of a memory almost as significant, but it's definitely transformed my opinions and perspective.
My aunt Ginny is probably one of the most amazing people in my life (note that I don't normally speak very highly of my family). She lives in Florida, so I don't get to see her besides the 3-5 times a year she'll come down to visit. She's got a manly raspy voice, tall, big hair, overly friendly, slightly bipolar, and, like the rest of my ginormous family, never stops talking. But I remember one night, probably 5 or 6 years ago, she came down to visit. It was probably 2 in the morning, my parents and little sister already asleep. My aunt was bundled up on the rocking chair while Tori lay across the couch. I walked in through the double doors and they suddenly got really quiet. I knew that meant I had to stay in there to hear what they didn't want me to. Of course Tori told me, "Get the hell out, we don't want you in here." But my aunt, almost crying, said, "No, stay. You deserve to know this, too."
So as I tried to move Tori's legs over on the couch, which didn't work, I plopped down on the ground and waited anxiously to hear what my aunt was going to say. "Your uncle is a fucking bastard!" my aunt screamed. I was so confused, already. Considering I have 6 uncles just on my dad's side of the family, I had no clue who she was referring to and why. After I asked those few questions, she answered, "Your uncle John molested me when I was a kid. He molested my sister. He molested my fucking daughters! He's a sick freak!"
What? My uncle John? He's always seemed so nice, though. Whenever I saw him he always had a present for me. He'd give me tons of hugs and kisses. He loved us—he couldn't ever do such a thing. But then I started thinking more. Oh god, all those times he'd slap my ass and say "oh, I bet you have the boys begging for you!" or "so do you have a boyfriend yet, or can you not keep track?" *For the record, at that age I was fat and ugly and there was no way any boys would want to even look at me, but that's beside the point. But once I started thinking about these little quirks, I began feeling disgusted and almost abused. It was like, I trusted this man, I loved him, yet he hurt so many people in my family, and for all I know he could have been hoping to hurt me. I felt molested in just his words. Never had he laid a hand on me in a way that could be considered "bad", but I still felt that way. I was still thinking about all this when my aunt continued with her story, "And your uncles and father didn't even believe me. Lord knows I couldn't tell your nanny, she'd be devastated, but it took my over 20 years to tell my siblings and they refused to believe it." At this time in my life, I actually didn't hate my family. When I was young, I had a really good life. I wasn't spoiled, but I had everything I wanted, but never to any extreme. I loved my parents (the thought of that makes me laugh to this day), and I loved all my family members, and couldn't imagine them being so ignorant (again, another remark that makes me laugh). Then my aunt continued even more. "And my own father molested me. He'd bring me in the back room and make me touch him. I was so happy the day he died." I never met my grandfather. This one was George Pilallis. All I've ever heard about him was that he was a complete ass. He died on his way to work with another woman in the car.
This memory of mine is more of my aunt's memory. But it affected me so much. It was then that I realized my family if fucked up. I never made eye contact with my uncle since that day—still haven't. I tense up any time he tries to hug me, and try to avoid that at all costs. It was because of this that I can barely trust anyone. How could my dad even allow such a monster into our house and let him come close to us? After my aunt told me this, I started looking at the world with a much different perspective. Everyone I saw I knew I couldn't trust, and if any one tried to touch me or get near me I would cringe. Want a few examples? I went to a concert with my friend Sarah and my mom in 7th grade. My mom didn't let us go in the mosh pit because she was too scared for us, so we were right up front and getting squished. My mom would try touching my shoulder or holding me so I was "alright". But any attempt she made, I'd flinch, give her a dirty look, and tell her to get off me. I hated any sort of emotional connection, any form of love, any form of affection. Another example, just yesterday I stayed after for softball. My dad picks me up in egg harbor because it takes me 1 ½ hours to get home, so I called him and said be there in 10 minutes. I get off the bus, he's not there. I wait by the gas station, and I'm picturing in my head what I'm going to do if that person on the bike comes up to me and tries to grab me. Or if the guy getting his gas in the truck drives up and tries to push me in the car. I don't trust any one. I think everyone's out to get me. Maybe I'm just overly cautious? But it's because of my aunt's story that I'm like this, I know there aren't many good people in this world, even the ones you think you can trust. It's because of my aunt's story that I realized my family is nothing but screw-ups, liars, obsessive and compulsive crazy freaks. Because after this, things started to unfold in my direct family: my parents' drug addictions, gambling problems, sex addiction, alcohol problems, any and every obsessive and compulsive behavior imaginable. Everything I found out made me more disgusted, yet they confirmed my honest belief that everyone in my family, including myself, is doomed.
There's no question that this memory is the "blueprint" that shaped my "true self". It's accurately established and confirmed my beliefs. It's made me cautious. It's made me aware. Sure, it's made me almost scarily shy, but, like I said, I'm working on that. I know this memory was the starting point of my overwhelming pessimism, but I honestly think a pessimistic viewpoint is a lot closer to a realists' than an optimistic view of the world. The only way I could impact people with what this memory has offered me is probably just advice, and I believe this is my overall lesson I'd like to tell, as well. Don't live your life thinking everything is fine; don't live your life thinking all people are good. Live cautiously and be more aware. Open your eyes every once in a while.
This was pretty long, sorry.
Ashley:
Your blog was, once again, amazing. I could not stop reading, at 11:30 last night, sleep could not over take the words you wrote. It really was great. I also agree with your stance on explaining what a child did wrong. How can they ever learn if they never know? Overall, i really liked you blog and feel bad about what happened, it must have been horrible.
Our childhood molds us into we are. Our personality is entirely created by our parents and our peers until about the age of 10, when we finally absorb some independence and begin to think for ourselves. And it seems that most of the memories that have shaped us into who we are, aren’t very positive ones. We have retained plenty of information from our early years. The emotional memories of our childhood have the lasting impact on us, however. I was actually kind of curious why we remember much of the negative aspects of our childhood, and I found that there is an increase in brain activity during negative events, according to Boston College psychologist Elizabeth Kensinger and colleagues. Kensinger also actually said that these memories may, “save our lives by guiding our actions and allowing us to plan for similar future occurrences.” Just found that interesting…
Anyway, there are so many options that I could possibly talk about. So many memories from my younger years float about my head that have impacted me positively and negatively. But one just sticks out more drastically than the others…It was only about 6 or 7 years ago, but it still haunts me today. I had just asked if I could have my best friend come over, and my mother exploded. She hated her for God knows what.
There we, me standing there, fighting my rage, trying to be strong. And then there was my mother, screaming at the top of her lungs only inches from my face. Her veins bulged from her neck as her screams got louder, and she slapped my face several times. I just waited, taking in every violent word she said, until the moment I could storm back into my room and lock the door. But this time, there was no moment of safety. I was trapped. She was blocking the entrance to my room, as she continued to yell and scream at me, lunging on my throat before I could say any word of explanation. I wanted to get out of there. I needed to. Every part of my body was shaking in fear. I ran toward the bathroom and locked the door. My mother seemed to calm down. She stomped to her room and slammed her door, which made my anxiety-driven body to crumple. I collapsed onto the bathroom floor and let my silent tears escape me. My limps still shook as violently as ever as the image of my furious mother burned fresh in my mind. I heard my mother aggressively open her door, and then the shouting began once again. But this time it was worse. She pounded on the bathroom door, punching it and even resorting to kicking the order with all her might. The door burst open, as chunks of the wall, where our door was connected to, came off. There she was, in my tear-stained face again, screaming with all her might. After several minutes, she backed away and went into her room again, with a slam of her door. I escaped as soon as I heard the door close. I sprinted down the stairs, through the front door, grabbed my bike and just rode. My mind was blank as I continued to ride. I, without thinking, rode to my best friend’s house on the street over. Her mother answered the front door and I ran upstairs to where my best friend was. Once I entered her room, I shut the door and cried. Just cried for a good fifteen minutes. She comforted me and even offered me her favorite pillow to cry on. I refused to go back to my house, because at that moment, I couldn’t think of a place worse to be than my own home.
I can only write to you how bad it was, but if you were there you’d understand my pain. The thing that really kills me about all this is that she never once bothered to apologize to me…Ever. She just went about her daily business the next day, pretending like nothing happened when I was still an emotionally stunned mess. Instead of just sitting me down, and having a calm discussion with me, she chose to scream at me. I wish this memory would just disappear, like the rest of my forgotten memories. I don’t want this memory to be the blueprint of my life at all. But it has been for quite some time. Every time someone yells at me, I cry. I ball my eyes out. Right now, I feel that I will never, ever love or accept my mother. I have become strong, independent, yet so fragile that I might just break. I really hope that one day I can just let this go. I have forgiven her, but I will never forget. I have tried so hard to love her, but that’s not how love works. I have learned from all this, that I will never treat my children in the same way. I will love and nurture them and keep my cool when things get too tough for me to handle.
This was extremely hard to do…
Ashley-
Your blog was amazing. Seriously. I couldn't stop reading it. I felt your pain with every word. I have also promised myself to teach my children the right way. Yelling gets you no where in my opinion. Very heartfelt!
Didn’t you care about me?
Were you left with a smile on your face at night when I
Wished the car would crash every time I got in
Had to find somewhere else to hide because “grandma” occupied my safe haven
Cried myself to sleep
Lost myself and therefore lost my world
Where were you my whole life?
Is God really real? I’m not exactly sure to tell you the truth. I’ve gone to church since I was in my mother’s pregnant belly. I fully believed everything my religion offered until my world came crashing down with the death of my godmother. They say God helps those most in need. If you really pray to him he will help. Then why didn’t he save me? Why didn’t he care that I didn’t know what to do with myself? Forget about me. Why doesn’t he help the millions of children who are raped? Is that the passage they have to go through to get to this so-called God? If so, why does he have to be so cruel?
In losing faith with God I lost faith in the people in my life. I thought everyone would just pack their bags and leave me in shreds one day. So the “solution” was no contact with people. I was already shy so the talking part was taken care of but the physical part was a work in progress. Hispanics tend to be very affectionate and not hugging and kissing my family would leave them to believe that there was something wrong with me. But since they were to preoccupied with my bratty grandparents that they didn’t suspect a thing. But the thing is that I needed the attention that they weren’t giving me. I needed someone to talk to. I needed help.
It wasn’t healthy at all. And I was lucky that I didn’t hurt myself. My head was on the wrong tracks but my neck moved it the right way. I got out and I’m glad I did. Sometimes I wished I had lived my preteen life a little better. But I don’t regret it. If I had gone through the experience I wouldn’t have lived. I wouldn’t have known how good a hug feels after such abstinence. I wouldn’t have known what it’s like to have the best friends in the world. I wouldn’t have feel in love with the rain. I wouldn’t have learned that I need to appreciate everything in this world because one day it could be gone and there is no turning back. Now I go through every day appreciating everything life has to offer and I’m a happier person because of it. Whether God is real or not I can live and that’s the best feeling in the world. =)
Ashley,
High five! Haha! Your blog was like a book. Strike that! It was like a movie. Better right? I could picture every word you said and I felt like I was in the corner of the room watching everything happen. Poor Ashley =(
And good for you at the same time! Put those small feet of yours back in the isle and while your at it stick your tongue out too. Just kidding! Anyways well done. =)
You know what childhood memory has shaped me? Not the best- I must say… I remember when I was just eight years old…I’d always had the principle of “clean living is happy living” forced into my head. I was only a little kid but you know clean freak parents and chore happy parents….instead of playing with Barbies or going out on play dates I was being barked at. My two older sisters and I were the unofficial maids of the house, I guess. We cleaned both bathrooms until they were spotless, we swept and vacuumed the house on a daily basis, we washed the three cars three times a week, and we washed dished despite the dish-washer in the corner.
One memory that jumps up at me and yells “pick me!” when I see this question is one that really got me seeing the “truth” to the principles of my all-too-Puerto-Rican-family. Like I said, I was eight…maybe it was nine…not sure actually. Anyway, do you remember those days when it used to snow down here is east bumble? Well, it was a few days after Christmas and the weather was nastier than ever. The temperature had to be in the single digits and it had snowed like crazy. To my surprise, my father, two sisters, and I went on a car ride. ‘This will be fun” I naively thought. As I stared out the window, wondering where we were headed, I heard the tick tick tick of the left hand blinker. As we turned into the car wash, I thought ‘geez…my dad is so insane. He’s going to go through the auto-wash TODAY??’.
The car passed right by the auto-wash lot and proceeded to the manual station. My father got out…actually picked up the power wash gun, put coins into the machine, and said “well? GET OUT AND HELP!”…so get out we did. He reached into the bed of his truck, pulled out a bucket, a container of soap, and two rags. “Khrys (my sister Khrystyne), (hands her the broomy-thing) clean the tires.
And so Khrystyne scrubbed the tires- not a bad job- but Cassandra and I were left to pick up a sopping wet, half frozen rag in our bare palms, and “wash” the sides of the car- which consisted of us [two young girls] sweeping the rag and icy-cold water back and forth. We had to stop every couple seconds to throw the rag down and put our freezing hands inside the warmth of our coats. This went on for about half an hour. When all was done, I could swear that my hands were a shade of purple and stiff.
I don’t resent my father, so don’t go yelling abuse. I will just say that I made the whole story up.
The basis of this little experience is that OCD is pretty limitless. It definitely impacted me…it sort of made me into a mini “OCDee”- for lack of a better word. It’s not necessarily what I want but its fine. I am by no means as die-hard as my father once was (by the way he is much better), but I still do pretty odd things. I hate backwards necklaces- if the hook is not behind your neck, I will fix it, and I organize, alphabetize, and color code pretty much any material item in my line of vision. I do it to papers, to the clothes in my room, and to food. I definitely won’t push this insanity onto any other human being. I hope I answered the blog the right way.
Fiona…
I was definitely interested in your story. I couldn’t draw my eyes away because I was determined to read the conclusion-which would tie it all into a pretty little bow for me. I think I can see the psychology your mother used to sort of teach you a life lesson, and I see the compassion, and I see the humanity…but I think there is more to it that I’m missing. I liked your blog...I think I just can’t read deeply into things.am I missing the link? I hope I’m wrong and that I totally understand what there is to be understood.
Overall my childhood was one straight from a dream. I grew up with two older sisters who were always there to play with me and a little brother I was able to nurture and love. My mom was a stay at home mom, and my dad was his own boss. As a result, I was fortunate enough to have both of my parents around quite often. I remember so many good times with my young family. Dancing in our old living room to Winnie the Pooh songs, doing gymnastics in our huge basement while singing Achy Breaky Heart, going rollerblading in the park with my mom-mom, having french toast at Gee's house, birthday parties with the whole extended family, etc. I was so so so fortunate to have been given what I was given as a child, and I have a lot of trouble thinking of anything bad that ever happened to me when I was little. I mean, I was hospitalized twice in one winter because I had pneumonia, I got in trouble once by my kindergarten teacher for allowing my crush to influence my behavior, and I remember feeling left out from time to time...but in general, I have nothing to complain about. I have nothing negative to grow from.
That was, until Coach Bob passed away. However I have already interpreted this horrific event in an occasional paper, and I'm sorry but I really do not feel like evaluating the subject any more.
So instead of recounting a depressing or unfortunate childhood memory, I'm going to pick a happy one :) because don't they help to shape us as well?
For all of you Mays Landingers...do you guys remember student of the month? Well I used to take that really seriously. I remember the ceremony when we would all gather in the auditorium. I was so nervous, and couldn't stop wondering if I had gotten it. I had butterflies in my stomach, and my hear was racing. When it was my teacher's turn I thought I was going to die. I couldn't stop squirming in my seat and hoping it would be my name that appeared. Sure enough, it was. I was so excited.
Every year after that I would strive to get student of the month. I would work so hard for that achievement. To my younger self, it meant a lot. As silly as this seems to me now, it says a lot about who I am. I realize that this was the first time I felt proud of myself. I felt a sense of self accomplishment. Nobody could take that achievement away from me, and I just remember loving the pride. It taught me that when you work hard you can get what you want, something that I still believe strongly in.
My parents’ divorce without-a-doubt had the biggest impact on my life and it continues to shape who I am to this day. Although the actual occurrence happened over ten years ago, the bad after affects probably won’t stop until I’m eighteen, if I’m lucky. But no matter what, I’m a strong believer of “everything happens for a reason,” so this episode in my life was meant to happen and will eventually turn out for the best.
The situation I was in was a little different than most kids under these circumstances. Instead of one parent completely abandoning the child, they both stuck around too much for my liking. There was a whole visitation schedule that I was forced to go by, no matter how I felt, but that was normal. However, I matured at a young age and was able to understand all that was going on. And I hated it. I would be with one parent and they would talk badly about the other one and vice versa. I grew to the point of almost hating both of them, from the information they spewed at me day after day. So for a very long time, I couldn’t even trust my own parents because I never knew who was telling the truth.
But no matter how I truly felt, I needed to be strong for my little brother. He never actually saw the things that went on with Mom and Dad like I did, and I wanted it to stay that way. He was way too young when all of this was happening, and still didn’t understand it all a few years later. So as the older of the two, it was my job to protect him from all of the instability.
One of the worst parts was the fact that my mom and dad had very different views on how we should do things. So doing something one way with my mom would be completely wrong with my dad. It was like I was living my life by a double standard that I didn’t even know about. So I would get in trouble a lot for almost no reason at all. It was honestly so ridiculous.
I only brushed up on a few details of my early life, mostly the less painful ones to talk about. But I can’t deny that I haven’t learned a whole bunch about myself, people in general and family. This could definitely be the reason why I don’t deny it when my mom tells me I don’t care about anything. It’s more true than it is not, but from this, I have learned that life is way easier not caring about certain things. You’re less likely to get hurt that way. So I pick very carefully.
Another thing—you would think that living with my mom and brother for most of my life, I would pick up the whole “sensitivity” trait. Wrong. Sure, things get to me sometimes, but unlike them, I don’t let people know about it. I don’t know why really, but I just feel better that way. I feel more independent not having to rely on anyone making me feel better.
In all honesty, I really don’t want this to be the blueprint to my true self. I actually hate talking about it because I’d much rather not have anyone know about it. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me is what it really comes down to. But if I were to look at this from another perspective, I could see how it may not be as bad as it seems, at least not anymore. It was a difficulty in my life, but I believe I have finally overcome most of the stresses from it. I’m able function perfectly fine and I’ve moved on from all that my mom and dad put me through.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Definitely.
Now I need to go back to sleep before my fever takes over again :(
Jen-
That must have been a devastating realization. I know how you must have felt. I've learned the truth about certain people in my family as well who aren't at all what they seemed to be. Life can really stink sometimes.
Leonor-
Your blog was very heartfelt and inspiring. It's amazing what grief can do isn't it? Yet I loved how you turned it positive. It's so important to learn from the heartache that you went through, and I admire your ability to do that.
Thinking back to my childhood, I can recall many memories that I am fond of. Every memory, even if it's small and insignificant, has an effect on you. When we are young, our brains are like sponges, taking everything in and processing it and learning from it. We are our true selves as children, because we are yet to be tainted with the drama of others, or exposed to the knowledge of evil in the world. Therefore, it is just YOU, your pure self, as a child.
I've written about this before, but it's had such an impact on my life, I'm going to do it again.
Thurston Avenue.
My parents renovated a house on Thurston Avenue when my mom was pregnant with my brother Trevor. It worked out perfectly because it was a quiet street, and there were several families with children all around Trevor's age and one my age (John Masterson). :)
I'm sure you can only begin to imagine the fun we had living on that street. At the end of the street, there was a river park only available to Thurston residents. I spent countless hours swimming in the river, playing hide and seek in the neighbors' yards, having mud fights, racing wheelchairs right in the middle of the street, kayaking, provoking Rusty the rooster and running for dear life, etc. etc. I loved every second living at Thurston. I was protected, I was young, I was carefree.
Then comes the memory of my wee 2nd grader self that changed my life.
Looking back, I was so incredibly happy at the time. I was moving! I was going to have a room all to myself; no more bunk beds and one bathroom. It was the best Christmas present EVER. We moved in Christmas Eve. I remember my Mom being stressed, but trying everything to hide it. We were carrying in the "basics," such as a sofa, our piano (basic? ha ha), kitchen table and chairs, a couple of lamps, beds, mattresses, etc. Being a kid, I was excited out of my mind. I was only worried if Santa knew that we moved in such short notice. My mom assured me that yes, he knew. He always knew.
That Christmas was a blast. I awoke at 5:30, running into my parents' room and jumping on them. SANTA CAME! After moving in, and staying up until probably 3 in the morning wrapping presents, it took more than my annoying self to wake them. I couldn't understand why they were reluctant to get out of bed. It was CHRISTMAS, for goodness sake!
I didn't know it then, but that move changed my life. It was the mark of the end of my early childhood. It was the mark of the end of being unaware.
The move wasn't that hard; it was only two miles down Pleasant Mills Road. But that was the hard part. It was Pleasant Mills Road, it wasn't Thurston. Now, I'm not knocking my house in ANY way. I love this house, or should I say home. But, it doesn't have the neighborhood sparkle as my house did on Thurston Avenue. No other house I will ever live in will either.
The move taught me how to say goodbye. It taught me how to move on. I also matured a little more... I helped out my Mom more with household tasks, I opened my eyes to the world, etc. It was no longer my little bubble of childishness. I began to grow up.
Molly.
I completely completely understand where you are coming from. My relationship with Trevor is the exact same. He's the only person that gets me all of the time. He's the smartest and most wise person I know and when he left for college the first time, a part of my heart went with him. It was one of the saddest days of my life-- I had to learn how to live without him everyday. It was tough. I'm still not over it, actually. But I guess I have to get over it.
I honestly can’t remember much about being a little kid. I can remember some pictures in my mind but other than that most of my childhood is pretty fuzzy. I do remember this one distinct moment but it is really embarrassing.
Whoever went to Hess in this class knows we were one of the last classes to have half day kindergarten. I loved half day kindergarten it was the best thing ever. It meant I got to go to school and then I got to go home and spend time with my mom. My mom and I are really close. I tell her everything and she is one of my best friends. I remember she always tried to make me feel special because I was her little girl and she loves me very much.
When first grade came around I was in a huge shock. It went from being home for lunch to being gone all day. It was pretty life changing for me. I was a homebody, and still am. First grade I had a great teacher and I had a lot of my friends in my class. I was very excited about school because I am one of those people that just loves the school atmosphere. I thought that first grade was going to be a lot of fun, and was generally excited to move on. Then reality hit me I wasn’t going home for lunch, and that my mom wasn’t going to be there anytime soon. I felt totally scared, my mom has been there for me my whole life and it was my first experience where she wasn’t a part of. I had a lot of separation anxiety. I missed so many days of school. Then, when I didn’t have any days left I would go home after the halfway point so that way I would get credit for the day, but still I would get to go home. I remember one day in lunch there was this really cross teacher that I was very scared of . Her name was Mrs. Wilson she was an older women with graying hair and no sympathy. I told her that I had thrown up in my napkin and then threw my napkin out, and that I wasn’t feeling good. She called me a liar. She looked me dead in the face and called me a liar. She asked me why I didn’t keep the napkin. I told her that it wasn’t a lot of throw up that it was only a little but now I was feeling worse. To be honest with you it was my separation anxiety that just made me gag, but as a little kid I over reacted. I thought my really weak gag reflex was something much more serious. Then when I told her I wasn’t feeling good I was so nervous about her yelling at me again that I started to really not feel good. Whenever I get nervous I get sick, it’s a normal thing. I will never forget how she looked at me nor how terrible I felt being away from my mom. I went home that day and cried to my mom for hours. The school nurse knew me so well that by the end of the year she was talking me into staying in school. I remember so many moments from being with her, and it saddens me that I felt that I needed to be home.
I don’t think I want this to be a blueprint because I only want to learn and grow from this. I don’t always want to have this homebody sense nor do I want that to follow me around. I learned that it was ok to be on my own and that I could be my own person. I still am very close with my mom and I don’t plan on changing that. I just needed to grow up and to realize that there was life outside of my bedroom walls.
Dev- I remember student of the month they were my favorite thing about Hess the little assembly and then standing up on stage. Plus your parents were there because they found out ahead of time, then you got your picture taken. Then there was like a lunch or ice cream for the however many students got student of the month. That was such a great memory of mine.
Ashley- I actually remember getting in trouble by that bus driver too. I remember her having no reason and yet doing that to us anyway. I honestly don’t remember much about actually getting written up, for some reason I don’t remember actually getting in big time trouble. The details to me aren’t as familiar because I blocked that out of my mind.
No, Lindsey, you weren't on my bus in Shainer. This was someone different.
deana; I haven't actually posted my fo'realfo'real blog yet- it's what comes next. So although I'd be happy to conclude my blog up for you, I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about. You may have either mistaken the name or perhaps thought one of my addmittedly numerous comments was my blog, but either way I think you want to give it another glance.
Alright, because this blog is slowly making me hate myself, I'm just going to respond as best I can with the circumstances.
I've always been a very social person. Even the pictures of me at 3 or 4 are not just of me- they're of me and whoever I happen to be surrounded by at the time. I've noticed two trends about these picture-people. One is that they're almost always older than me. Two is that they're almost always boys. I think they're relevant to each other mostly because boys are immature, so in seeking somebody on my wavelength, I would tend to gravitate towards people a few years older than me. I've always looked at this as a good thing, until recently.
I'm fairly certain I've already written about this somewhere, so I'm sorry if you're having to read it again. It's the closest thing to life-changing that I could find because I really do think most of who I am is innate in me. I was conditioned by things, yes. My parents are both procrastinators: hence I procrastinate. I grew up in a mess: hence I feel no need to clean the mess. I have five little siblings: hence I frequently mommy people and cannot remember the last time I put myself before all others and have no self-respect. None of these developed in a specific moment, though. They have all been perpetuated for my whole life long and haven't really changed me, because it happened slowly and because by the time I could talk, and SHOW people who I was, I had already been exposed to these things for years.
There is one event that I think has changed me, one I actually can remember because it only happened a matter of months ago. It is this event that I'm fairly sure you've all read about at one point or another, and the event was this: the graduates of '08 upped and left me behind in Mays Landing.
At this point you're all probably like... 'yeah? So? That's the worst you've got?'
Well, yes. And although I acknoledge that it's not a terrible event, it has altered me, for the worse, I believe. I'm such a socially based person, and yet I see friends outside of school about once a month. And that's now. In September and October, while I was still absorbing the shock, I don't think I went to a friends house or a party once in those two months. Unfortunately, my genius is not with me this afternoon- I can tell this is a poorly written and dull blog- but I cannot think of a way to explain the cold, painful, breaking lonliness that comes with realizing that in a matter of months you've made the transition from a happy, healthy, well-adjusted and popular sophomore to a junior that doesn't sleep or do anything with as much skill or passion as she did last year. A junior that few people, know, care about, or desire to spend any time with.
And with this freezing, debilitating aloneness comes the knowledge that next year will be worse. The knowledge that at least there are a few '09ers who I've been friends with for a while, or a few '08ers who worked for a year before going away. The knowledge that my 17th birthday will be even more depressing than my 16th, as the last of my high school friends depart and leave me here, feeling lost and out of place with kids my own age. Feeling like for some reason there was a mess up, and I'm actually two years older than I am. I don't say that to sound pompous or superior to anybody- older isn't better- I've just never felt that I relate well to my class, the people in it, or anyone my age.
Last spring I was reviewing the time I spent with people outside of school. There was only one person on that list who will still be in high school next year, so this is my shout out to Alison Carson, who has kept me semi-sane thus far this year. Aside from her, my beloved fellow musketeer, I have taken heavy losses all beginning with the introduction to all of this trauma, two novembers ago.
Katherine Hartline moved away. Katie Hartline moved to California with her family and her dino-sister and her cat named Alley and her bedroom in the attic. She left with her humor and her upbeat I love everything personality and her freckley smile. She left my classes and my dance studio and my second home and brought all of these things to Cali without bringing me. And after that, everything went to Hell.
This past Friday, at the show (HSM2) somebody pointed out a star for me on the blackboard of 301, which we were using as a dressing room. It read something along the lines of 'Fiona, thought I'd surprise you and come tonight. :] Love, Timmy'. I was estatic. Tim, Paul, Lauren Muniz, Lauren Elkins- all these people I loved and missed dearly had come to see the show. And it was maybe 20 minutes later, after I'd spread the word about my unexpected surprise, that Erin Martin came up to me with another star.
"Dear Fiona,
(Nonnabee <3)
I miss you sooooo much. You're going to do great onstage, I know you will. Make me proud, babygirl. Break a leg!
Love,
Katidid"
I broke into tears. It's a damn good thing I wasn't playing Martha that night, because I spent the next 20 ish minutes bawling my eyes out. I half actually believed she was there. Tim was. Why couldn't she be? I was so excited. I haven't seen her since this past summer and I kept saying how lucky I was, to get two such perfect surprises in one day.
She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. It wasn't logical for her to have come all the way from Cali for something so stupid. But the whole thing kind of made me realize: this is not who I want to be. I cannot rest on this precipice between being whole and happy and being bitter and broken, because it's slowly and decidely leaning, dumping me into the latter. I need to learn self-sufficiency, and I need to stop dumping so much of myself onto others. This blog, unfortunately, doesn't help that at all given that I've spent the last two hours dumping on all of you. But there you go, that's the assignment, isn't it?
Childhood memories that impacted my life...well I could easily say going to Disney World for the first time when I was five, or Hilary’s basket weaving and finger sandwich birthday parties. Even though these all changed my life, there has got to be something even more life changing. I’ve read many blogs and I feel am both fortunate and fateful that I have encountered the extreme memories as some have. As many know, I have my share of nasty fights with my parents where I wish I could drive and get the hell out of the house and I’ve had many upsetting encounters where I’ve seen the world at its worst and people as never ending disappointments. However, I have chosen a different kid of memory that has had nothing but a positive effect on my life.
When I was in second grade, I had a teacher named Mrs. Cowley. She was one of the nicest teachers I had and I remembered loving her class. I don’t remember much anymore, but one thing I could recall was the Book Reading List she had throughout the year. This list had everyone’s name on it and whenever you read a book she put a sticker next to your name. Since the beginning, I wanted to be the most avid reader, so I read as many books as I could. I read so many different kinds of books and read all the time.
Although this memory is also illustrative of my competitive nature, I feel that this memory has given me more. Since then, reading has been one of my passions. I made my mom take me to Borders all the time, and my relatives started to just give me Borders gift cards on special occasions. Now instead of reading Saddle Club books, I read books that give me so much more. I think that every book can give you something that you can hold onto in life. Once in 5th grade I remember us having to read this short 100 page book about a kid whose friend died because they chose to swim in a nasty river that was forbidden to swim in. The way the boy handled the situation and hid his friend’s death made me want to stab him in the neck and I hated the book so much. Still, the book taught me of course what not to do if your friend died with you, as well as the theory that I won’t like everything I read, because I had up until then.
However, I choose not to read the A-List and other high school drama based books because I don’t want to re-live the same crap that occurs everyday at Oakcrest. Instead, because of Molly, I’ve become addicted to Jodi Picoult and her fabulous writing style as well as other intelligent books. Once I graduated the Young Adult section at Borders which essentially consist of any drama based books, I moved to recommendations from my mother. The first book she gave to me was The Secret Life of the Bees. This book was and remains one of my favorite books I’ve ever read. Then a few years ago my mom gave me The Kite Runner. This book was hard to comprehend at my age but by the end I understood everything that was going on and gained such a great appreciation for what I have today. The book taught me about the value of a friend and how one person can stand up to such a powerful force.
Then, in high school I picked up My Sister’s Keeper and many others from Picoult and became lost in her fiction. All of these novels have taught me something different from faith to the love of a family and friends, as well as the courtroom process in a trial.
Then there are the books that are so addicting you picture yourself in them. Harry Potter and Twilight were series that I wish I cold be a part of. Vampires were portrayed as really cool beings as well as wizards, both who could do amazing things like see the future and make a polyjuice potion. And through J.K. Rowling’s message that the bond of love is eternally strong similar to Stephanie Meyer’s I gained more understanding.
I could analyze every book I’ve read over my lifetime, but there is no need. The memory I had has come from me reading for competition to reading for pleasure and learning. The talk Parkinson gave us Monday about literacy and how brilliant reading could be reminded me how much I loved to read. Books can give you so much, whether they improve your writing and vocabulary or make you see people differently. There will always be a book out there that you can connect to as well as ones that you hate, which makes the journey through books more exciting.
I know that many of my peers, especially the males don’t enjoy reading at all however, I think the people who don’t like reading just haven’t found that one book yet like I did that opens doors for you. New books, like music are published and released everyday. We will never stop writing and reading which is why they are such valuable skills in life. When your read a good book, you find a pace where you can escape from reality. I know that problems in life need to be dealt with but even if it’s just for a few minutes, escaping the toils of life can refuel your mind as well as teach you lessons that will last forever. This memory which sparked my interest to read has shaped ideally the person I am today, because novels that you relate to can change the way you look at life.
Molls:
Unfourtunately, I don't have quite the relationship with my sister, but I liked the message of your story. I have a problem opening myself up to people as well and although have tried to begin the process I know finding trust in people is something that will take a while.
Jen:
Your response was a prime example of how decieving people are today. I realize why you don't trust people and say you are pesimistic about life. The world is often too disapointing for a single person, but remember the people you have and the good that comes from the small things, whether it's softball or your lovable dogs. :)
Devon--
Your blog was the first I read that was actually.. happy. It's true, the most life-shaping experiences and memories don't have to be negative, disappointing, or sad. I just really like how simple your your memory was and yet it had such an impact on the person you are today. =]
Carly--
Thanks ! I do appreciate the few people and things I know won't and can't disappoint me-- and of course softball and my doggies fall under that category =]
“You’re ugly.”
Children are blunt. They kill with brutal honesty, with words so detrimental, so ignominious, spouting out of their mouths without so much as a thought of the damage, of the destruction it will leave behind. They do not understand how cruel they are, how horrible their words could be. They are brutal with their words, clubbing down the victim, leaving them barely alive so that they will be able to hit at him again. They are young, naïve, inexperienced and, in turn, the most cruel of all people.
Of course, it isn’t their fault when they say such words. They learned from the adults after all, who had learned it from other adults when they were younger. What child spews words like “ugly”, “gross”, and “fat” when they are born? The source of the words comes from the mentor. They are supposed to be our teachers and shape us into respectable citizens of society. However, instead, they give us a way of defining who we are, descriptive words that are useful to describe objects to a stranger, but should not be used too often I think with people. There is a system. If you don’t like how it looks, it’s “ugly.” If you don’t like its wide shape, it’s “fat.” If you don’t like its behavior, it’s “weird.” These words are then used to describe each person. In fact, I think the first sentence I learned was “The cat is fat.”
This brings up another thing that children become experts in: dealing insults. I’ve held onto all of them for years. I remember the first time I was called “ugly.” I’m sure every girl understands it. You like a guy, you go up to the guy and tell him, he in turn accuses you of “having cooties” or some other disease and you are left heartbroken. Yeah, that basically happened to me, except that they said more than just “oh, you have cooties.” No, they proceeded to list everything that was wrong with me.
“You’re ugly.”
“You smell.”
“You’re weird.”
”You’re stupid.”
“You’re fat.”
“I don’t want to be friends with you.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Go away!”
And then, my personal favorite response, they looked at me as if I had two heads, as if I was joking.
So, I believed them. I was young myself, I didn’t understand how I was shaping my life in a horrendously bad way after. I held onto that belief and walked away.
It was 7th grade year I met him. I had closed myself off to everyone. I didn’t like anything, nor did I care. My friends were also outcasts of society who looked to me for protection. I loved how those people in my grade deliberately got in my way to see what I’d do. I loved how surprised they were when I punched them in the gut and walked by. Kids. You just got to love them.
So, I was walking from the auditorium that day. I was feeling crappy as usual, being called “ugly” yet again. You’ve got to understand, after a hundred times, you start to believe such things. I thought I was ugly all the time and I didn’t care about trying to look nice anymore. If I tried, they laughed at my attempt and went out of their way to jab at me. I hated them so.
When I was walking back to class, a boy came up to my side and proceeded to walk with me. I glared at him, thinking that he’d make fun of me like the rest. Wrong.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked.
I was stunned. I quickly said “nothing” and walked away promptly. I had never been asked that so I didn’t know how to respond. I’m sure he knew that because the next day, he wrote a small note to me, explaining who he was and how he’d like to be friends. I remember smiling to myself a little as I wrote one back, thanking him. I was unsure of this guy’s intentions but inside of me I hoped. I hoped things would get better.
We hung out one day. It was sunny summer afternoon and we were at the mall, chatting away. He was always smiling to me, and poking me. I was really happy. His thoughts were also different from my own. Very optimistic and strong-willed, he became my idol. I dreamed of being like him one day. We talked about dreams, hopes, wants. He told me that he hoped to be able to change the world. I asked him how? He replied with a smile, by starting with me. I learned that he was like me for a year, got tired of it and broke out of his shell. We also talked about me. It must have been “Compliment Day” or something because he kept on refuting everything I said about myself and insisted that I was not “ugly” or “stupid.” He forced me to look at myself and told me that those people that called me that are the ones that are stupid. From that day on, I looked at myself differently. From that day on, I realized that I wanted to be like him. Even though, I’ve run into many problems and obstacles that prevent me from this goal sometimes, I am now closer than ever. If I keep reaching, I will get there someday. I’m sure of it!
I want to take this guy, his traits, his personality, his dreams from that day, to shape me. Even though he is no longer this guy, no longer the boy who used to look ahead of everything and stood out, “an island of hope in the sea of sameness”, he was able to touch my life, and I’m sure many others, and that is all that I needed to go on.
I want to be that kind of person. I want to be the kind of person that, with a comforting smile and strong eyes, can heal someone. I want to be the kind of person who does not dwell on the bad, but rather learns from it and moves forward. I want to be stronger, to be happier, to be the one people can trust. The world will not change itself, nor will the people that reside on it, not unless they are forced to, or they are touched by an experience, a person, an event. I want to be able to touch as many people’s lives as I can, as he did, to make the world a happier place.
To start this task, I want to influence children. They are young, naïve, inexperienced. They need to learn that harmful words are not good, learn that they should not be unhappy, they should not want to bully but rather help. This will begin a cycle as they teach others when they grow up. This will counter, hopefully, the current cycle. I know everything will work out!
To Eva:
As always, your blog is amazing. This one really got to me though. I loved the way you put simple things into such a beautiful manner that the reader can't help but see the significance of everything you've written. I loved how you focused on several memories, all very symbolic. I wonder though... do you feel guilty for what happened to the moth? It seems just horrible that that would happen... but it really wasn't the ants' fault... they were doing what they were programmed to do to survive... Gah, but yes! Great blog!
It was summer. I was around nine and very excited. I packed up all my clothes, my sneakers and my sunglasses into a little duffle bag that was bought just for the occasion. On the way out the door of my house, I could see the anxious look in my mother’s eyes. I didn’t pay too much attention to her wary expression because I saw my father’s eyes too. He was gleaming and smiling, proud of his little girl. I trusted him. My little sister was about four and along for the ride. I was too excited to pay any attention to her childish jabber or play with her and her etch-a-sketch like I usually did. I just plugged in my little Walk Man (the CD was probably like NOW! 2) and smiled to myself the whole way there. I couldn’t hear the conversation going on in the driver and passenger seats, but my parents seemed to be talking about something that they didn’t agree on. I didn’t care. I was going to camp for the first time and was going to experience new and fun things.
“Youth Camp” was set up by the National Guard. My dad had told me about it a few months before it took place. The military put on this camp for kids whose parents were in the guard. I was excited when I heard all of the fun things we would do there like arts and crafts, swimming, and archery. I told my dad I wanted to do it even after he explained I would sleep in barracks with other girls I didn’t know for a week. For my entire childhood, I was as sheltered as I could be. My mother has been over protective of me for as long as I can remember, but even more so during my childhood. She was immediately skeptical about the whole idea and was afraid I was too young to be away from home for a week. I assured her that I was not a baby anymore and that I would be able to handle a week on my own. She looked at me with the same worried eyes as the day we left.
When we got to the camp, I was one of the first girls to get there, so I picked out the bunk bed I wanted. As the girls started coming in, I didn’t recognize anyone. This is something that I hadn’t fully thought through. I was a very shy child, and I still haven’t fully shaken that mentality. I started to realize that it might be harder than I thought to make friends and feel comfortable in that setting. Looking back, I have no idea why I agreed to go in the first place. I was a mommy’s girl and didn’t like talking to anyone that I didn’t have to. For the first half hour of being there, my family was still with me getting me settled in. One of the first things I realized was that I forgot to bring a sleeping bag to sleep in on top of my bed like the other girls had. My mother assured me that she would stop back and drop it off for me because the camp was only an hour or so away. That made me feel a little better, and they waved good bye. At least I would see my mom again soon. I turned away after the car drove off with my family. That was when the flapping pterodactyls in my stomach really started showing me what they were made of.
I can’t even remember that first day at camp. I’m pretty sure I walked around in a daze wondering what I got myself into. This was the first stage of homesickness I experienced. I was a mess on the inside, but still pretty composed on the outside. When the camp leaders started going over the schedule for the next day, I realized that I was not at what I could ever consider a fun camp. We had physical training (PT) in the morning before breakfast and had to march in lines and chant songs that were classically military as we walked all over the camp grounds (“I don’t know what you’ve been told…” still makes me cringe). We had to play things like dodge ball, volleyball, and other sports in the sweltering heat. I am not now, nor ever have been, athletically inclined, so I was always picked last or felt like dying in the middle of each four hour session of “play time.” It was a boys and girls camp, but I didn’t want to interact with either. I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety that followed me everywhere I went for that whole week. What was worse was that it seemed like it was just me that felt this way. No one talked to me. No one seemed to care that I was so obviously distraught. Everyone else seemed to be having fun. I constantly felt like throwing up and cried often. I’m sure the peer leaders of my company (“C” as in Charlie) hated having to deal with me, but at the time, I could care less what they thought. I would sit down and refuse to do the things they wanted me to do and begged to call my mom and dad. This was before the age of cell phones, so I was at their mercy. They would say things like “well, if you play volleyball, then we will let you call home after.” Every time I whimpered back to play with false hopes of this coming true. Afterwards, I never saw the same person that had promised me a phone call again.
As for the sleeping bag, I believe it was on the third or fourth day of camp that I saw it lying on my bed after lunch. I had been looking forward to the day that my mom would come back and drop it off so I could beg her to take me home with her. When I saw it, I broke down and cried. My mother had already left. There was a letter in it from her saying to have fun and to wear sunscreen. After that, I gave up on hoping for a chance to call. They knew I would ask to go home because I was so miserable. I guess they didn’t want to look bad. That’s when I got angry and started thinking that the whole camp was out to make me suffer. I felt like they were trying to keep me there against my will. I started writing letters during writing time begging to get picked up, but no one ever came. I found out later that they sent them after we all left camp at the end of the week. I felt trapped. Every night I cried myself to sleep every night and got sick to my stomach, and so it went for seven days. At the end of the week, I was a sleep deprived mess. I was so happy on day seven that I cried in my parents’ arms and ran to them when they finally got to camp to pick me up.
I can honestly say that I have never felt anything worse than what I felt that week. It was like someone had died and I was mourning their loss. As I was writing this, I was laughing at how much of a baby I must have looked like and how bratty I was, but that flight of pterodactyls in my stomach was what drove me to be so crazy and upset. Most of you probably could have handled that camp, but because I was so young and inexperienced at dealing with life without my family, I got terrible home sickness. I learned that I was way over protected and shouldn’t have gone to “mini boot camp” as my first away-from-home experience. It pretty much traumatized me for a very long time. After finally getting my family back, I had mixed feelings towards them. I know my dad just wanted me to have a good time, but I couldn’t help but hate him for convincing me that it would be all fun and games at “Youth Camp.” I still have trouble trusting his judgment sometimes. My mom was so angry afterwards when I told her how I felt and how they didn’t let me call home when I asked. She wanted to complain to the camp, but my dad wouldn’t let her. I was mad at her for letting my dad win at convincing her to let me go, and I was mad at her for overprotecting me so much and making me look like an ass at camp. I blamed them both for my terrible experience. For a while, I didn’t want to be as close with them because I realized that that was the reason I was so upset in the first place. I was too attached to my parents. I didn’t want to feel that I needed to be with them to be happy. At the same time, I had problems sleeping at other peoples’ houses for a while, but eventually got over it. Now, I am still very close with my parents, but I can hold my own as well. I definitely think this experience changed my childhood and made me grow up in a week. I realized that I wouldn’t always have my family there for me and that I would someday need to be on my own. The abandonment I felt and the lack of sympathy I received made me angry at the world for some time. It has since made me branch out and try new things on my own little by little so that I don’t ever have to experience something like that again. I don’t want to have to rely on other people to come save me. I learned to be more self-reliant which is something I still try to be.
Alice--
I began reading your blog without actually reading who wrote it. The whole thing got me so angry, not at you, but at the fact that people, especially children, are so oblivious to their actions and words. Your blog was actually really inspiring once I finished it. But when I looked back to see who wrote it, and saw that it was you, I got mad all over again. Not at you! But that I wanted to knock-out every and any person who put you down, deliberately or not. It must be the butch-ness in me that gets my adrenaline going and I seriously have been sitting here making up stories in my head, thinking about if I had been in whatever school you went to, how I would have been your best friend and beat the shit out of any person who made fun of you. No one deserves that. And some people might say that me saying this is quite a joke and that I'm hypocritical because I've surely made fun of people before, but that's actually one of my biggest peeves. I hate when people make fun of others for no reason, or feel the need to insult or taunt people when they've clearly done nothing but try to be nice. But I'm not going to go on a tirade about this now. But Alice, I really liked your blog! And you are absolutely none of the things you listed that people had said to you, and I hope you know that =]
Childhood is something I cherish because of my sheer innocence and naivety. Man, I wouldn’t mind living those days again.
I grew up in a very strict household, and we were pretty damn poor. As I mentioned before, I spent the first half of my life in Japan, so there was a little bit of a culture variance when compared to how people raise their kids here.
First of all, I never got “grounded” or were given “time outs”. Hell no. I got beat. Not slaps to the face, but whacks with belts and whatnot. And looking back, I thank god my dad put me through it. Don’t get me wrong, my father is probably the most loveable and loving person I know. But he doesn’t deal with any sort of bullshit or stupidity. I learned from a very quick age to learn from my mistakes, and there’s no way on Earth I’d ever change it.
My most cherished memory comes from when I was around 5. Back then, little Janiru was an incredibly sick child. He would spend a third of his time in the hospital, usually due to very severe asthma. I think I knew every nurse at the hospital by name. Anyways, one fine particular asthma-filled day, I saw a kid from my school sitting in the waiting room. My father haplessly tried to get me to go say hi to the said child, but for one reason or another, I refused. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better. I think was mad because he could jump rope better than I could.
Now, my father is a very stubborn person. He refused to leave the hospital until I would say hi. And me, also being (so some people tell me) stubborn, I refused to budge. Finally, he presented me with two options. Either I say hi to the poor child and go home in a car, or I could make the arduous 2 mile trip back to my humble abode.
I took the latter choice. I hid under some bushes while my dad started the car, and ran around back. I saw him looking around for me for a good five minutes, and he finally left. And so I started on my perilous journey back to home (which thanks to my small stature, took a good hour), weaving through the mean streets of Tokyo on my way back home. Looking back, I’m surprised no one bothered to help (or kidnap) a cute little 5 year old walking down the busy Tokyo streets by himself. You gotta love it.
So I come home, and my mom is hysterical. Apparently my dad had come home, and seeing as how I wasn’t home yet (of course not, It’s a 2 mile trip), he had gone back to find me. I was very oblivious, since I technically did what he was told.
To make a long story short, I came home, and my dad beat the shit out of me. That was the first time I realized not to really take anything for face value, and to be a lot more analytical with myself (hey, a tie-in with my speech!)
I’ll be honest, the blunt of that incident didn’t really hit me until a couple of years ago, but it’s definitely a memory to look back, introspect, and laugh at. And I guess that was my first discovery of the wonderful and luscious fruit known as sarcasm (I had no clue my dad was being sarcastic when he said "walk home").
An inquisitive and analytical mind is the key to survival, in my humble opinion. But on the same note, please don’t tread on grass that doesn’t need treading on. Don’t try to scientifically explain human emotions, or argue the existence of god, or other mysteries of our wonderful world. Science and logic has its limits, and some things are better left unexplained.
I’m probably going off topic here, so I shall leave you with something I always say; Please beat your kids (sensibly. Child abuse is not funny). None of this “time-out” or “grounded” bullshit. Nothing annoys me more than seeing spoiled children bringing down the house in public just because they didn’t get the right Happy Meal. After Oakcrest, please remember my pleas if you decide to have children. It builds character and discipline, which I'm sure I embody to some extent...
Alice: You’re extremely lucky to meet someone like the person you described. That’s just an amazing find, especially at that age, hell even now. And you know what, I like your goal. It's everyone's duty to impact the world somehow, and that’s a fantastic way to change someone’s life. It obviously works, especially since it changed you so much.
Carly-
I remember Mrs. Cowley and her reading list! She was a doll and deffinitely sparked my interest in competitive reading, too.
Devon-
Thank you for picking a happy memory to go off of! It made me realize that the littlest positive memories shape us too even though a bad one popped into my mind first. Your story made me think about in kindergarden how I strived so hard to keep my little cut-out face the teacher made on the "happy" side and not the "sad" side of this little board with all of our faces on it. It would only be moved to the bad side if we did something wrong. I only got it moved once, and I took pride in that when everyone around me got theirs moved every other day. Kinda weird, but that is another memory that your story brought to mind haha :]
As I reflect on the seventeen years in my life, it takes a lot of effort to try and recount the memories of the early years in my life. It is easier to recall the happier memories than to bring back the pain of the more angry or devastating memories, yet it is part of life that we need to experience these. They are part of what makes up who we are today and without them I don’t think I would be where I am at this point in my life.
I was always a hesitant child, watching others do things first before attempting something. When we were younger, my little sister was the daring one. She had no fear of getting in front of a large group of people and singing her heart out and I envied her outgoing and willing spirit. So, the memory takes place when I was about five years old. It was a blustery, cold winter morning and we had just received one of the first snowfalls of the season. I remember looking out the window marveling at the sleek white sheet of snow that coated the ground and the trees. My mom and bundled my sister and I up and we all set out to go sledding on this hill about two miles from my house. My friend from kindergarten, her parents, and brother also met up with us on the hill. My mom set the sled up and went down the hill with my sister. Since I was such a young child, the hill seemed monstrous! I watched as my mother and baby sister raced down the hill, laughing hysterically as snow flew up behind them. I remember feeling nervous and panicky and I watched my mom climb back up the hill with my sister and pulling the sled behind them. My friend and her mom raced down the hill on their sleds, and then it came to be my turn. I looked at my mom in panic and shook my head indicating I didn’t want to do it. I was always scared of getting hurt as a child and this hill seemed so huge and terrifying. I remember my mom saying over and over again that everything will be fine and I shouldn’t be such a worry wart. I remember my “best friend” calling me a sissy and saying to stop being such a little baby. I remember my sister watching me with eyes full of wonder and confusion at why I would not go down the hill. Everyone was watching me, mocking me, and trying to get me to get on the sled even though I did not want to with every fiber of my being. My mom started to get frustrated with me and mildly angry at the fact that I would not go down the hill. I didn’t understand why everyone was making such a huge deal out of this, but I hate when my mom gets angry with me so with huge tears in my eyes I slowly got on the orange disk of a sled. I felt the tears burning my face as they slid down my frozen, raw cheeks. I was terrified, despite my mom’s arms embracing my small five year old body. We went down the hill; the wind was whirling past us and the snow was spraying me in the face. I was freezing and I shut my eyes due to the severe stinging. Then the next thing I remember we had hit a tree. I was thrown off the sled into the snow away from my mom’s seemingly safe arms. Snow had fallen into my jacket causing me to shiver uncontrollably and cry even more. I don’t remember being hurt but I still cried. Alicia called me a cry baby once again and my mom picked me up from the snow. She made sure I was alright but told me to toughen up because I wasn’t hurt and there was no need to cry.
From that day on my friend called me cry baby a lot, until we separated ourselves from our friendship. Since we hit the tree, I have felt it is important to trust your instinct. I didn’t want to do it in the first place and I ended up getting hurt or at least thrown into shock, which makes me believe that I need to trust my gut feelings. If something feels wrong, then I should believe in that feeling.
Despite my tears from that one and events to come my mom still pushed me a lot. She pushed me to join sports I didn’t want to. She pushed me to do activities with people I did not want to be with. She pushes me now in school. She never once stopped to see what I wanted when I was little but made me do everything because she thought it would benefit me. I hated playing soccer and softball. I wasn’t good and felt left out because I didn’t have that coordination like the other players. I didn’t have the guts to stand up to her and say no because I didn’t want her to think she had a weak daughter. I wanted and still want her to be proud of me. I went to every practice, every competition with the idea in mind that she wanted me to succeed. I grew to have the nature that wanted to just please everyone around me even if I wasn’t happy myself, and I wanted to do it all for her, not me and now reflecting on it that is not how I want to live my life or for it to be the blue print of my true self.
I don’t want to do things just to please other people though that would be a plus, but I want to do things that I love to do and that make me feel happy. I don’t want to be looked at as weak for not trying something, but then again I don’t see myself as a strong person. I want to be though. I want to be strong and not be peer pressured into doing things. Sometimes inside, I just feel like I am slowly crumbling and I won’t be able to pick myself up and realize that I am okay. I want to be able to just open up about what I am really thinking and just cry, but sometimes I feel myself closing up because I don’t want to be ridiculed. I try to keep my emotions in even when they occasionally seep out. I need to learn how to express my feelings in a positive way. I have learned though from this experience and others in my life that I still do love my parents even though they have done things that aren’t beneficial in my eyes, I believe that they probably were just trying to figure out what was best for me. They were new to parenting and whatever so I think my sister has an easier time because they knew what to expect from me. I need to learn for the future though how to state my side of the story and tell them what I think instead of just going with whatever they have planned out for me. I need to figure out what I want in life and stick with my decisions
Hayley-
As I was reading your blog, I felt like just crying. I couldn’t even bear to imagine a little you being subjected to such horrific yelling and verbal abuse. That seriously was so upsetting to me. I am sorry all you have gone through with your mom, and I know it must be very difficult. But take these life experiences and use them to keep growing into the person you will be in the future. You are a strong, ATHLETIC, gorgeous young girl with so much potential. I, as well as all your friends, are there to talk whenever you need. Sometimes it is easier to share the pressure or anger or sadness you feel and vent. Keep persevering and I know where ever you decide to go in life you will succeed.
<3
This blog is a little difficult for me because looking back, I only can think of good memories during my childhood. It’s actually been these past few years that have really shaped me into the person that I am today. Ten years from now, I can’t wait to look back on these high school experiences and ask myself the very same question you are posing us today Bunje.
I suppose the most significant impact on my life through all the years has been my family, more significantly my parents. Through the help of my friends’ families, I have seen glimpses of a functional family, but I have yet experience one myself. My parents have given me everything I could possibly ask for, but they have yet to give me the one thing I need most in my life and I’m afraid it’s too late…
My parents and I had pretty good relationship when I was younger. I don’t know what happened. Did I get wiser or just bitterer? Anyways, I suppose there was this one distinct incident that I remember better than the rest. Years ago, I was living in my old house in the Misty Pines development. Now, I know all parents argue, but not the way my parents do. Now, I can’t quite remember what the argument was about, but there was a lot of cursing and threatening involved. My parents were yelling back and forth in the kitchen, while my sister, brother, and I were sitting in the living room having to hear everything. I heard the smashing of all the phones in the house by my dad, while my mom was dialing the police on her cell. I remember the police walking into my house: one man and one woman. I was utterly embarrassed and couldn’t believe what was happening. I heard the policeman suggesting things like a restraining order or a divorce. I was so flustered, so I ran into the bathroom with tears flowing down my face until I heard them leave. For about 30 minutes, I was just sitting in the bathroom staring at my reflection in the mirror. When I came out of the bathroom, my mom was dialing a family friend who was realtor. She wanted to put the house up for sale.
This is how it’s pretty much been between my parents up until this point minus the police, though there are always still threats of selling the house. My sister now in college has moved out of the house so my little brother and I are left to deal with the friction in the house. So, you probably wondered what happened after my mom called the realtor to sell the house. Well, usually, after days or weeks of not talking to each other, my parents eventually cool down and things sort of fall back to normal. But over the years, I have distanced myself more and more from them. I don’t see them very often because they work. My mom works two shifts, which means she’s usually gone from 11am until 6am the next morning. It’s been that way for a while. With her being gone so often, the distance between us grew farther and farther apart. As for my dad, he sort of scares me, so I leave him alone too.
I’ve always resented them for fighting with each other so much. Sometimes, I’ve become so used to it that I learned to just ignore it. It’s like I’ve become habituated to it. But other times, when it just gets too hard, I run into my room, lock the door and cry until they both decide to go to work or just leave. All these things have strained our relationship as a family. I am bitter towards them everyday and I can’t even find myself having a conversation with them without some yelling involved. The worst that has happened was not too long ago. I came home from Wal-Mart only to realize that I bought the wrong ink cartridge for the printer. My dad already not in a good mood started yelling at me calling me “stupid and useless.” My mom who was the one who had to take me to purchase a new ink cartridge started yelling at my dad. For the first time, I honestly felt like I caused them to argue because it was truly my fault. I ran into the computer room and started bawling in my chair. I placed my headphones on and blasted my IPOD up as loud as it could, but I could still hear a slight murmur of the arguing. The yelling had upset me, but what had really upset me were the things my dad had said to me. That wasn’t the first time I heard those awful things and it gets me every time. My sister tells me not to take it personally because he says things he doesn’t mean, but how am I not supposed to take it personally? He’s my father and I’m his daughter.
I don’t want this to be the blue print for which I design my “true self” because I think I’ve turned out worse than I could be. I don’t like that I argue with my parents, but they make it so difficult. And this hostility within my family makes me really unhappy. I want to make it clear that I do not hate them, but I do think they can be better parents, not providers, but parents. I understand that I live a fortunate life with a spectacular roof over my head, all the latest technology, and enough clothes to dress a small third world country, but I would trade that stuff in for a true family. The one thing I do take from this is that I know exactly how I will treat my own children one day. I know exactly the kind of relationship that I will have with them. It will be a relationship filled with trust, care, and love. I cannot wait for that chance.
Ashley I'm really sorry, i just remember being on a bus with you and Corey. I am deeply sorry that i was mistaken.
Hayley- <33333
Of course our situations are different in their own ways, but I still felt like I could relate to you so much when I read your blog. Our moms act the same way. When i get in a fight with my mom, she too goes on with the day like nothing happened. My mom is very stubborn and only listens to herself. Even when I'm talking on the phone with her, she'll completely miss what I'm saying because shes so caught up on her thoughts. I think we both developed a similar personality as a result. But know that your independence is admirable and like Morgan said, you are wonderful person with so much to offer.
"Mothers.... when will they learn?"
I'm gonna start by saying I cannot pick one moment or a singular memory. It vexes me in all the wrong ways. Mainly because I don't think there can be a single event that will shape everything. We take an event and assign it value, but that value really comes from weeks, months, years, of buildup, and then we pick one instant we feel exemplifies the rest so we can flush out the redundant unhappy rest. And now that you know what I mean when I say I can't pick out one single memory or moment, I can proceed.
The sequence, the repeating thing that came to my conscious in one moment and somehow managed to change my life was more of a realization than an event in and of itself. But let me preface that story with this comment. Last year was doubleplus ungood. I was just starting to think for myself, but I did that at the cost of everything around me getting fuzzy. I started being a whiny bitch about not having the opportunity to do something good for myself, when the dominoes were lining up for me. I later realized in one night that Ian was right, my gut was right, everyone in the entire universe I'd been too much of a stubborn ass to listen to was right and I was too busy lighting Lincoln Logs on fire to give the dominoes a little push.
I got flashbacks to everything from froshman and sophmopod year. Everything that would've gone my way. A girl, soon after breaking up with her boyfriend, explaining that she'd never really been into him while giving me doe eyes. And then me getting into philosophical arguments with her soon-to-be boyfriend and driving her away, as well as a couple other friends. That event, thinly veiled behind pronouns as it is, is the one that sticks out in my mind, but it is only one of many. I was drifting off to sleep, and the realization of everything I'd missed out on because I was busy waiting for the impossible made me sit up and almost get sick. It felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. And from there I resolved to take any chance I could, regardless of what exactly it was and how it would help me. Life's too short, neh?
And as to whether this will become a blueprint for me, I hope so. I was completely and totally oblivious, disproving my belief that ignorance is bliss. I missed out on quite a bit, and I have little intention of missing much else. Unfortunately, intention isn't action, and laziness seems intent on conquering me efforts.
That was a typo, but it's pirate talk, so I'm leaving it.
I started trying things, everything I felt like. I have a whim, I'll follow it. Why? I realized I'd been cautious for years, and it had never done me a lick of good. I've flown under the radar too long. Time to bust out and start a dogfight or two.
@Alice: That was inspiring. Changing the world one person at a time is the only way to do it, and I hope you and he end up making it happen.
Also I liked how your story broke the trend by having a happy ending rather than a hardened heart. Good luck out there.
Dev-
Was this also the student of the month ceremony where you slammed your mom in the face?!
Love you.
I'm not sure that there really has been just one memory that has shaped who I am today. More likely, there's a bunch of memories that's created Sarah Crane.
Let's jump back to daycare/preschool. I went to Atlanticare for both, which was offered free to Sands employees (which my mom was before they knocked the place over). Man, I hated that place. The teachers there were just... well, you'll see.
I walk in one day, both arms completely covered in neon-colored bandages. The day before, my cat had given me multiple scratches (scratches which I, in all fairness, deserved, since my twin Ben and I had been attempting to test whether cats in fact always land on their feet). As soon as the teacher catches sight of me, she says, "Sarah! What did you do?"
No "are you all right?" or even "what happened?" Just "What did you do?"
"My cat scratched me," I respond.
"Well! You look just like a mummy!" (calls out to all the children) "Look, everybody! Sarah's a mummy!"
For the rest of the month, everybody in the class (including the teachers and excluding Ben) procede to call me Mummy Girl.
More Atlanticare:
We're in "circle time" and the teacher makes that "shh" sound to get us all quiet. Because we're all four years and under, we immediately start "shh"ing each other over and over.
"Shut up!" our teacher explodes. "That is not being quiet! I can't wait until I go teach at the high school and never have to see you kids again! I just feel bad for the other teachers, stuck with you bunch of annoying brats!"
We are all shocked into silence.
Another day, another injustice:
I'm sitting quietly at a table, just coloring and minding my own bussiness, when a nice little boy, Jason I think his name was, runs up and taps me on the arm.
"Tag!" he giggles, "You're it!"
I gleefully jump out of my chair and chase Jason around the room. I soon catch up to him and poke his shoulder.
"Tag!" I cry. Out of nowhere, the teacher swoops down upon us.
"Sarah!" she yells, "Keep your hands to yourself!"
I look up at her in utter confusion. "We were playing tag."
"I don't care!" she shrieks, "No touching and NO talking back! Now get in time out!"
"But-" I start.
"TIME OUT!!!!!"
I sit in time out until my mom comes to pick us up.
The memories of Atlanticare are important in that they are some of the first memories I have that are bad. Before Atlanticare, I more or less believed that all people were nice people and that I was universally liked. I mean, I was only about two when I started going there (I stayed until I was four). I had never experienced people who didn't love me and want to give me a cookie. For the first time people were unfair and rude to me, and it changed my view of the world.
Also, that teacher was the first person I truly loathed. My god, she was just... evil. I still hate that beeyotch.
However, I don't want these memories to be the blueprint of my true self. Then, I just did what the Demon Teacher said. If I could go back and do it over, I would rebel. When Teacher called me Mummy Girl, I would call her a narcissistic asshole with the mental capacity of a turnip. When she told us to be quiet, I would stand up, start yelling and throwing things, and start a riot. When she told me to go to timeout, I would flip her off and go back to my coloring book. However, we can't change time, so I'll just have to settle for hating her via blog and hoping that wherever she is, she is miserable, and childless, because that lady should never be allowed to raise children.
It was kindergarten, and some random girl and I were playing in the indoor sandbox. I was building a castle, which really looked more like a small hill, when the girl suddenly makes a face. "Ew!" she cries.
I look up from my masterpiece. "What?"
"I got sand in my mouth!" she says as she walks to the sink and thoroughly rinses out her mouth.
I stare at her in disdain. "So? Sand isn't that bad."
She looks insulted. "Oh, yeah? I bet you've never gotten sand in your mouth!"
The girl is challenging me. I can see it in her eyes. So can you guess what I do next? I look the girl in the eyes, scoop up a fistful of sand, dump it in my mouth, and swallow. It doesn't taste that bad, really. A bit gritty, but I'd take sand over spinach any day. I cross my arms and stare defiantly at the girl, waiting for her reaction.
The girl wrinkles her nose. "Gross!" she yells, and leaves the sand area.
From this, I’ve learned (besides the whole sand tasting okay thing) that there are times to be stubborn, and times to let things go. Maybe I should have let the sand thing go, but I opted to eat sand rather than back down from a challenge. Stubbornness can help you accomplish a goal, even if that goal is simply to stop a kindergartener from whining so you can finish your sand castle in peace.
Like many other kids the most influential person in my life so far has been my mother. We share a very unique mother/son relationship that is a mix of fear, confrontation, a tinge of admiration and of course more fear. Coming from a family with 10 siblings my mom is one hardcore person. Basically she’s a freight train in female form with an additional dose of determination, ferocity and wit. This train has put all of her determination, power, wit and ferocity into imbedding the values her parents raised their 10 kids on into me and my three siblings. My mother carries a lot of old world mentalities about working for the community and the betterment of humanity. She enforced these values every day of my life for 17 years and running. Whether it was doing highway cleanups, volunteering at the vet, playing violin for senior citizens or signing at church, I was beaten into a fascist regime of goodie two shoes humanitarianism. This regime was a strict 24/7 process let me assure you. God help you if you didn’t say please or thank you when my mother was around. Even when my friends came over she would take the chance to get a group volunteer fiesta going on for the PTA. Even in the holidays I couldn’t find respite. During Halloween if I didn’t say thank you at each house that gave out candy my mom would slap me across the face and have me run back up to the door to thank whomever had dispensed the candy. I was 5 at the time……
My mom also had always had an acute sense of justice. That’s actually an understatement, she more or less lives on the idea of justice and kindness of people. I can’t count the number of times she’s had teary eyed conversations with me about how she is in such despair with the level of caring the community has today. She can’t understand why people no longer put themselves behind the betterment of the whole, an idea she tried to live up to her entire life. And beyond that she can’t bear the mistreatment of people, especially kids in school. The idea of bullying is so putrid to her she has told me with complete seriousness that she would disown any one of her children for bullying other students. Through one of her lectures about bullying came the childhood memory that has shaped my life to this day.
He started off describing a high school girl. This girl was average looking and by her walk and dress you could see her timid and unconfident nature. The girl went through the day’s gym class without any real effort, just going through the motions as she received sideways looks from her peers. She stood alone when the break came; no one made an effort to include her for fear of rejection by the rest of the group. As the period ended this lonely girl left the locker room, but as she did she crossed by a group of the popular girls who all stared her down and as she exited the room she heard the word “loser” shot like a bullet right into her back. She took the blow although seemed physically drained by it and continued to the library. When she entered the librarian noticed her and thanked her for volunteering for the period. And as the girl began to put away returned books and stacked magazines a boy ran into the room, pulled out a gun and shot her in the back. This girl was the first of 27 to die that day.
The last thing anybody said to this girl before she died was "loser” my mom said to me, tears streaming freely down her face.
This was my life blueprint for the past 17 years. I was someone dedicated to the well being of humanity. Unfortunately at my young age I suffered for what I did for other kids. As a result of sticking up for the “losers, dorks, and nerds” I was grouped with them, an untouchable. Through the unforgiving hierarchy of school children I found myself at the bottom. At the time I didn’t care because I knew I was always stronger than that. I knew that no matter what I would without a second thought switch my life with any of those bullied kids because I could take it. I could handle suffering and the pain and I never wanted anyone to have to suffer for no reason. But those shoes, the shoes my mother fit into for 45 years do not fit me any longer.
It’s too hard. I can’t stand up for these kids anymore. I’ve become resigned to the fact that people will not change and I’m too worried about my own friends and my own life to risk protecting people I don’t even know. I’m ashamed by this fact; I get physically sick when thinking about what I’ve become. And I know that if my mom knew she’d never look at me the same way. I don’t know how my mom held up those values for so long and I admire her all the more for it but that fact just emphasis’s my own shortcomings.
The other day I had a typical bus ride home. The usual laurel dale crowd of pot smokers and tony hawk wannabe’s were on the bus. And then came Chris. Chris is a kid I’ve known my whole life. He lives in a terrible household where he’s been beaten, mistreated and malnourished by his alcoholic parents. He’s told me of times when he had to fight off his dad from killing his mom when he was in a drunken rage. This kid is poor, uneducated and shunned by the rest of the student body. He wasn’t always that way though, when he was young I remember him being smart and lively, a kid who was willing to learn and adventure. But even then forces he couldn’t control shaped his life into the miserable rut it was now. Cruel kids even at the age of 7 beat him and tortured him about his house and his family. I was the kid who stuck up for Chris, the one who took punches from Larry Perna for him and who backed him up when no one else was on his side. I was and still am the only person who will talk to him, that’s sickening. But what’s worse is that on this bus ride home last week some ignorant asshole girl on verbally assaulted Chris for sitting in her seat by accident. Shea brutally attacked him for his clothes, smell and appearance with a level of cruelty I hadn’t seen in a long time. Needless to say Chris moved and silently took the abuse in the same way he took it for the past 17 years. I did nothing to stop her. I wanted to call out this white trash whore for all the disgusting things she said but I did not and for that I’m worse than her.
More than anything I want to be the person who stands up for others, who can be strong when everyone else is weak but it’s so hard. Even though that’s the most pathetic excuse in the world I cannot get by it. I’m so unbelievably proud that my mom turned out the way she is no matter what all the other parents say about her. When I was too young to realize what was going on the parents of kids in this very classroom criticized my mom for letting me befriend kids who were not up to other parents standards. I don’t regret it for a second. All of my friends turned out to be great imaginative people because they had a friend to stand by them. We need more people like that in this world. People who will do what is right and can be strong enough to make the hard decisions that no one else can make. I want this to be the blueprint for my life but I’m afraid I’ve already ruined it.
The world would be such an amazing place if we all had this worldly understanding. War, rape, murder and theft, all acts born from an inability to understand our fellow man would be nonexistent. The problem then is spreading this idea. There are few people who can be strong enough to bear this weight and I think it’s an idea that can only be taught at childhood. All ten of my mother’s siblings share this humanitarian mentality because of their upbringing. I will spread this to my children to make up for the lacking I have in it now. But until then I can only try my best to reach out to others and hope that they in turn will reach out to someone else.
This memory will always be burnt into my conscience. You really have to be careful and aware of the implications of your actions because you never know what could happen as a result. Every person you touch in life will gain something from your encounter so you better make sure what you leave them with will only benefit their future otherwise we risk ruining the lives of those around us.
In response to Janiru:
Thank god Jani, thank god. Nothing complements a two mile walk home better than a beating at the door. I completely agree with you that kids need to be beaten. It builds character and strong bones (after you break the original ones). All these BS organizations today like DiFis locking parents up for something that parents have done for hundreds of years. Has anyone ever considered that the reason society has become so concerned with the individual is because of the parents who punish their kids by tickling them? And I agree that there is a distinction between beating your child for punishment and beating them to the point of abuse. A good parent will know when to apply beatings so that they maintain a trusting bond with their child but also instill fear in them.
We are all trees. As we grow, we get taller and stronger. We slowly become a more useful part of society, and when we reach our goal by attaining maximum height, we sort of just sit there for another forty or fifty years until our insides rot and we come crashing to the ground. Memories, however, are the branches on our tree. As we grow, branches develop, new ones constantly appear, and old ones thickening. When the wind blows, they affect the way we sway, and without them, we couldn’t survive.
A very prominent memory of mine, isn’t an actual single memory, but a compilation of very similar memories that have repeated throughout my life. (So I guess they would appear as a thick branch that is very twiggy.) It is of my Uncle and Grandmother at Sunday dinner. Every Sunday for as long as I can remember my Uncle would pick up my grandmother and come over for dinner. We never did anything momentous, and the visits usually consisted of just sitting around the T.V. just waiting for dinner. We would eat, talk, and then everyone went home. It is an innocuous sentiment, but it has shaped me tremendously.
I love my family. They are my permanent shoulder to lean on. They’ve been there for me my entire life, and I don’t know what I would do without them. When my family comes over every Sunday it’s not like we have the most fun ever. In fact, a rousing game of Scrabble is about as high as we go on the fun meter. But when they come over it’s not about fun, it’s about closeness. It’s about being around the people you love and just enjoying their peaceful company. The weekly visits changed me for the better. The fact that I know I have a reliable loving family has undoubtedly shaped my decisions and my character. They are an unseen force that stands behind me at all times, and while this is a behemoth pain at some times, it’s a part of who I am, and I couldn’t live without it.
I want to carry the tradition of a close family into my adult life. I would gladly host my parents and siblings at my house every Sunday, and in turn, hopefully pass the tradition onto my children because a solid family is a gift. One that I am grateful to have, and wish upon everybody. While everyone may not have a closely knit family, the best thing about them is that you can always start your own. This may sound like a lot to a group of teenagers, but time flies by, and before we know it we will be contemplating whether or not to start a family of our own. I say, go for it. A family can potentially be the best thing to happen to anyone, and it’s worth going for it at some point in your life.
Ashley,
I'm not sure how some of these people get jobs working with children. But for some reason, a lot of people like your bus driver and principle decide to work with little kids.
This blog could be tough for me, mainly because my memory is so pathetic that I can hardly remember where I parked the car ten minutes ago, much less drag someone distant, vague, recollection from the depths of my addled mind. The sparse remnants of my childhood that I can still recall are basically a conglomeration of the whole of my younger years; playing manhunt down the street every Friday night, swimming in the river in the summer, and skating on it in the winter, riding our bikes through on the trails, bouncing on the trampoline, and exploring every nook and cranny of my once enormous world that was the tiny town of Port Republic. So I'll try my best to pull this jumbled mass of memories apart, and rearrange the puzzle pieces the best I can, hopefully producing a memory that is suitable to describe who I am, and what I hope to teach.
So, after downing a Gatorade, eating half a box of Nilla Wafers, and downloading one-hundred twenty-nine G. Love and the Special Sauce songs, I've finally sifted through the fog and come out the other end with a memory that may not be the best representation of my childhood, but I think will sufficiently get my point across. Here goes: Just like every other normal summer day in the Nelson backyard, the three boys are battling it out on the red brick patio that served as their basketball court. The boys are throwing up shots at the backboard that attached to the old shed in the backyard. That's me there, the smallest boy flailing his arms helplessly as his two older brothers go past him to score over and over again. There I am, hoisting up another jumper, only to have it blocked into the yard, then chasing it down so I can make another attempt. As you might expect from three very competitive brothers, things tended to get heated during our pickup games. So after repeatedly getting taken behind the woodshed, literally and figuratively, I let my temper get the best of me. I decided that my best course of action would be give one of my brothers a hard shove the next time they came past me, because trying to intimidate someone biggger and stronger than you is always a good idea, right? Surprisingly, my plan backfired, leaving me as the one running inside trying to hold back tears of anger and wishing I wasn't the runt. It was during these times that I escaped to my room and my fantasy world of books. I would lose myself in the words, the characters, the stories, and envision other worlds where the impossible could happen. Soon enough, I completely skipped the usual preliminaries that were some variation of what I just described, and instead just curled up in bed with a book, spending hours at a time flipping through pages, becoming a part of the alternate realities, living and dying with the characters, leaving me saddened as I closed the back cover, but optimistic about the limitless possibilities held in my next book.
So what does this anecdote say about me? How has it shaped me? Most importantly, it combines what are my two favorite passions; sports, and reading and writing. (Technincally that's three, but this is for English class, not math.) I guess that could explain why just about all I read nowadays consists of Sports Illustrated and ESPN the Mag, from cover to cover, no matter the sport, from ping-pong to football to chess to boxing. My abiding love of sports and writing has left with an obvious career choice. What could be better than traveling the country to watch the greatest athletes in the world compete, and then writing about it for thousands of people to read? Well, I guess actually playing in the games would top it, but since that's not happening, this is the next best thing. I never truly realized it until recently, but I guess I've always wanted to be a sportswriter.
If I could impart my own little slice of knowledge from this simple, yet vital memory, it would be pretty cliche. I would tell people to pursue what you love. I know it seems like a pretty standard piece of advice, I think it is important because so many people pursue things that they aren't passionate about, and it doesn't make them happy, no matter what their paycheck might say.
Ashley - I thought your blog was very well written, and it truly shocks me how neurotic and uptight some people can be. If I had been written up for having my feet in the aisle, I think I may have actually done all the things you wished you would have done, because I have a hard time keeping my emotions in check when I'm angry. Maybe there's just a problem bus drivers in general, because I can only remember having one in my whole life who didn't insist on ruling over the bus as if it was their kingdom.
It was Sunday and the end of the CP United Soccer tournament. I was trudging out of the steaming car, dragging my aching body with every step. In my arms was a second place trophy. Ugh. As I walked up the stairs to my vacant door, something was different, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But, once I walked into the door, it was apparent what was wrong. It was the worst thing that I had ever seen in my life. My dog, sprawled out on the floor, barely breathing, with his eyes half glazed over. There was throw up and blotches of blood all over him and all over the floor. It looked like he had lost ten pounds in four hours. I was horrified and let the now impossibly heavy trophy drop to my feet.
Let me give you a little bit of a background. Snickers was my dog ever since I can remember. I picked him out, I took care of him, I named him. (Yes after the candy bar =) ) Snickers is a Yorkie, which are known for their big attitudes and small size. Well, he had the small size at the beginning, but he grew into a big fat mutant dog, which I doubt is even a Yorkie. Over the years we got another Yorkie for my sister, which died weighing 3 pounds in one week from a severe case of kennel cough, and another which died on its first birthday from eating pesticides that the lawn people put in our grass. So, after that I tried not to get too attached to any other pet that I got. Snickers was the only one who seemed to stick around through good and bad.
So, back to the story. The one thing in my life that was by my side through everything was hurt, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. My mom and sister scooped him up and rushed to the Vet. I couldn’t go because I just couldn’t bear to see him hurting like that. I generally try to stay away from these things. When the other two dogs died I wasn’t there, because I would have been a wreck. My mom called my dad about five minutes after she arrived in the Vet’s office and told my dad that we NEEDED to be there, because it didn’t look good.
I remained emotionless, mostly because I was in shock, but when I got to the Vet’s I was bawling. I couldn’t go in the room that they were in with the Vet, because I couldn’t bear to see my dog hurting. My mom came out and told me that things didn’t look very good. He had extreme dehydration and they didn’t know why he was bleeding. They suggested going to a real animal hospital. Ugh. The bill for ‘re-hydrating’ him was two thousand dollars. And the chances of him living were about fifty percent. At that point I felt like I was dying. All I could think was that I never want to feel this way ever again. All that my head told me was put him to sleep, put him to sleep, put him out of his misery, but I would never let those words escape my lips. I sat there, while my mom flew to a hospital in Cape May. It turns out that after multiple tests and X-rays that Snickers swallowed a raw hide chew toy that he was playing with, and it was ripping the insides of his intestines, causing him to bleed from the mouth. Good thing I wasn’t there. I would have just died.
This, along with a lot of other occurances, is the reason why I don’t let people get too close to me. I don’t want to deal with the pain that will come when things go wrong. This generally happens with boys. I don’t want to get too connected with somebody. Even with people in Oakcrest. The thought lurks in the back of my mind of never seeing any of these people ever again. The people that I have grown up with my whole life, and these Mullicans that I have just met, who might as well have grown up with me. I don’t want this to be the blueprint of my true self, because I want to let people in my life, without worrying about when they are leaving.
Snickers did live, but barely, and right now he is sitting under my feet begging for food. But he is getting older, every day, and I don’t even want to think about never coming home to his wagging tail ever again……….
I can't do this blog, not fully anyway. I would like those who are reading this to understand me when I say "I can't." I honestly can't do this, it just doesn't feel right, not at all.
I have a complete though shaded recollection of what has shaped me the most thus far in my life, but it's something that I can only share with the few people that I know for a fact that I can trust, so only my mother, eldest brother, and two others know of what I'm talking about. No one else is allowed to know unless I say so.
I can't really say what other events in my memory has shaped into this thing I am today. Unlike a lot of people, I can remember a lot of things that occurred during my early years. Here are just a few of the ones I don't mind sharing:
1)My earliest memory goes back to when I was just a little older than two, playing in the patch of daffodils growing in the back yard. My mother comes out and tells me to get out of the flower bed because I'm harming the flowers. I look down and see a flower on the ground beneath my feet, crushed. I try to fix it and make it stand up again but it won't, the steam being broken. Petals fall to the ground and I begin to cry, having just realized that I just killed a flower.
2)I haven't been walking for a while now, even though I know that I can. Every time I walk, something doesn't feel right in my legs and i sit back down on the ground. My mom has noticed that I haven't gone outside at all in nearly a week and forces me out to play, saying that I should go ride my trike around for a while near the garage. I ride though I don't want to, something just doesn't feel right. The pedal slips and hits the back of my leg and I fall to the ground. I don't get up, my body doesn't feel right. Mom has now rushed over and is trying to help me up. i tell her that my leg hurts and she lifts up my pant leg to find the bruise and all I can see is my mom's eyes, wide. I look and see that I don't have a bruise, but the entire back of my leg is streaked with black and purple.
3) I'm crying. I'm strapped to a chair and I'm crying, looking desperately at my mom because I want to be let go. They're gong to hurt my again, doesn't she see that? They're going to hurt me again! A lady with dark hair and a crisp white starched jacket is standing nearby with a needle, a big, empty needle with no container attached to it. I can take normal needles, but this one is different. Unlike other needles, this one doesn't put things in my body, it takes stuff out. The lady slides the needle in to my arm and I cry louder, "I don't like this thing in me! Get it out! Get it out!!" My mom cringes but looks away as the lady garbs a thick, clear tube and connects it to the other end of the needle, i watch as blood squirts into the tube and I scream. When it's over, my mom picks me up and carries me to the car so I don't have to sit in the uncomfortable wheelchair. I'm four and there are only three things I hate right now: that lady, wheelchairs, and that blood stealing needle.
4)I'm still four and I'm sitting against the wall on a carpeted spring floor. I watch older girls tumble on the opposite side and I sigh. Ms. Liz walks over with a sweet smile and kneels down next to me. "Okay Myra," she says softly, "it's time to get stretched." I nod quietly as she helps me to my feet and lets me lean against her so I can walk to a different part of the gym, away from the observation windows the parents look through. Ms. Liz hands me over to a lady whose name I've never bothered to know and she sits me so I'm facing the wall, my feet touching it. Without speaking, they slide me against the wall, separating my legs into a straddle and forcing them back as far as they will go. The lady I don't know starts talking to me about needing motion back in my legs, but it's hard to understand what's she saying with her strange accent. I nod quietly. Then she yanks my legs back. Too far! I hear and feel a strange and painful snap from my hips and I cry and scream. The lady snaps at me to be quiet and that if I have to make noise, to laugh. Laughing will make the pain go away, or so that's what she says. Ms. Liz runs out to get my Mom from the waiting room, leaving me alone with the funny sounding lady, laughing as much as I can as tears roll down my cheeks.
5)The kids at school think that I'm freaky. I fell in gym class and landed on my arm wrong, making it hang in a funny angle off the shoulder. I laughed at it slightly before popping it back in place, the crunch sound making Patrick Balazo, the boy nearest to me, get pale. I'm in the third grade and my only friend, Hilary Rosenberg, isn't in any of my classes so she doesn't see. Other than her, everyone else thinks I'm a freak.
6) Third grade and it's my day to pick a prize from the box in Ms. Cowley's room. My teacher smiles at me and says that she saved something special for me before handing me something wrapped in brown paper. I unwrap it to find a porcelain dolphin. I hug her and put the dolphin in my backpack.
7)My dad has decided to take me out to the bay. We walk through the tall, itchy weeds that grow along the shoreline and leads me up to a small inlet near the bay. I smell salt water and mud as he takes a small rake out from his pocket and digs up some mud, finding a buried clam. Flies buzz around us and he curses under his breath as he waves them away, replacing the small rake with his pocket knife. He beckons me closer and I watch him open up the clam by digging the knife in the juncture of the two shells. The clam is white inside and glistens with moisture. he uses his knife to point out the different parts of the clam, barely touching the creature's soft body. I ask my dad why clams have shells and he says that he'll show me. pointing out to the inlet, he tells me about a minnie that lives in the water called a Killifish. He breaks off the clam's top shell and slowly lowers it into the water. I watch as a group of small fish start to encircle the damaged clam before they launch themselves at it, a swarm of wriggling bodies replacing the space where the clam had been. My dad explains that without their protective shells, clams were too easy prey and would simply die out, throwing the food chain they were a part of out of wack. I look back under the water to find the killifish are all gone, only a white clam shell behind. I'm horrified and fascinated.
I think that's enough for right now. it explains enough I think.
Today on our day off, my dad went out of his way to go out to IHOP with me. This isn’t a usual thing for my dad and I, so I knew it was going to be one of those ‘where’s your head at’ kind of conversations, for anyone whose familiar with parents who try to dig deep into their kid’s lives. And although I was dreading this awkward encounter with my dad, where we would converse either on the same page or we wouldn’t have a conversation at all, I was really glad he went out of his way to talk to me. My dad and I have never had a great relationship. I don’t know if it’s right to say we have a bad relationship, but we definitely do not see eye to eye. Ironically, people tell us that were too much alike. And I see this on my own as well. We’re both short tempered, impatient, and immature in lots of aspects.
As far as early childhood theirs tons of points where I could expand on the clashes between my dad and I. There’s the attention he gave to my sisters, the fights that my two sisters and him would get involved in, as well as the words that I would never imagine him saying.
Above all of the incidences where my dad has ignored me, yelled at me, or punished me from my past, I consider what happened today to be a reflection of the blueprint concerning the relationship between my dad and I.
Even as we left the house, got in the car, and drove to IHOP I knew that this moment was going to define the relationship between my dad and I for my future. I knew he would ask me about recent things, present views on stuff, as well as future commitments he wants to see from me. Spending half my time thinking about what I was going to say, I took the other half of time anxiously praying this lunch would go over well. Having enough emotion in myself to cry at any moment, I sat through the beginning lunch behaviors by looking at the menu, ordering our drinks, and of course, desperately making small talk with my dad. Soon enough the moment came when my dad started talking about our relationship and incidents of the past, when soon enough the part came for me to express all of the bitter feelings I’ve been feeling for a while now. At the mere thought of ‘this is my opportunity, this is my time to change the entire relationship with my dad, and this will define the future of me and my dad’, I began to cry. As he asked me to just simply talk, the pressure of the situation made me speechless as well as a crying mess. Then the next thought that was towards the fact that I was letting this once in a lifetime, relationship defining, blueprint worthy moment go made me just burst into tears. If any of us could go back and change the blueprint moment we had in our younger years, the better half of us would definitely do so, and here I was at the moment and the words couldn’t come out of my mouth. The truth is I don’t know if the words were even there. How could I put into a sentence the feelings that I’ve been feeling since I was a little girl towards my dad? As I write this and wonder what I did or didn’t do earlier today, I’m beginning to think that maybe I had no control over it. I mean, those moments that Hil had, that Molly had; were they really controllable? Maybe this encounter had to happen as a blueprint for the future relationship between my dad and I. Maybe God was holding me back from saying anything at all. Maybe this is the way life has to go just as it has had to go for all of us in our views at moments. Just as you guys couldn’t control those events, even I, in present day couldn’t control an event that is now looked upon as my past.
Regardless, my dad told me he could see the ‘conviction’ that I had towards what we were talking about even if he couldn’t see the ‘communication’ that was clearly lacked. After this he told me that he trusts me and understands we won’t see eye to eye, and all of that stuff but I wonder if I really could’ve made myself perfectly clear and possibly walked out of IHOP laughing in perfect agreement.
On a side note…how EMBARASSING am I to be in IHOP crying?
Although my blog doesn’t look back on a moment when I was younger and look at it in retrospect, I completely believe that despite what we try to tell our parents, we as teenagers are still their fragile, young, and very impressionable kids who are going to remember things that happen to us tomorrow and a month from now. Knowing I’m still growing up in my childhood, I unfortunately have to say that I’ll always remember the time I cried in IHOP in front of everyone. Above this moment, that has had a lot of very similar events in my early childhood; I do not want the bad and almost irresolvable relationship between my dad and I to be the way I look into relationships in my future. I really do want to be able to connect with people, love people, and have respect for them. Although I feel today really didn’t get me anywhere and will forever be classified in the group of awkward altercations with my dad, I truly believe this encounter was meant to turn out the way it did. Although it’s a recent event, it’s something that was long overdue as well as something that will come to mind every time I think of my dad. I’m hoping I will see its results sometime soon, but if I don’t I know that somewhere in my distant future maybe it will set the stage for another encounter with my dad; one that will end up peacefully and with no tears. On a lighter note I know I don’t need to compare all of my future relationships to the one with my dad. By having these bad moments with my dad only makes me try that much harder towards being a better daughter to him and hopefully one day see eye to eye.
“Never take what you have for granted. Never hold grudges on anyone. You never know when someone will just leave your life forever.”
-Toni
Toni reading your story about your dad was something I’ve never heard anyone tell before. A lot of people say they have hard lives but I truly have so much respect for you telling that story as well as for the way you look at life and not let the past hold you down. There’s no words I can say to comfort the loss of your dad, but I have to tell you that your words really comforted me. After writing about the lack of a relationship between me and my dad, I look back to my childhood and remember how I always wished my dad never was around so I would never have to deal with him. Reading your story really made me realize that the fights and grudges between my dad and I are entirely meaningless. As I have already started to try and appreciate and hold close the people around me, I’m realizing that coming along with this is the fact that I must let grudges go. ‘Leaving your life forever’ is a deep statement, and I really am going to try to make things better before that day comes.
Bunje I’ve been reading this book called ‘Captivating’ recently and your blog question reminded me of one of the lines Stasi Eldridge said in the book, ‘What if you have a genuine and captivating beauty that is marred only by your striving?’ This is said in the context of one of her friend, Debbie’s Dad had cheated on her mom, and the friend constantly tried to ‘fix’ what was wrong with her. She goes on to say that ‘what if the message delivered with your wounds simply isn’t true about you?’ I just thought it was an interesting thought, and thought it was worth sharing.
Edit: I deleted this and reposted it to say that for the full effect of what I'm going for, this is meant to be read slow. It sounds stupid, and probably is, but that's what I intended.
Like everyone else, this blog consumed so much time thinking about what I may write about. Life so far for me, at least, has been so simple and good yet complicated and washed in black. I could name so many things that echo across my life today that I could probably ramble about it for days, like everyone else. For all of those things, there seems to be a lot of sad ones twisted and tied in there like clumpy knots that ruin a perfectly good rope. Yet I like to remember the fact that my life could be a whole hell of a lot worse than the life's of some peoples in this blog and life's of people whom I am close with. So my point is to try not and bumble about matters significantly smaller than most peoples problems.
My first intention was to talk about a story from when I was younger about football. The story did kind of shape who I am today, especially in my football mindset. But that would be way to predictable coming from me and quite frankly, I didn't feel like talking about football. I decided I'd talk about something I don't ever really talk about because I try to hide it from everyone.
My later elementary school years were never my best by any standards. Second grade was the worse. When I was in elementary school, I wasn't exactly “fluffy”, “Stocky”, or “manly” like I am today by even little kid standards. I was an alright size, but not really a big kid. Even smaller than anything was my ego. I wasn't exactly quiet when I was younger, God knows I'm not now, but I wasn't really cocky or bossy. Just occasionally loud. I wasn't exactly pimping either in my looks. Thick glasses; bucked teeth; birth-marked forehead(probably the funniest when I look back); pale skinny. All these listed factors seem to be the only reasons I can find for getting made fun of so much. I didn't hurt anyone; never wanted to. I just seemed to be the center of a downtrodden mockery for a lot of people. I just would be made fun of for so apparent reason other than how I looked and my occasional outburst of volume.
Mullica is so “unique” for so many reasons, like the fact there kids that went to their school didn't go to there school. What I'm talking about is a familiar-to-some place called the Lahuer School. We really didn't have room at our own school so they decided to send a bunch of kids to a old, small school house renovated for use. We would have to take a bus there everyday once we got off the regular Mullica bus. Talk about the closest thing to hell in my life. I would never name any of the people who did it to me, but I remember every single one to this day. I remember sitting in the back of the bus with a few other kids “like” me who didn't even get it as bad as me. I would always here things that are so stupid today when I look, but for a second grader who doesn't know anything more than this, it was the most demoralizing thing I ever felt. Everyday. It never seemed to stop; just constant bickering. That's probably why I loved to drive to school: so I wouldn't hear it. Constantly being oppressed to the point of being depressed. It was turning me nuts.
Eventually It would get to me. I remember it clearly like I relived it. By the third marking period it had been custom for people who didn't harass me to say something to me just for laughs. I remember waking up that day ready to punch [anonymous] right in the face, and was really going to. I just had to hold my anger in. Unfortunately for a girl in our grade, she picked the wrong day to look back over my seat on the way to school and mock me. I couldn't hold it in and broke. I punched her right in the face. I ended up in the principals office with her crying and me trying not to do the same. In the end, I received a worse punishment than she did. After all the times I had been harassed, I became the bad guy. I couldn't understand it one bit; I was the persecuted being persecuted. That whole incident haunted me for a few weeks.
It sort of dimmed down around third grade, but the effect was still there. I started to feel like I was unwanted. I felt that being obnoxious would help for some reason, which just resulted in more social “neglect.” I was still mocked and such for all that loudness. I just kept doing it because I thought it would solve something. It wouldn't.
By fourth grade, I was accustomed to being this mocked person, even though it had died down. It often made me sad to hear it, though I would cover it with an outer layer of glee. The worst was fresh memories of all that harassment, yet all the kids that did it were “popular.” Thinking about that made me mad. I often would just do things in class for no apparent reason. I didn't really like people at that point. The saddest point I can unfortunately admit is feeling like the class Guinea Pig was the only friend I had in school. I had friends that outside of school were friends, but as far as I was concerned, the Pig was my only friend in school. I'd cry when I found out he died a year later.
My teachers apparently took notice to all this, when I look back. Now some of those teachers saw the obnoxious side, which they by far didn't like. I remember a teacher from lunch who HATED me; she was a bitch. She went as far as to have me go talk to a physiologist(which I didn't really realize from being young and ignorant was basically a shrink session). The physc didn't think I had any problems mentally on the level of “special needs.” I later found out that she actually asked the administration if they could test me into a higher class group (Mrs. Brown for all you Mullicans) because of my insight and thoughtful expression as a fourth grader she witnessed in my six weeks wit her. Many of my personal teachers didn't think I should have gone to the shrink for my obnoxious behavior; but they did believe I should see a shrink. They noticed the different heir of depression that I seemed to carry with my behavior. Some of them were actually concerned what I was feeling.
A lot seemed to change after that, but nothing changed at all. I would later become “Cheaty-Cheaty” and the, for lack of a better term, “popular heir” I have about me. But it was all for the wrong reasons....I only gained all through pure obnoxious behavior, the same that seem to come off the mockery of when I was younger. The only difference was I could actually start talking to people and what I would say would get some laughs, whether with or at me.
I feel like I've carried everything from that point in my life to now. I will still swear that because of that whole incident I have only become more fucked up by it all. I feel like I would be a much different person now if it weren't for all of that. I really think that it turned me insane. My whole life since then has been built off this obnoxious heir. Everyone who knows me sees it. Every time I say something obnoxious that gets some laughs, I feel the whole world is laughing at me. When I say things that don't have the effect I intended, especially when trying to be funny, I feel that same “social neglect” I felt when I was younger. Every time I feel this scratch on my heart; this crack growing deeper in my feelings. I may seem happy all the time even after this stuff, but I'm not. As soon as I feel the least bit awkward or “weird” or out-of-place or unaccepted for what ever reason., my soul cries inside me. I swear that any “social incapacity” I have today stems for that, and I can not control any of that. I feel like I am handicapped from talking to people. Whether it be new friends I meet; the guys bullshitting in class; the girls I like; the men I talk with; I feel as though I will never come as more than obnoxious, an idiot, or strange. I feel it glued to me. I really am admitting right here that I don't want to be the person that I am today; at least the way people see me. I want to be that same smart, humble child that could actually commands respect and seriousness when it's appropriate. Not the broken-word, mumbling, weird fool that I often tend to be. Every time I try to be this person I feel I really am, my developed inner-insanity seems to hold me back. All from three ridiculous years, a life crippled beyond repair.
Woah... Sorry. I didn't mean to get so deep there. I had to stop the other night after this previous section. I guess I my blueprints of what I want to be is in that last section. I'm not going to really get into that...I guess you could say I gained a few ideals from it I would want everyone too see, whether your my best friend or a walking stranger. It's more of what I developed from all of this.
For one, feel more a sympathy for those who ever have been marked as “outcast” or whom have been bullied mentally, since that presumingly would be the worse. Anytime I'm walking with a bunch of “cool” people or “jocks” around the school, I'm never the one to segregate anyone for being weird or out-of-place. Even if I do make that judgment, it's usually a cover for an equality felt with that person not matter what they do (unless they are criminal). With that, I kind of gained an attitude of respect for everyone. I love to “bust balls” as much as any dude, but not sincerely. If I do bust on someone for whatever reason, I make sure they know I'm kidding. I will go out of my way sometimes to make sure they know I'm not sincere, or I will at least make sure that if I said something to them , I am really nice to them afterwards. I did it today, as I do almost everyday. I guess the best thing is knowing that even though I am not really happy with what I am, I at least know where I am. I feel more on top of my own life than any other time right now. I remind myself of what I can do and who I can be anytime I feel myself in the dark. At least i can always turn to my own being for comfort.
Erik:
I like how you pulled apart two factors of your childhood that in the grand perspective were so important when combined for what you want. Really a grand extraction of life when you think about it.
Ashley:
I can't stand situations like these. no one seems to understand it fro mthe kids point of view. Another God Damn story of people feeling no sympathy or being so dumb as to not know whats going on. I'm sorry, it's jsut the people in your story piss me off.
I’ve been a child for 17 years. The first four years I have no memory of let alone any significant memories. This brings me to the next set of years. However, the memories I have of that time are only the usual memories that children of that age bracket experience. I believe that the experiences we have get more powerful as I get older. So I lead this story to just last year, my sophomore year in high school. Just after the break of winter, I received a phone call from my aunt inviting me to go on a trip to Africa to see my sister, who was participating in a study abroad program. The trip was on, a flight that crossed the Atlantic, which felt like a year, which had a two hour layover in Amsterdam. Finally it was the last leg of the journey as we flew into Cairo. I’ll never forget walking down the mobile stairs of the plane into the airport, where there were security guards that had their fingers on the triggers of their fully automatic rifles. It was like entering a maximum security prison. I was just waiting for a bomb threat, robbery, or a hostage situation. I was concerned for my well being for one of the first times of my life. We picked up our baggage and went out to the central lobby. Here we were barraged with men with slick backed hair smelling of cheap cologne, offering us their taxi service. Eventually one pestered us enough that we gave in and took his taxi to the hotel. For the next several days we visited all the regular tourist destinations, including the pyramids and the sphinx. In transit to these places I witnessed the most interesting things through the protective shell of the bus windows. There was poverty like I’ve never seen before, fecal matter in the streets, and there were some of the happiest people I’ve ever seen in my life.
This got me thinking. How can these people be so happy if they are living in close to wild conditions, and people back home are living in relatively clean houses, with running water and all the amenities one could ever want, and we are still unhappy with our surroundings? Something about that logic just doesn’t add up. I thought about that on the plane ride all the way across Africa to Morocco, but I still could not think of a worthy answer. In Morocco, I saw more of the same level of wealth, and the same level of joy to just be living. Not until boarding the plane to leave that surreal world did the answer dawn on me, that it is not the conditions you live in that truly make a person happy, it is how those conditions are accepted by that person. I came back from that trip a different person. One that knows that no matter the obstacle or catastrophe that occurs in my life, I will be able to overcome it, if I just think positively about the outcome.
For my true self, who I try to live up to every day, I would want this to shape that person. When I see someone that is stressed out beyond belief, I just try to let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel. No matter if they get an A on a paper, or a B, their true mark of success is whether they are truly happy with whom they are and where they are going with their lives. If they are not happy with themselves they need to reflect on the life they’ve lead thus far, and change accordingly.
To Morgan
I think everyone can relate to your story. We all have pressures in our life that will try to direct us. They can be for the better or worse, and we will never know which piece of advice, or insistence from a parent is helpful and which is harmful. The best decision is always going to be yours, because you decide for yourself. And as weird as that sounded, I think it’s true. Life is more fun when you live it for yourself, and were teenagers, we’re supposed to be selfish, so I say you make your own decisions, and ignore anyone else’s pressures.
Abby:
I agree. Sometimes I definitely don't see eye to eye with my parents. I just try to avoid those awkward situations whenever possible. Especially the ones you can't win, no matter if you're right for sure.
MBD:
Last year in Mr. Sera's class was the first inkling I had about the problems with your legs as a child. You always seemed like a child that was athletic, because I knew you were extremely good at gymnastics. I couldn't imagine what it must have been like and still is like for you.
HIl:
I really enjoyed your blog. It was fun to read...that is until i got to the part about you losing your childhood, or starting to lose it. That is very, very sad. I can't even imagine what it must of been like to move from friends and neighbors, considering my closest one it like half a mile away, but i am sure it was difficult. But i can relate to losing childhood innocent, that safety bubble, it is extremely difficult.
Alice:
I couldn't stop reading your blog. I would just like to say that anyone who said you were stupid and/or ugly is sadly mistaken because you are anything but. I really liked how you want to spread this support that you received. It is nice to see hope for the world, and i see it in you as well as everyone else in this class. But i think you have an admirable goal and I feel that you can achieve it.
My childhood memory is not so much is not so much a memory as a group of memories all involving one thing – Swimming, or water of some kind. I had my first swim lessons in the Vineland YMCA at six months of age, even though there is a one year limit. I have no idea how my parents faked a six-month-old as a year, but apparently they did. I’ve never really stopped swimming since. My father grew up in Ship Bottom, NJ on Long Beach Island, so the ocean and swimming are vital to his youth. He transferred this to me. Every summer, we go to the beach about once a week and spend the day lounging, swimming, and running like small children.
I grew up as a small, cling on. I would bravely run straight into the ocean, with my father at my side, and we (he really, I was just a small being on his arm) would float on the waves. An early memory is swimming from Uncle Pete to my father in the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Some may have found this daunting, but to me it was just fun and games. I was never in any sort of fear, for I knew I would be taken care of by my family.
I continued to swim. The year I started kindergarten, I tried out for and made the EHT Seahawks. While there I discovered that an overflowing toilet is possibly the most disgusting thing ever, and got a few planters warts, (long gone now – thank god). After the winter season, I tried out for the Mays Landing Mantas, and was informed of my acceptance to the club, something I have held for the past 11 or so years. There I met many people my own age, almost all of them boys. There were few girls who actually swam for more than a couple of years, Maegan being one. But other than that there was Mitch, Matt, Mike, Gordon, Jon, and Wills plus a few others who I can’t remember at the moment. Nonetheless, this was my main social activity until band which started in about 4th grade. All I really did was school and swim. Because of this I had few friends. My classmates from school found I was rather odd, as I LOVED reading, and would rather read at recess than play tag. The other children from swimming found me odd because I was not very good, and (seemingly) made no effort to become any better. This was in part because I didn’t care and in part because there was no point. Why try to be better than the boys, who were always faster than me anyway?
Things changed when I left the Seahawks for the Vineland Y, the place where I had learned to swim so long ago. But the change was small, only that there were many other girls my age on the team, who still thought I was weird and avoided me at all costs. I quickly learned the term bitch, and it was liberally used in my head. I still see these girls at swimming events, and they have no idea who I am. I was friends with the little girls usually 9-10s or 8 & unders. If they were unavailable, I went to the adults, who I connected with on a strange level. Here is where we come to the shaping and ‘blue prints’ of life.
This strange plot that winds through my life disconnects me from my peers in swimming. I quickly make friends with the parents of my age-mates. Often if I called a friend and they were unable to talk, I would chat with their mother on the phone, or go over to hang out with them. This blue print is stained, and hard to make out. Do I want to be able to make friends with adults and hold conversation, yes – of course. At the same time, I missed out on interaction with my peers, cutting myself off socially to the point where my parents worried that I didn’t have enough friends. I don’t want to become my grandmother, who lives by herself, still resentful that so-an-so “stole” prom queen from her ages ago.
So I take from this memory-chain the fact that my family will always be there to catch me once I reach them, even in the toughest surf. I also take that I will never truly understand the way girls – especially those from Vineland – think. Books will always be a means of escape, but not to replace a true friend.
I want everyone to have that support and to realize that sometimes, adults and 8 & unders are the best friends. For the adults are happy if you get them a water bottle, and the 8 & under is happy if you help them to their next event, or console them when they lose.
-- Ali B
Man oh man this sucks! It kills me to have to look into my past and learn from those experiences when all I want is to forget. You are killing me Bunje but I know it’s for the better. Here we go…….
My childhood was not easy but I still consider myself lucky. There was school, church, softball and all of those moments that have led me to wonder who I am. Just one childhood memory could never shape who I am. A combination of childhood experiences have impacted who I am more so than others and have shaped parts of me. As I write this blog I keep on replaying the Goo Goo Dolls Before it’s too late hoping for answers. My favorite part about this song is the lyrics…..
“So live like you mean it
Love 'til you feel it
It's all that we need in our lives
So stand on the edge with me
Hold back your fear and see
Nothing is real 'til it's gone.”
I spent far too many nights in the hospital as a child. I saw my mother cry herself to sleep, I saw my mother pray herself to sleep, and I saw nights where she never slept. It all began when I was 6. My dad had a heart attack at 37 and this was the first time I could see my mom’s heart break into a million pieces. Essentially she went through the entire ordeal with no one to comfort her the way that my father could have. She battled through and had faith and hope that he would fight. Roughly a year later one of my best friends was diagnosed with cancer. Man I can’t do this without crying. She had a kidney taken out as well as endless months of chemotherapy. I just wanted my old friend back and there was nothing that I could do. Times that she spent throwing up and sick should have been fun times we were supposed to spend together. Yet again I experienced someone fight for their life and pull through. When I was 8 my brother got e. coli. He woke up in the middle of the night numerous times with gross symptoms that none of you really want to know. He was rushed to the hospital and they it took two days to figure out what the problem was. I saw my big brother cry and in pain and it was a side of him that I never wanted to see again. The doctors will never know how he got the e. coli but the main important thing was that I had my big brother back. Even before the e. coli he was my hero the one to pick me up when I fell and teach me how to be a better person. To see my hero near death was bar far one of the worst childhood memories that I have. Seeing him hooked up to machines and put through agonizing tests was a sight to scar me for life. Two years went by and with life seeming normal again with no hospitals in sight my parents decided that we should all go to Florida for a classic family vacation. We spent days at the beach, in Disney, and just swimming in the pools that the hotel had. Oh yeah once again in the middle of the night is when the nightmare began. My brother Randy woke up screaming bloody murder, “My head, my head, its gunna explode.” We arrived at the nearest hospital and he had a total of 20 spinal taps done. He is over weight and they were not getting enough fluid so they repeatedly tried for two days due to the swelling in his brain they put him into an a coma. Imagine being stabbed into the back 20 times by an extremely lard needle, his never ending screams and cries for help still haunt me. Our prayers were answered when all of the sudden a doctor from Miami was flown in and was the man. He came in bossing people around, reading over his charts and within 30 min he had my brother diagnosed. He had viral meningitis. The doctor stated, “I will have your son up in two days.” Believe it or not he woke up two days later asking for food. My brother was back and his old self nevertheless. I was about a thread away from losing everything at a young age. The saying you don’t know what you have till it is gone may seem cliché but it rings close to home for me. I look back at these experiences and I am puzzled. The worst thing about life is that you can’t just go back in time. The memories of my loved ones in hospitals are constant flashbacks and reminders that are permanently etched into my brain. As much as I hate these experiences and memories I can no longer regret them. There are no more tears left because at the end of day it is the only way for me to learn by not having hatred towards them. These vital memories are apart of my current stance on life. I do not always know who I am and it happens when I forget to remember that you never know when you can loose that person that means the world to you. I hate the fact that a part of the Goo Goo Dolls lyrics they state, “Nothing is real 'til it's gone.” Does life really have to be like that? I really don’t think so. My past has not fully shaped me but that day will come. I will continue to remind myself to cherish who is in my life and never regret any last word; it is what helps me sleep at night.
Toni M.-
That was amazing! I balled the entire time because I can relate on so many levels. I am really sorry about your Dad. Everything that you don’t have your dad there for is something that I fear I won’t have my dad there for. I think that this blog was a great way for you to open up and I honor your courage because I know how difficult it was.
Eva -
"My sister took a pair of smooth stones, and crushed its head. And then we walked along, admiring the waterfalls and hemlock trees."
This small sentence alone tells of the differences between you and I. I'm not sure that I truly comprehend the depth of your blog, as I have never experienced human or animal loss of any kind. Your blog was moving, and touching on a personal level.
Ashley -
Was that Mrs. Dagit? I always thought that she was evil, she was too skinny and seemed to hate children.
Miss Fiona E-
I had a very hard time with this blog, as most of my early memories are not actually memories, merely stories I have been told so many times that memories were made for them...
-- Ali B :)
Before I begin, I would like to thank all of you for posted, even despite it being obligatory. Though I can’t relate with all of you, it has helped me remember the many experiences I’ve had as a child. And I commend those who had their apprehensions about telling their tales. It takes quite a bit of strength.
There are two aspects that I find most notable about myself. They are: 1. Being a reserved person, at least when the situation calls for it. 2.Hopeful about finding a way to improve the world. For them, there are separate event lines that have shaped me. I’d likely be filling in random gaps with false information if I chose the latter. But frankly, the former is a vapid story. I’d likely fall asleep in the middle of writing it.
It was 12 or 13 years ago. I’m unsure of the specific time, but it was before I moved to my now former house, and before preschool, and I had the ability to walk. I was in China for one reason or other, most likely visiting family, and waiting for the downtime before the aforementioned house was completed.
Though there were a mess of memories from that time, the most notable would be the, if not only, the last time I’ve truly talked to my grandfather. Yet, at the same time, it is the blurriest of my memories. Though I can clearly remember the walk to where he was, the moment my mind delves into the building where the event happened, my mind draws a blank. I can’t remember his face, or the details of this meeting. I even remember some of the words of my mother, but I remember nothing else. No voice, no face. The mood seemed like something more out of a horror game than a friendly meeting. It isn’t a surprise; I was young, my brain still greatly developing. I continued with my life, quickly growing. 6 years passed. I visit China again. By that time, we were burning incense for him. Somewhere between then, he had succumbed to cancer.
And yet, this isn’t the story of how his death had scarred me for life. Frankly, it had little to no effect on me when I learned of the news. It wasn’t until a few years back, where I had a dream repeating those very events, that it hit me. Who was he? How did he act? How were his last moments? How did he feel when he met me? How were others impacted by his death? What stories did he have to tell? To this day, I have no answers to these questions.
Though related by blood, he was simply just another random person. It wasn’t until that fateful day, in grade 8, where a girl I knew essentially broke down, as her grandmother had died the day before. I tried to have some empathy in my mind, yet in the end, I failed. I felt nothing when I thought of my grandfather. A bit later, I realized that though I did not know my grandfather, though to me he was simply an empty void, he definitely affected other members of my family.
So what of the people throughout the world? Should they simply have their deaths ignored if we did not know them? Was that girl crying not real enough? I pondered that. Though we may not feel the same for a random person, could we stop simply ignoring them? No matter what the person does, it impacts those they know. We cannot simply allow them to die, or to simply toss them aside, their problems unsolved. And thus…the first signs of my idealistic dreams appeared.
Sara VP - It sucks having to go through divorce and im sorry to say this but im glad i have someone i can relate to. I wanted to protect my little brother from it just as much, and hearing one parent talk about the other is horrible. love you girl, feel better, Erik and I miss you!
Morgan and Nyge-
i love you both :) <33333 Nyge, you're like my Asian twin. And mothers will never learn...I got lectured on the car ride home from my game a few hours ago after I told her to be thankful for the job she has. She was bitching about how she didn't want to work anymore, and I get yelled at yet again for telling her the truth. Ugh. And awww, thank you so much Morgan my love. :D <3
“Who let the dog’s out?! (WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF)
Who let the dog’s out?! (WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF)
Who let the dog’s out?! (WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF)
Who let the dog’s out?! (WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF)”
-Baha man...duh.
As Baha man has inquired, who indeed has released the canines? I’ll tell you who! My father, that’s who!
As few of you may know, I have a fear of dogs. This fear leads to dislike. I had a dog. I feared it. Why you may ask? Well, it all starts with, you guessed it, a childhood memory.
Throughout my childhood, I have had a dog until about 6th grade or so. His name was Midnight. He was a German shepherd that was black and brown. Though I have known him since I was born, I wasn’t that close to him. My brother and sister both grew up with him longer, and loved him. I didn’t really feel anything towards him. To tell you the truth, I felt like I could do without him. The childhood memory of mine has to do with my trampoline, Midnight, my dad, and me. In the summer, I was like a spring released from its socket. I was, and still am, a nature-lover. I spent most days outdoors and usually on that trampoline. My dad would be repositioning the sprinklers or water and the plants. My dog would be tied to a tree when no one was outside. However, when my dad goes outside to do work around the house, he always lets Midnight run freely. SO, whenever I was small, and wanted to play on the trampoline, it always took me forever to get ready. (I think it was partly because I had this problem where I always lost my socks because I’d take them off and stuff’em in places and forget about them.) Thus, my dad would always be outside before I was. When I finally walked out of the house and through the greenhouse, I tensed. I knew what would happen when I opened that door out of the greenhouse. Nevertheless, I love jumping on the trampoline to much, so I took a few deep breaths, and quickly opened the door. Afterwards, I shut it really fast and quietly, hoping my dad didn’t notice. No such luck. He spots me and starts counting down from 5. “5....4....3...2.........1!!!!” He says this slowly enough I guess. About three seconds between each number. At the beginning of his counting I would already be racing off towards the trampoline at full speed across a backyard of about 30 feet while he began to untie Midnight. Midnight would start jumping up and down excitedly at the sight of me. I would be about ¾ there when I would hear Midnight start bounding behind me at the end of my lovely father saying “ONEE!” Now, I’d like to add that I was short just like everyone else when I was a kid. This meant that I had short legs. These short legs, they could not run very fast...normally. However, if you thought I was running fast the first ¾ of the way, then you had another thing coming. Adrenaline-pumped, I started running for my life. The very thought of that big beasty right behind me scared my out of my wits. However, I would always reach the trampoline, and jump clear over the side seconds before he could reach me.
I just realized, I made this very drawn out. The point is, I’m afraid of dogs because my dad used to let my dog chase me onto the trampoline when I was a little kid, and I didn’t want him to grab my Achilles’ heels.
From these lovely summer experiences, I was left scarred by the fear that one day, when I turn my back on a dog, it will decide to chase me and finally catch me, and rip out my Achilles’ heels. I know this is a weird memory and an even weirder outcome, but whatever. I don’t know how to explain it better. It makes sense to me.
This memory has already begun to shape my “true self”. I dislike dogs now, and in the future, I do not plan to ever have a dog. Nor do I plan to subject my loved ones, such as my children, to the kind of cruel humor my father subjected me too. Over the years, I have accumulated other reasons to add to my fear of dogs. One has to do with Britt Goetze and her crazy monster, but that’s a story for another day. My lesson would be to never. Ever. Have. A. Dog. EVER. It is also that dog’s are sometimes temperamental and emotional, just like humans. Sometimes, I swear they are PMSing. When they are in this mood, it is best to get the heck out of their way, and stay as silent as possible.
Hmm...I'm sure this is the 25th post you've read that says something along the lines of "I can't remember my childhood very well" and guess what, this is the 26th. My childhood is a blank, but mostly because I've kinda been trying to block it out. There are many memories that all relate to this one central idea, all with the same underlying message. I was a crybaby :( Many memories lead to this ideas. When something was taken from me, I would cry. When someone offeneded me I would cry. When I rode backseat on a bycycle with another person and my leg got caught in the spinning bycicly wheel, sending me on to the ground hard, followed by me being dragged by a short distance before the driver was able to stop. OUCH....Yeah, that one I can justify crying, but I was emotionally, I was incredibly weak. As years went by, I could still see myself unchanged, a pushover. So, these memories have all had a great impact on my current self, as they have forced me to toughen up, by any means necessary. This in itself would be a great blueprint in building my future self as I do not feel that I have reached the stability that I want to acquire. At the same time, I am aware that it is to cross too far beyond the white line, and become something that I, nor anyone else would want me to become, unless you do, in which case I wish I could there was an emote of me giving you the finger >:( But yeah, grown up, I want to be as perfect as I can be in mind. Sadly, this is a pretty selfish goal or whatever cause only I will benefit from it and only I will feel the change. Maybe a few friends will notice my change, but I'm doing alright right now, so the change won't be too massive. If I were to use this gift for good, I would hunt down people who still remind me of my old self and I would change them; and trust me, there are plenty of them. There are plenty of people who allow people to take full control off them. Among those, there are those who do not even realize that this is going on, and at the same time, there are those who knowingly let it continue on. This is not right, both of them. I can not stand to see people be taken advantage of so easily and when asked, they just say "I don't care" YOU SHOULD!!!!! If you can't care about yourself, who can you care about??? It isn't easy, I can give it that. Such a task requires enormous amounts of confidence, either stored away or acquired. Though confidence in yourself is hard to find, you can always look at people who have found confidence to stand up for themselves. For an example, I would say use anyone from the civil rights era, as it took a lot of confidence to stand up and say "NO" to discrimnation. You can look at the bonus army, if you've learned about them, or other rebellions which contained people with enough confidence to say "NO" to what they believed to be unjust, or you can look at Chuck Norris because he is just a perfect image of manhood, godlikeness, and confidence.
!!! Warning !!! Horrible Chuck Norris Joke Ahead !!!!!!!!!!!!
Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
HaHa XD
....anyway, yeah, confidence is very important and I want all of those that are dear to me to have plenty of it. It will help me, it will help you, it will help everyone around you and me to have confidence.
Hmmm there's such positivity radiating from this blog. It's amazing that most of these responses happen to be bad life changing events. Does this just prove that bad things define how the human psyche turns out?
Anyway I've come to add my own tears and heartache to this pot of despair.
When I sat down about three hours ago to write this my first thought was "do I really want to show this class a glimpse into the things I pretend to hide from my own self." It come down to the fact that everyone else seems to be pouring their haunting character-defining memories out, so what the hell I might as well too. Then it was just which memory should I pick. So, I got up and left the computer and let the thought mull itself over within my cranium. Eventually I made my way back to the computer with a memory from when I was 7.
It's not even bad so that suspenseful introduction was quite unnecessary. I ran off the bus on one particular Friday, like I did daily back then. The older kids in the neighborhood were playing football in between the buildings, so naturally I wanted to rush out and play with them to be cool. I opened the door with my little house key and my tiny little bambino hands, then sprinted up the stairs to place my book bag down in the living room. The thought of playing football with the cool kids was all that scampered through my head, and I just assumed my mom was sleeping for the night shift at her factory job. So I just tore down the steps without a backward glance down the hallway and out the front door to play. Well after about three hours of being the annoying kid that you say is playing but is really just running around like a dolt getting in people's way, I decided I was famished and the bottomless pit of energy storage that all children have lost its top portion. Upon deciding this I once again sprinted into the house and expected my mother to be up and about getting ready to leave with some dinner on the table or at least the microwave. However this was not the case. There was no mother up and about. There was no food on the table. There was no food in the microwave either. Wondering where everything was and why my mom wasn't up yet I crept over to her room and cracked open the door a little bit. I was utterly shocked by what I saw. She wasn't there. The bed was made, the room was clean, but she was no where to be found. Immediately I started to panic, but I repeated over and over again that she was at a friends house and would be home soon like usual. All hunger forgotten I ran to the window and pressed my head against the cool glass to anxiously await her arrival, which had to be any minute considering I knew she had work that night. And I waited. And I waited. It felt like I was sitting there staring out the window forever. The street lights had come on to illuminate the enveloping darkness when the first tear came from my eyes. Slowly they came rolling down my cheeks and the wails climbed up from the depths of my diaphragm, until neither could be contained. The screaming lament of sadness and fear burst from within as the tears just cascaded down my face. It was quite a long time before the sobbing stopped, but I remember looking at the clock seeing it taunt that it was 8:30 and my mother would already be at work. About that time I realized that crying was pointless and I'm sure she just got caught up at her friends. She'd be home in the morning and make a big breakfast to make up for it. So I wiped my tears and snot on my sleeve, like all little boys do (don't give me that your gross stuff either), and then I went and attempted to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Well a mess and a half later it was ten o'clock and I was sitting on the couch eating a PB and J and watching Ed, Edd, and Eddy. Needless to say a child at the age of seven falls asleep quite easily, so as soon as the sandwich was finished I slumped asleep right there on the couch. Come the next morning the tv is still playing cartoon network and the kitchen light is on. Once again fear gripped me. She had to be home now. I fearfully ran to her room only to find the door wide open like I left it and no mother in sight. This time I didn't erupt in tears though. One silent tear came down my cheek as I thought I had been abandoned by both parents now. I was literally alone. It was almost like a state of shock. I just walked back to the couch sat down and stared at the tv, telling myself that I could do this. Seven year olds can live by themselves, I just have to make sure I don't burn the house down. There was nothing else to do except continue to convince myself that if I'm alone I will survive and I will be fine. I could make it being alone and I would. This was legitimately an hour long tirade that went on within my head as I sat and stared at the tv show progressing in front of me. After that hour, I just went on with my little child's life. I went outside and tried to play with my friends, the one's my age this time, but I was awkwardly quiet and not the least bit fun. Eventually everyone went inside for lunch so I ran back to my house, half expecting my mother to have finally returned, but alas she wasn't there.
She didn't show up until Monday morning.
To make matters worse she was too inebriated to respond with more than a hug and a kiss before going straight to bed, while I ran off to school ecstatic at the fact she was back. Although she was back and I was happy, my attitude towards people since that day has never been the same. That weekend proved to me that I am literally alone in the world. Even though she came back, the fact that she could leave me just left the resonating idea that one day I will have to fend for myself in this world. To this day I hate depending on other people, because like my mother they will eventually leave you. Because of her and this memory, its almost impossible for me to let someone get close enough to see the man behind the public show I put on. Furthermore this memory not only shaped my independent nature today, its governed the entire way I want to live my life. My goals and aspirations are all individual. My choice of career places all the responsibility on me, and forces me to live completely alone. The buck doesn't stop there either. I don't want to have children because I feel I will ultimately force them to be alone, and placing that upon a child is wrong.
In the end, I can say that yes I do want this to be the blueprint for the "true" Jordan Colbert. It may seem as if I'd hate this memory which, don't get me wrong, I do, but it has caused me to reach where I am today. If I separate myself from everyone else and become truly alone, the only thing that can better me is myself. This means that any success I achieve can be attributed to myself. I got to where I am by what I have done for myself, not what anyone else has done. It's like a blessing and a curse that this memory actually happened to me. In all honesty, the only way this memory's affect on my character development can ever help the world is by hoping that one day I push myself to better the world. Lucky enough for the world, this is exactly what I plan to do.
The message of this memory is probably the saddest thing to impart to the world. All I could say is that you can never rely on other people, because they will always let you down. It's sad but true. Now this doesn't mean everyone should run off, separate from the ones they love, and live completely alone in the middle of the woods. It just means that you can't place all your expectations into other people. Complete trust in another person to not let you down is something that is so rare, that although its there now could be considered nonexistent. At least for me that is. For the rest of the world you can either take my advice or leave it. You are alone and people will let you down.
Ashley
Wow. That was an amazing blog. It was your blog that actually made me decide to open up and throw my childhood memory out there. Actually as I read through a lot of the comments on people's blogs, you got the most. So I figured I should check it out, and sure enough it was as good as everyone said. Well technically it was a depressing story, but the writing was eloquent and vivid. The whole ordeal seemed to jump me as if I was there on with you that day. Good job, and I feel for you having to go through that
Dear Megan
...Damn!!!
When I first read your responce, I was all like, how can you not like dogs? They are like man's best friend. All of my dog experiences have been good. My own dog was very lovable. Everytime I would come home, he would trap me somewhere and start licking me LOL. Even as as child I never found it threatening. But, a name like Midnight (not a very "bright" name for a dog) and that trampoline accident and I can really see what you are talking about. Maybe you should try having a small dog, just not a chewawa or h/w you spell that.
Jani-
hahaha, we have talked about this numerous times jani-son. Beating your kids is a MUST. WIthout it, they would learn no tre discipline. Beating kid=good.
Matt-
I was trying to find a quote from your post that i could paste on my comments, but i couldn't because your entire post was amazing and thoughtful. I know exactly what you mean, and I feel the same way. I wish people were different, and that we humans can just accept everyone else. No one can ever say they are better than another, and it's terrible how much teasing and humiliation goes around today. Though this seems like a lost cause, your blog has inspired me. I don't usually like talking badly to or about people already, but now i want to try and lessen it even more. If everyone does this, eventually the world will become...nicer.
sergei -
hahaha ACTUALLY, I don't like small dog's either. hahaha, and if a dog ever jumped on me and knocked me over, I would probably declare myself dead be the time I hit the floor. If i'm still thinking when I'm on the floor, then I'll be thinking, "Omgosh, he's going to eat my face!" The story with Britt Goetze has to do with small dogs. Small dogs with scary teeth. Ick. I think they are cute though, from afar of course. =]
Had to consult my journal (yes, I used to keep a journal, since I saw Doug do it) for this one. Before I start, I’d just like to share a couple, so you can get an idea of the daily life of Jon Scheaffer, age 9. I’ll just pick seven from January 2002 to show you how boring my life was as a child. By the way, these are the most exciting. I’m leaving out all the ones that just say “Today I did nuttin’ besides swimming.”
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“I hate swimming. I’m just tremendously happy right now because I don’t have to go tomorrow. But we have a swim meet the day after that…”
“Today Peggy picked Matt and me up from my house and drove us to the swim meet. Matt got: 1st, 2nd, 1st, 1st. I got: 2nd, 3rd, 3rd, 2nd. We won the meet (after a fire that I practically frozed my body parts off, standing in only a jammer outside in the cold) and went home without Matt.”
“Today I got in trouble with Mrs. Carson.”
“Today I didn’t have to go to swimming, YAHOOOO!!!”
”Today I got kicked in the throat.”
“Today was Matt’s b-day party. His mom couldn’t pick me up, so my dad had to drive my sister and me. Wait a minuet someone (Sarah) wants to borrow my pencil. OK, where was I? Oh yeah…anyway, we saw “Jimmy Neautron – Boy guineaus” and after that we went to Friendlys and I had a “Monster Mash.” My sister saw “Snow Dogs” and also went to Friendlys.”
”Today I went out to lunch with my dad and his wife. Also, the Patriots beat the Steelers, and the Rams beat the Eagles (take that, Matt!) so it’s gonna be Rams VS. Patriots in Superbowl XXXVII.”
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Anyway…I don’t have too many childhood memories that shaped who I am today, because today I’m a different person than I was then. Come to think of it, I don’t have any recent memories, either. Probably due to the fact that I’m still spinning around on the wheel, waiting for the potter to lay his hands upon my wet…whoa that’s starting to sound like an erotic story. Also, I’m more the product of my entire life than just one memory. I can’t choose just one time where my dad got drunk and threw something at me. I can’t just try and pick a time where he stopped the car so my mother could spank me on the side of the road. When I look back on my childhood, I see montages.
Even looking through my journal, it all flows together. Mostly, this is due to the fact that my handwriting hadn’t yet accommodated spacesbetweenwordssomostofthemjustgotsqueezedtogetherlikethis. But yea, the single memory thing isn’t working for me right now. At least, I can’t think of a single shaping memory. I’ll try to just relate to a random single memory.
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He was angry, but wasn’t he always? I had a mouth ten times quicker than my mind, and my mouth liked to show off its speed. On top of that, my father and I both had some problems with anger management. Let’s just say it didn’t mix well.
So he was about to leave, about to slam the door in anger, when I said something else. He decided it was too much, so he grabbed the closest thing, the doorknob, and hurled it at my head. I managed to dodge it, and crouched there cowering. My mother rushed over, worried sick.
“That doorknob was expensive, damnit!” she cried out as she pushed past me, trying to find her beloved doorknob.
It was just another normal occurrence for me. My father liked to break things by throwing them at me. How did it shape me? Well, I’m pretty decent at dodgeball, as long as the person screams “FUCK!” before they throw it. Oh, and I know how to take a hit. I can dish them out, too, but that doesn’t have much to do with my father. Of course I don’t want the memories to define me, as I have already changed since then. Life has changed since then. My father no longer attacks me, since I’ve been able to best him since I was about 13. I’ve become a hell of a lot calmer than I used to be.
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Ok, I was gonna post this a lot sooner, but then a ton of people challenged me as soon as I plugged in the internet and…well you can’t expect me to not play at least 20 matches.
Megan:
I can totally relate. I get attacked by dogs all the time. Actually, it's been wearing off a bit now that I don't smell like cats everywhere I go. But yea, dogs are evil. EVIL!! Your fears are totally justified.
Sunday MORNING. From the time when I was able to comprehend what was going on around me, until the age of fifteen, I hated Sundays. I also hated Saturday nights, because it was a constant reminder that Sunday morning was approaching in just a few hours. In just a few hours, I'd have to get up early, put on a dress, shoes, cover my head with a scarf, make SURE I didn't eat anything, and...go to church. The one place I loathed and dreaded my whole childhood. (other than the doctor's office and school of course) I hated the fact that I had to rise early on a Sunday, my off day, and devote the first half of my day to church. I hated having to avoid breakfast, because in my religion, (orthodox Christianity to refresh anyone's mind), we are not allowed to eat before the church service. So I wasn't too happy with that as a young child whose body is constantly growing and in need of food. I hated having to have my head covered in church; I felt like a grandma. But most of all, I hated standing up in church for three hours, just standing, for THREE hours, thinking about anything but what I was supposed to be thinking about. I'd stand and think about what would happen if the man in front of me tripped and fell, or what would happen if the old lady lighting the candle caught fire and so on. In our churches, we are not allowed to sit; chairs are located in the back of the churches and are reserved for the elderly. SO there I was, EVERY Sunday, unless I was so sick I was dying, standing in church for three hours, hating my life and planning my future life which would not involve church.
Thankfully, things did not stay that way.I can't recall exactly what it was that made me like church, or exactly when it happened, but it did. It happened when I was about fifteen when I realized I actually enjoyed standing there in church, hearing the priests' voice bounce off of the walls of our small church in Mays Landing, and the choir's enthusiastic melody ringing in my ears. It was hard to believe that after like,let's say thirteen years, I'd actually come to admire the whole process and the warm, comfortable feeling I got from standing in church. Nevertheless, there is nothing I am more grateful for than the gift of understanding and following religion that was given to me by God. There are not many things that I value more than my religion. I was given the gift of permanent comfort, bliss, and familiarity.
The childhood memories of going to church were unpleasant for me, and I'm sure my parents knew, but still they forced me to go every Sunday. They did not give me one Sunday off, because as my dad always tells me, "God created you and the whole world that you live in, so you should be able to devote a couple hours a week to him."
I don't think I can say that this memory could possibly the "blue-print" with which I define my true self. I'm not even sure this memory even fits in with the blog. I'm not sure it has enough significance that I can label it as a permanent life-changing event. I guess this memory sort of defines who I am now because I am a person who is very religious and is passionate about it. I love it and cherish it like God loves and cherishes me.
This memory made me realize that if it were up to me, I'd long given up on church and would not have the understanding of it that I have today. It allows me to realize a few things. One, after first realizing that I actually enjoyed Sunday mornings in church, I made up my mind to bequeath orthodox Christianity onto MY kids(when I have them, of course) and not to give up teaching it to them, even when I know they'll hate it. I won't deprive my future kids from the wonderful sense of stability the church provides. It also teaches me the not to give up factor, for it took my parents thirteen years to accomplish what they wanted. Surprisingly enough, they did not get discouraged and in the end; their goals were met.
This is a good example for me to follow, in case I ever try to give up on something and get put down; I'll remember how the best goal in my life took thirteen years to accomplish.
Toni:
I absolutely loved your blog; it was really deep, and It's amazing how you worked up the bravery to share that story with everyone else.
So, I know I didn't get a chance to finish this last night. Turns out, I didn't have internet access as I had hoped. I don't know if this'll be worth anything but I figure that I might as well finish it. (Oh, by the way, I got home only to discover that my cat died. Gross!)
Anyways, as I was saying. I don't really have a defineable, lifechanging moment in my childhood. I mean, I was born? That's the only real LIFECHANGING event I can think of. However, I can attempt to sum up my childhood, which, after some reflection (I've discovered that the quiet cars on trains are perfect for this sort of introspection and thus spent most of the trip reflecting), reveal quite a bit about the person I am today.
When I was younger, my father worked in Puerto Rico and my mom worked long hours in Pleasantville. I spent most of my time either in daycare with a pack of sniveling, whiny, snot-nosed losers (and I specifically remember hating them all) or at my grandmother's house in Hammonton. On the weekdays, I would wake up at 5:35 every morning and get ready with my mom. She would take me to Dunkin' Donuts, get me a blueberry bagel and cranberry juice, then drop me off at my daycare. My grandmother picked me up from daycare and then I resided at her house until later that night. I would then go home, eat dinner, watch Rugrats, and color until it was time to go to bed. This mundane routine continued for five days a week, every week, for a good eleven. On the weekends, my father would come home, so I would get to see him then. This is the only part of my younger life that I can really remember, until my brother was born, and everything changed. I absolutely despise talking about that, though, so I'll spare myself the hassle and just get to the point.
This timeframe in my childhood, I think, defintely plays an important role in the person I am today. Although physically I was still dependent on my parents (meaning that I needed them for food, shelter, clothing, etc..), at this point I was forced to become mentally independent. Since I never really saw my father during this crucial period, I failed to establish a healthy, positive relationship with him, and now, as my mother puts it, "We're intent on killing each other." Also, although I did spend quite a bit of time with my mom, the only things I can really remember her being were tired and stressed from her work, and therefore the my grandmother became the motherly figure in my life. That's not to say that my mom was a total bitch, because she wasn't. We would color for hours together before bed every night, and although she never really yelled at me, there was always a bitter, caustic tone to her voice. To be perfectly honest, I don't have a good relationship with my mother, either. I mean, I like her better than my dad, but I still have my fair share of problems with her, too.
Ashley S: I hated the bus drivers at Shaner and Hess. They were so incompetent! And the administration sucked too. I remember I had to stand against the wall during recess one day because I was talking too loudly in the lunch room when it was designated "quiet time". Give me a break.
OH. And Jordan.
I think it's ironic that we had that one conversation that one day (you know what I'm talking about, even though this is impossibly vague) and I said that people are a waste of space and that you couldn't trust any of them as far as you can throw them (which, if you're me is like an inch and a half).
You told me to have faith and to just open myself up because not everyone is bad and that you can trust other people. Were you lying?
I would say that you should take your own advice, but I think we can both agree that trusting anyone is a utter waste of time and causes unneccessary grief.
The point of this semi-rant was to let you know that next time I go on a tangent about how much I hate everyone, just agree with me. Because you know its true. :)
Meg Song and Jonny S--
8 thousand points off for your disparaging comments about dogs!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :,(
Jordan.
There is so much I want to respond to, but I can't seem to find the words. I will start by asking a seemingly innocuous question--what is your goal as far as occupation?
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