Course Evaluation/Reflection
1. Meeting course objectives
Course objectives
Learn to recognize and use strategies & conventions commonly found in cnf including: reflection, segmentation, narrative voice, use of scenes, dialog, character development, and detailed description, movement between the subject at hand and a personal, reflective perspective focused on a concept
Develop an invention process based in writing
Develop/extend revising process
Explore different forms for CNF
Questions:
What did you learn in this course?
I learned a few things in this course, with one being about myself. I learned about a form of writing that I thought was non-existent. At first, it wasn’t quite comprehensible, but as time progressed, It became clear. The second thing I learned was that I have the potential, with enough practice and time to become a good writer
About the form of CNF?
I learned that the form on CNF is a genre of writing truth using literary styles to create factually accurate narratives. For a text to be considered creative nonfiction, it must be factually accurate, and written with attention to style and technique. Ultimately.
What did you learn about how to write CNF?
The form of CNF is very unique, and based upon the short stories that we read, can be written in different forms, take for example, the story “out there”
About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing?
Upon looking at the different publication venues, I learned that there are plenty of different styles with different objectives to each writing based on what the publication asks for
Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe.
Nothing out the ordinary from trying to meet the expectation of writing my essays to a CNF standard
Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned?
Essay 4: writing about a place. It taught, and made me realize that my past experiences could be the reason why I cannot let go of that place.
What do you wish the course spent more time on?
Elaborating on the definition of CNF
What do you wish we'd spent less time on?
The MONOPOLY STORY….GRRRRR
2. Structure of course/assignments
Assignements
Blogs
readings
writing journal
writing assignments
exploration of publication venues
Questions:
Right pace/schedule?
Both of the pace and the schedule were fine in the beginning, but felt as if the whole world came down towards the ending of the course. A lot of work with what felt like little to no time
Coherence of material?
the material was very coherent, keeping a balanced dose of essays that were written in a CNF format
Workload => Too much, too little, just right? What would you change?
The workload was not too much, it was actually just right. I just feel as if it should have been evenly spread out more. As I said earlier, I felt like the whole world came down on me during the end with all the writting
Cover material appropriate to course goals?
Yes, In my opinion, it was just right
Enough feedback for grades?
Yes, more than sufficient feedback to change any paper from a D to an A
3. Provisions for feedback/grades
Forms of evaluation + feedback
comments/grades for blogs
comments from classmates
reading aloud from journals + class discussion
conferences with professor on papers
group work with classmates on papers
written feedback/grades on papers
reflective writing about your work (in you journal, on your blog)
Questions:
Which form of feedback was most helpful?
Both physical, and email were very helpful when it came to making corrections to a paper, but if I had to choose one, it would have to be the conferences. It made things clearer as far as what you were looking for because I had a chance to see facial expressions when making certain points
Which did you enjoy most?
The conferences
Any which you felt was unproductive?>
Neither
What would you do more of?
Write the essays better from a reader’s perspective and make sure everything is clarified
What would you do less of?
Nothing
Did you feel the grading system was fair?
yes
Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning?
If Im reading the question properly, my answer would have to be no
4. General response
Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course?
I am not trying to brownnose, or earn brownie points by saying this, but I believe you did everything just right.
Anything you want to say about your experience of the course?
I never knew I had the potential, based on your comments, to write such moving essays. It was the BEST English class ive taken to date.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Irreplaceable Blog # 23
I don’t know how to suitably pioneer this, so I’m just going to begin writing. Growing up in Nigeria, all the way up to my current days as a young adult, Ive been forced to say goodbye to the things I cherished. My first puppy was taken from me because my landlord did not want any pets. My intangible relationship with my brother was also robbed from me, except it was taken over a period of time. My pit-bull pup named pickles was also amongst the things I was forced to say goodbye to, my power ranger action figure, and my first bicycle, but all of these- with time, have gradually but surely become just a mere thought as beloved as they were to me. All of these items/things except for one thing that I cant seem to let go of. It was on the corner of Colonia Boulevard and Saint George in Rahway. Till this day I still go bye and sit outside of it more often than I should for it no longer belongs to me, reminiscing and thinking.
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Nothing in this world is perfect, and he epitomized that statement. My home was the one thing that besides my siblings and mother was very dear to me and also cherished. In all the comfort, safety and happiness I found in my home, my father was the constant reminder that its still just a house. A home is where you feel completely comfortable, while a house, in my perspective, is just a place of shelter. His presence turned my home into a house. Every waking moment with him in the house made me outcast myself to the “play-room” as you get to read later on. He stood against everything a home represented,- wanted no peace, family moments, laughter, nothing of that nature. Everything that brought even the slightest smile across anyone’s face was frowned upon, while he was present in the house that is. He was the ultimate asshole; finding pleasure in our misery. He would eventually due to his actions, the way he treated us, and the eventual loss of my home, seal his fate with me. I found myself beginning to hate him with no way of going back
Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a TV and a kick ass sound system temporarily erased our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day”
He replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. Nothing has changed, still blue as ever with the white shutters, and the white with gold trimmed storm door. It is as if it is waiting for me, being loyal, and telling me that it will always be there. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Nothing in this world is perfect, and he epitomized that statement. My home was the one thing that besides my siblings and mother was very dear to me and also cherished. In all the comfort, safety and happiness I found in my home, my father was the constant reminder that its still just a house. A home is where you feel completely comfortable, while a house, in my perspective, is just a place of shelter. His presence turned my home into a house. Every waking moment with him in the house made me outcast myself to the “play-room” as you get to read later on. He stood against everything a home represented,- wanted no peace, family moments, laughter, nothing of that nature. Everything that brought even the slightest smile across anyone’s face was frowned upon, while he was present in the house that is. He was the ultimate asshole; finding pleasure in our misery. He would eventually due to his actions, the way he treated us, and the eventual loss of my home, seal his fate with me. I found myself beginning to hate him with no way of going back
Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a TV and a kick ass sound system temporarily erased our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day”
He replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. Nothing has changed, still blue as ever with the white shutters, and the white with gold trimmed storm door. It is as if it is waiting for me, being loyal, and telling me that it will always be there. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blog #22
Who We Are
NIDUS
Board of Editors
Don Strange
Managing Editor
Karin Lin-Greenberg
Fiction Editor
Jonathan Loucks
Poetry Editor
Heather McEntarfer
Creative Nonfiction
Editor
Marshall Warfield
Art Editor
Nidus accepts submissions of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, with a 5000 word limit year-round and simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but in that scenario, would prefer to know if the piece of work has been accepted elsewhere.
Nidus was my choice for my presentation, and by definition, is a" breeding place; a place where something originates, develops or is located". Their journal strives to be a foundation and core for talented writers and judicious readers where the works of both established and up-and-coming writers are featuredAfter re-reading my first essay about my brother and i, noticed a few similarities between my essay, and those that were accepted in Nidus. In the creative non-fiction essay, "catch Scratch Fever" found in NIdus, it is a story about two brothers, though, not related by blood, but rather than by marriage. Carl in this particular story would represent me differently then, and now. Towards the end of the story, the main character saw the woods as the genesis in realizing that life could end at any moment. his care for life began in the woods when he almost had his head blown to smithereens by a shotgun. My beginning point would be at my boarding school in which i attended with my brother who was my best friend. This particular cursed ground would be where my uncaring attitude towards my brother would begin. Years of friendship washed away within what seemed like the blink of an eye
NIDUS
Board of Editors
Don Strange
Managing Editor
Karin Lin-Greenberg
Fiction Editor
Jonathan Loucks
Poetry Editor
Heather McEntarfer
Creative Nonfiction
Editor
Marshall Warfield
Art Editor
Nidus accepts submissions of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, with a 5000 word limit year-round and simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but in that scenario, would prefer to know if the piece of work has been accepted elsewhere.
Nidus was my choice for my presentation, and by definition, is a" breeding place; a place where something originates, develops or is located". Their journal strives to be a foundation and core for talented writers and judicious readers where the works of both established and up-and-coming writers are featuredAfter re-reading my first essay about my brother and i, noticed a few similarities between my essay, and those that were accepted in Nidus. In the creative non-fiction essay, "catch Scratch Fever" found in NIdus, it is a story about two brothers, though, not related by blood, but rather than by marriage. Carl in this particular story would represent me differently then, and now. Towards the end of the story, the main character saw the woods as the genesis in realizing that life could end at any moment. his care for life began in the woods when he almost had his head blown to smithereens by a shotgun. My beginning point would be at my boarding school in which i attended with my brother who was my best friend. This particular cursed ground would be where my uncaring attitude towards my brother would begin. Years of friendship washed away within what seemed like the blink of an eye
Monday, November 30, 2009
Blog 21, supposed to be 20
My essay of choice revision will be my 4th essay. It is very hard saying goodbye, or letting go of something/someone, especially when you are forced to. Growing up in Nigeria, all the way up to my current days as a young adult, Ive been forced to say goodbye to the things i cherished. My first puppy was taken from me because my landlord did not want any pets. My relationship with my brother was also robbed from me, except it was taken over a period of time, My play-room was also taken from me and the most recent being pickles. With everything stated, i never had a choice or say in what i wanted to do. I forced to say goodbye to it all. I catch myself reminiscing about what ive lost when the situation, or topic is brought to hand, but with Colonia boulevard, i go out of my way to see what was once mine. could it be because it is the only thing that can be physically seen now??
Monday, November 23, 2009
Blog #20
I don’t know how to suitably pioneer this, so I’m just going to begin writing. I’ve had a lot of things in life that I held extremely close to my heart as most people can say they have also. From a pit-bull pup named pickles, to the blue power ranger action figure, to my first bicycle, but all of these- with time, have gradually but surely become just a mere thought as beloved as they were to me. All of these items/things except for one thing that I cant seem to let go of. It was on the corner of Colonia Boulevard and Saint George in Rahway. Till this day I still go bye and sit outside of it more often than I should for it no longer belongs to me, reminiscing and thinking.
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a 50inch TV and a kick ass sound system that my sister and me used to play a variety of dance songs on, and dance our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day” he replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a 50inch TV and a kick ass sound system that my sister and me used to play a variety of dance songs on, and dance our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day” he replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
Blog #19
Some people dance, some people sing, some people read or write or garden or play sports. But, the most relaxing thing to me is to sit down with a piece of paper and a pencil and draw. It doesn’t cost a lot of money and anyone can do it (although not everyone does it well) and in an instant you transform into the world in which you are drawing. One of my favorites of the many pieces I have made is a picture of a rose with a few petals wilted of the stem which at the point of its creation, was very significant to me, symbolizing the amount of heart break that has transpired amongst I and her. As written in my previous essays, once something is done in me, its virtually impossible to undo it, hence the wilted rose petals. This picture till today, sits on the dresser in my bedroom collecting dust as if it was created to be a dust buster. With every waking day, I look at the picture and imagine, what if??. I call her my friend because at this moment as I am writing this she is my friend, although that status changes as frequently as the weather. A few months ago, when I drew that picture for her, she was more than my friend. Although she was not my girlfriend I spoke to her everyday. She was the first person I spoke to in the morning and the last one at night and as much as I wanted to love her I knew I never could.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe.
I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. Instantaneously, I imagined in my head the typical “she loves me, she loves me not” with a rose being the obvious choice of flower to be wilted. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper but I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. Though physically present in my room, I was on an imaginary cloud 9. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist, keep in mind, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy.
With the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter, but I decided to be somewhat romantic, and hopefully better my chances so i attached it to a 16inch red rose, which is the symbolic flower for love for I thought I was in what I thought to be love. She even promised me that she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after.
It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work the following night and her mom had the next day off. When I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had ripped the piece of paper from the rose with my number on it in and put in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in., signifying the first petal wilted from the rose. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far: I went from “she loves me not, to she loves me.” I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I would have an opportunity to see those big blue eyes that could turn any frown upside down. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments, we would sneak and talk whenever we could, yes its fair to say she was sort of a sneaky type. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on, I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. That should have been my first warning that this was on the fast track to nowhere, though, she never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. Another character that she displayed was that she had the potential to be spiteful, despite who was in the wrong. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything.
We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. As time progressed, she turned out to be both awesome and crazy, but not a lesbian (so much for my chances of a threesome) All she was trying to show me was that we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. For any regular guy, that would have been heaven- naked girls dancing all over the place like oompa loompas, but all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of our coworkers what happened. As it turned out, Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even have the balls or consideration to tell me. Another petal off,- “she loves me not”
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. I wanted desperately to ask her what had happened to her over the past year,- why she left me in the dark without any explanation, why she made me hurt, but I couldn’t muster up the confidence to. Another trait found about her, she was very inconsiderate when it came to emotions. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies, though something sat uneasily with me, and 9 out of 10 times, when I have a gut feeling about something, im usually correct. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition.
Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. “she loves me”- another petal to the ground. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again.- “she loves me not.” After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded.
Three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout and like a sucker for love- I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said.
We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone as I did her ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me.
This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably, but also with the potential to prick you and possibly draw blood. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. If you remember clearly from my previous essay, this situation is somewhat similar to what me and my beloved brother went/is still going through. She had hurt me, but she did it on a one-way street- no going back.
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember.
Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I still don’t her now trust her now even though I know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will due to her prior faults. Its dying, the rose- slowly but steadily, it lost all of its petals, it was never the same again, it was young but had an early expiration date. She doomed us, she doomed me, she doomed what could have been. We could have grown to be something more beautiful than the biggest brightest red rose, unfortunately, were just the left over petals wilted all over the floor, washed away by the everyday works of mother nature.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe.
I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. Instantaneously, I imagined in my head the typical “she loves me, she loves me not” with a rose being the obvious choice of flower to be wilted. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper but I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. Though physically present in my room, I was on an imaginary cloud 9. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist, keep in mind, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy.
With the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter, but I decided to be somewhat romantic, and hopefully better my chances so i attached it to a 16inch red rose, which is the symbolic flower for love for I thought I was in what I thought to be love. She even promised me that she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after.
It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work the following night and her mom had the next day off. When I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had ripped the piece of paper from the rose with my number on it in and put in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in., signifying the first petal wilted from the rose. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far: I went from “she loves me not, to she loves me.” I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I would have an opportunity to see those big blue eyes that could turn any frown upside down. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments, we would sneak and talk whenever we could, yes its fair to say she was sort of a sneaky type. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on, I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. That should have been my first warning that this was on the fast track to nowhere, though, she never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. Another character that she displayed was that she had the potential to be spiteful, despite who was in the wrong. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything.
We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. As time progressed, she turned out to be both awesome and crazy, but not a lesbian (so much for my chances of a threesome) All she was trying to show me was that we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. For any regular guy, that would have been heaven- naked girls dancing all over the place like oompa loompas, but all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of our coworkers what happened. As it turned out, Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even have the balls or consideration to tell me. Another petal off,- “she loves me not”
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. I wanted desperately to ask her what had happened to her over the past year,- why she left me in the dark without any explanation, why she made me hurt, but I couldn’t muster up the confidence to. Another trait found about her, she was very inconsiderate when it came to emotions. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies, though something sat uneasily with me, and 9 out of 10 times, when I have a gut feeling about something, im usually correct. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition.
Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. “she loves me”- another petal to the ground. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again.- “she loves me not.” After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded.
Three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout and like a sucker for love- I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said.
We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone as I did her ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me.
This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably, but also with the potential to prick you and possibly draw blood. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. If you remember clearly from my previous essay, this situation is somewhat similar to what me and my beloved brother went/is still going through. She had hurt me, but she did it on a one-way street- no going back.
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember.
Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I still don’t her now trust her now even though I know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will due to her prior faults. Its dying, the rose- slowly but steadily, it lost all of its petals, it was never the same again, it was young but had an early expiration date. She doomed us, she doomed me, she doomed what could have been. We could have grown to be something more beautiful than the biggest brightest red rose, unfortunately, were just the left over petals wilted all over the floor, washed away by the everyday works of mother nature.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Blog #18
70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. It wasn't the biggest of houses, but sufficient enough. My old house that holds abundant memories, both good and bad. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day as i only seem to remember the good memories whenever i drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance at the blue house with the white shutters and white storm door, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and christmas. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to the house on colonia boulevard. I cant exactly say why, wether it be because weve had such terrible luck with houses and both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house. "ring ring", the new owners will be moving in in 3 weeks. My so called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within 3 weeks. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye to the house, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of my beloved home
Monday, November 9, 2009
Blog#16
For my third essay, im going to write about something that is not so normal. its going to be about the picture of a rose that was supposed to be given to an ex girl friend of mine, and i mean that literally. She is a girl who i was in love with but let foolish and blind things pick us apart. As seen in the picture, there ware wilted rose petals from the actual flower. All having meanings as to why they were falling off thee rose itself
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Blog #17
Some people dance, some people sing, some people read or write or garden or play sports. But, the most relaxing thing to me is to sit down with a piece of paper and a pencil and draw. It doesn’t cost a lot of money and anyone can do it (although not everyone does it well) and in an instant you transform into the world in which you are drawing. One of my favorites of the many pieces I have made is a picture of a single rose with a few petals wilted of the stem. This picture sits on the dresser in bedroom collecting dust as if it was created to be a dust buster. I call her my friend because at this moment as I am writing this she is my friend, although that status changes as frequently as the weather. A few months ago, when I drew that picture for her, she was more than my friend. Although she was not my girlfriend I spoke to her everyday. She was the first person I spoke to in the morning and the last one at night and as much as I wanted to love her I knew I never could.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe. I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper, I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. But I wasn’t in my room I was with her. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist. It didn’t matter that it was all in my head I had fallen for this girl and I didn’t even know her name. I also didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy. So with the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter and even said she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after. It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work that night and her mom had the next day off so when I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had put the piece of paper with my number on it in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far. I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments we would sneak and talk whenever we could. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. She never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything. We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. Turns out she was trying to show me we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. Normally I would have been in heaven, naked girls dancing in my face. But all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of out coworkers what happened. As it turned out Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even tell me.
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition. Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again. After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded. I went three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. So when I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said. We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me. This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably. Each petal representing the amount of times that there was wrongdoing done, two coming from her and the rest from me, even though it feels like it’s the other way around. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. This picture was supposed to be given to her with an explanation, but I decided to keep it as a reminder of what hurt could potentially await me
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember. Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I trust her now and know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will. Yet, she will be over tomorrow for dinner because we just can’t walk away from each other.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe. I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper, I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. But I wasn’t in my room I was with her. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist. It didn’t matter that it was all in my head I had fallen for this girl and I didn’t even know her name. I also didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy. So with the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter and even said she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after. It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work that night and her mom had the next day off so when I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had put the piece of paper with my number on it in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far. I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments we would sneak and talk whenever we could. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. She never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything. We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. Turns out she was trying to show me we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. Normally I would have been in heaven, naked girls dancing in my face. But all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of out coworkers what happened. As it turned out Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even tell me.
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition. Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again. After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded. I went three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. So when I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said. We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me. This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably. Each petal representing the amount of times that there was wrongdoing done, two coming from her and the rest from me, even though it feels like it’s the other way around. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. This picture was supposed to be given to her with an explanation, but I decided to keep it as a reminder of what hurt could potentially await me
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember. Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I trust her now and know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will. Yet, she will be over tomorrow for dinner because we just can’t walk away from each other.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Blog #15, class discussion
after speaking with the group, and going over my pre draft thoughts, i feel as if my current thoughts and ideas are sufficient and efficient enough for essay #3, though, they did give some ideas as to how to revise the essay for submission. Im going to need to cut some the "I's" out the essay, and more so focus on the picture with alot of emphasis to what each fallen petal meant. this is going to be berrrry interesting
Monday, November 2, 2009
Blog#15, Revised Essay 1
A good beginning point, if you care to know, would be my place of birth, the type of parents I had and all that other kind of crap. The first truth is, you wont get to know, and the second, is that kind of stuff bores me as I see it as a fact that’s beside the point. As far as memory permits me to go back, I wasn’t the richest, or wealthiest kid in town, but I lived, and still living a content life and got almost anything that I wanted, thanks to a phenomenal mother, whom I might mention is my role model, but that’s neither here nor there, -- I was emotionally satisfied getting love and care from my brother, my mother, and eventually little sister. If you’re still with me in this, you will notice that a word has not been mentioned of my father, that’s because he was the worst/best father in the world. The best teacher I had as far as showing me what not to be as a man, and the worst father due to his physical and mental abuse along side with his negligent attributes. Bro is what I call my brother till today, I never had, and I underline the word HAD a closer friend in my life, but all of that changed when he went off to boarding school a year ahead of me. That would be the beginning of the end of the relationship that we had.
What I felt then and what I feel now are like two worlds at opposite ends of the galaxy. My brother, though not the only family I had, meant the world to me. He was everything a little brother wanted in a big brother. We did everything together, from stealing chicken out of the pot while mom wasn’t completely done with the cooking, to going to the arcades together and wasting all our money and looking at each other with baffled faces. One of my best memories with him is mentioned in one of my journal entries. A clear Saturday afternoon it was-funny how I remember the exact day, OH MY GOD! Is what I remember running out to from getting a glass of water to drink. My brother, being how we were, tried doing something that I did, except I did it successfully, and he wasn’t as fortunate. He had dismounted the gate wrongly, took a wrong flip, and landed on his jaw, breaking it and chipping a tooth. I was never as scared in my young life. The sight of his blood on the floor stuck fear into my heart and I thought then, that my brother best friend was going to be taken from me forever. The worst three days of my life followed- I didn’t have bro with me-he was bandaged all over his head in the hospital from what I was told. I never knew such grief existed. Getting him back was the best thing that happened to me in my short life for I did not know loosing someone, even for a short period of time had such grief attached to it. I got my brother back and the world continued its routine spinning in circles again. Everything got better as time went on until boarding school decided to steal my beloved brother from me. His initial departure was the killer. I really believe I then, went into a young phase of depression for I didn’t know how to continue life without my brother there with me. I almost have tears running down my cheeks now thinking of what it felt like to say bye to him when he was dropped off at school. If I remember precisely, that would be the official beginning of the end of such a great relationship.
The next time I would see my brother would be during Christmas break. Upon seeing him, a bizarre vibe was felt. He wasn’t as friendly, and he definitely didn’t seem as happy to see me while I on the other hand was ecstatic and full of joy. He didn’t want to hang out with me, but instead chose to go out with other people, whom then to me, were assholes for making my brother ditch me. Little did I know, he chose to hang out with his friends than his favorite brother. This was the beginning point of developing this “thing” which till this day I still cant name, or get over. He began hurting me in a way that Tylenol, aspirin, or the best medication in the world couldn’t heal- emotionally. Being that we’re only a year and a few months apart, my time had come to go join him in boarding school. I went in with high hopes that we would continue where we left off at home in Victoria Island by the gate and the swings. Boy o’ boy was I wrong. A nasty rude awakening waited upon me. The first time I remember feeling such hurt from my brother was in the midst of his new founded friends. Ill acknowledge that I wasn’t looking my finest, I actually remember looking horrible but I was feeling emotionally neglected, and I needed my brother to condone me. In the midst of all his friends and a couple surrounding bystanders, he told me “leave me alone, go find your own friends, I don’t have time for you.” I couldn’t figure out if he embarrassed me the way he did on purpose to show his friends who I hated at that moment that he was cool, if he was truly ashamed of me, or if he sincerely wanted me to find my own friends. Being who I was, I took the worst of all three and felt he was ashamed to call me his brother. This was the pattern for my three years at school. Another occasion that ate at me was on visiting day, which is when parents and other relatives are allowed to come see their children, or nieces and nephews. Mommy brought cooked food, and oh man, was I happy to have some home cooking. She specified that it be shared evenly between the both of us, but that’s exactly what was not done. When we returned to the hostel, what seemed to me like a bunch of hungry vultures surrounded him. I had hoped he would give me my share and did what he pleased with his, instead he ate some of it and told me the rest of the food was “massacred”, a term that was used to describe people violently grabbing at your food. I went hungry and cried myself to sleep that night. Don’t get me wrong, he tried to apologize, but I would hear nothing of it for hunger, loneliness, and hurt beat me down like I stole something. As time went on my love and care for my brother passed away like human beings do. I wouldn’t say that I began to hate him- more so began to be uncaring towards him. I eventually found myself at school, made my own friends, and slowly but surely distanced myself from him. That was the end of our relationship.
After three years in boarding school, my piece of shit father asked us to come over to the United States, that we would love it here. Being respectively 12 and 13years of age, what could we really say but go along with his wish. After arriving here in the states, the pattern continued, I did not care to do anything with my brother. From parties to just plain movies, I wanted nothing to do with him, but please keep in mind, I did not, and do not despise or hate him, I just have/had an uncaring attitude towards him. As time progressed, he noticed that he liked to rap, and decided to see how far he can take Nigerian rap, while I on the other hand noticed that I like to draw. The group he became a part of-D.N.B, persistently asked me to draw them a logo, or something of that nature, but the animosity that he had forced upon me all the years was starting to play its role. I neglected drawing the logo for them, but it was an unconscious act, for I wanted to, but I didn’t have the will to. His friends, with time began asking me, “deej, why don’t you support your brother?”, or “how come I never see you at his performances?” etc. We had drifted so far apart that even as far as his shows, I didn’t catch wind of directly from him, but from third parties such as mutual friends, and I could have gotten the information if I really wanted to, but something just wasn’t there anymore for him. This was the story from the age of 13 till now. In all of this, I never knew I would feel guilty for the way I treated him for he was the reason I became this cold
About a year ago, our house got broken into, and we evidently decided to be extra cautious as far as leaving the spare key uncaringly in the front porch. Well, it happened to be my luck that on the day that I left the house last, I left the front door open. My brother called me, in response to my sister calling him to find out if he had left the house last. I don’t recall ever being so talked down at, or disrespected so much by one person in a matter of ten minutes or so. He insulted and cursed me out- “how can you be so f**kin foolish to leave the door open, what the f**k where you thinking,” and so on and so forth. In between these insults, I might add that I was getting hung up on, which pushed me over the edge. I lost it. When he arrived home from work, I was ready to behead him with my bare hands, but in all this rage, I didn’t have the heart to throw the first punch due to my upbringing. “whoa bro, what’s wrong with you, why are you so mad?” Im sick and f**king tired of your bullshit, I hate you, I have no type of respect for you- was my response to him. At that particular moment, I saw fear in my brothers eyes like no other. That’s when it finally dawned upon him. “bro, why are you so angry?, it cant be because of how I spoke to you, especially over just the door being left open, you know that’s how I talk when im frustrated so why are you so angry with me?” this is when tears began to fall from his eyes as he cried while he spoke; “I knew there was something wrong all these years, just the way you treat me, and how you talk to me, I knew I felt some type of hate vibe from you, and I just want to say that whatever I did, im sorry bro, please don’t be mad at me, I love you so much bro, but I knew there was a cold shoulder from you, please tell me what I did, and what I can do to correct it.” I responded in tears to from seeing my brother sincerely genuine with his words by saying “all those years that you neglected me bro, left me to rot in school with no older brother to look out for me as I planned to have done. You abandoned me bro. I had to reconstruct my life as if I never had you, and it wasn’t because I wanted to do that, but because you made me.” Keep in mind, as were both talking, were crying hysterically as pent up emotions of ten years just spilt all over the floor. He asked, “bro what can I do to change, or so that you can forgive me”, “nothing “ I responded for there was really nothing he could have done.
Grapes, once turned into raisins never turn back to grapes again. It’s irreversible process. Im not saying that me and my brother will never be close again, but I can honestly say that its virtually impossible for me to love and care for him like I once did, and it pains me to speak that way of my brother but what is done, is done. As he walked into my room to use my hairbrush or something while I wrote this, I could not let him see this for I felt it would hurt him and possibly reopen an unhealed wound. My brother, my best friend- I thought not even being on separate planets could separate us but I was wrong. Some things can never be undone, while some things can. They say where there is a will, there is a way- I still till this day haven’t seen a raisin turned back into a grape. I hope me and my brother share a different fate.Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Blog #14
Theeeee SIMPSoonnnssssss….duh duh duh duh duuuh duh duh duhh…and the beat goes on. That’s my favorite cartoon, and to me is the best cartoon in the world. 20 years running and still amongst the top 5 shows on Sunday night prime time. It was my escape, my once chance every Sunday night at 8pm to be animated along with them- from the harsh reality I lived as a child courtesy of my father.
This picture to most, if not all, would be just another picture that was taken at universal studios, but to me, it is one the best things in the world. I even went as far to buy a homer Simpson cup at the exit of the ride. In the picture, I would be Bart Simpson, not so for his troublesome ways, but more so his willingness to be in the front seat. Lol, that would be in the front of the TV, singing along as the introduction music played, watching my reality turn into fantasy as I was invincible to the word for those 30 minutes. Besides the childhood memory factor, the Simpson ride itself was one like no other. The technology and innovation behind it was both fascinating and out of this world for the mere fact that I could not tell wether the actual car was moving, or if it was just the room. It was an overall awesome ride. As I get older, I don’t see myself swaying away from what started as a like, and grown into a habit. I conscientiously watch the show, and DVR it when necessary. The simpsons not in my future is like telling another human to go a week without food. Till today, the show takes me back and away; away from my everyday trials and tribulations in this thing we call life.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
blog 13
The article of clothing I chose to write about is my old football jersey. I keep in hanging in my room as a reminder of the times when my life was simpler. All I had to worry about was getting good grades, high school crushes, and next week’s game. At the time it seemed the weight of the world was on my shoulders and every little thing was the end of the world. Looking back, however, I wish it were that easy today. Now I still have to get those good grades, factor in a full time job which usually requires well over 40 hours a week, a mother and sister who definitely require well over 40 hours, and whatever is left over for my personal life (yea right). I am not complaining. I love my life and my family and wouldn’t change any of it. But, every time I look at that jersey I am reminded that although things seem like a big deal today in a few years they’ll be nothing more than a fond memory
blog 12
I chose to revise my essay about my relationship with my brother. It is something that I have a deep connection to but also something I’ve never really told anyone. It feels good to finally get it off my chest but I still felt like parts were missing and I wasn’t getting the complete picture across. The more I go over this essay and make changes the more I realize that there is so much to tell and not enough space to tell it in. My goal for my revision is to make the points that I do have room to make much more clear and concise. I want the reader to feel what I feel without confusing them. I realize that no matter how much I revise and edit this piece it is something that will always eat at me. I will, however, be sure to keep my thought process clear and keep the timeline a little more chronological. I believe doing those things will help with the overall presentation of my essay.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Blog #10
HATE
If anyone got to know me, the first thing noticeable would be my manners, morals and ethics. As we know, these things are intangibles and cannot be purchased at your local 99 cent store, and therefore is either taught or learned. With that said, the sensible assumption would be that I was raised by the perfect mother and father. Well, that’s a bunch of bollocks. My mother isn’t the perfect mother- but is the perfect mother for me. Referring back to one of my earlier journals, my mother is not the most affectionate woman there is, but she definitely is the most thoughtful, kind, and helpful. If not for her, this assignment would be non-existent to me as my attendance in school would be imaginary. She saw my brother through 4 years of college and is doing the same for me. Most single parent, especially single mothers can NOT do a quarter of what my mother does, call me a bragger or boaster, but that is my story and I’m sticking to it. But enough about her, though I could go on for decades about her, lets get back to the topic at hand, the man, the lie, my father. I actually feel disgusted and embarrassed to call such a person my father for every person whose life he touched, he affected negatively. As far as my knowledge goes, my mother was not the first, and I, as part of his kids will not be the last. He was the classification of what I consider to be a waste of life, I know, yes rather harsh, but someone who wanted nothing more than to see his own children suffer, and might I add ensured of it, and also beat on his wife constantly for no apparent reason does not deserve to be alive. Death is not something that’s should be wished upon anyone, but paying respect at a funeral is by choice. If that man was to pass away this very moment as you read this, my life goes on-for the better.
Most children have some type of positive or enjoyable memory of their father, whether it be something as simple as watching professional games together, going fishing or even assembling his/her first bike. Well, I don’t. I actually have nothing but gloomy memories about this guy, and I hate to be so pessimistic about him, but that’s the simple truth. “BANG!” was the sound I remember hearing when I woke up on the floor of my room, funny thing is, I went to sleep in the top bunk bed, but the noise and the shock factor snatched me out of my sleep and threw on the floor. My brother awoke at the thudding noise of my body hitting the floor, and in a matter of seconds. We realized that my mother was being tortured a little bit after midnight. We ran to the room to find our beloved mother in the vicious hands of him. I sadly remember this particular scene like it happened yesterday. His hands were balled up in her shirt as he stood over in the corner of their room. “deji, Junior, please go and get help” (she called my older brother junior) was what she told us to do. Before we turned to run out the room-BANG!, another noise except this time it was twice as loud and we saw where the sound came from. The asshole had been head-butting my mothers head into the concrete wall-keep in mind- 99% of Nigerian houses are made of bricks and mortar and this time, my father drew blood from her. Luckily for us, our prior concern of running for help had worked itself out as the second blow to the head awoke our next door neighbors. “DADDY LEAVE HER ALONE, PLEASE LEAVE HER A-“ SMACK!!. He slapped me across my face before I could even get out the second plea to stop the violence on my mom. My ears rung for what seemed like forever as I fell down and started crying myself. In her discomfort and pain, I remember my mom trying to come to my aid and he just would not let her, it seemed to me as if Lucifer himself possessed him. Luckily for me and her, my brother had made it to the door and let the neighbors in. like angels sent from next door, they ran over and tackled him from on top of her all to my satisfaction. As they interrogated him, I did the same in my mind also wondering what she could have done to deserve such animalistic treatment. All I remember him saying was “she is my wife, and I can do what I want with her, now please leave my house!” I contemplated for a while; approximately 4 hours on why he would beat abuse her in such a terrible way till I woke up the next morning sleeping in the arms of my mother. Her head was terribly swollen with lumps the literal size of golf balls, and a cut across her forehead. I was afraid for I thought she was dead. “MOMMY PLEASE WAKE UP!”, and at the sound of that, she opened her eyes slowly as if they were shut together with gorilla glue. I started to cry, and my brother joined along, and amazingly, my baby sister who was then 2 years old slept through all of it. I was glad that she did. My mom apologized to us for having to witness such treatment and assured us not to worry that it wont happen again. As optimistic as she was and wanted us to be, that would be just the beginnig of the worst that was yet to come. I approached the bastard and asked him why he beat my mother and his response was said as cold as ice “ you will understand one day”. Till this day, I wait to hear what I couldn’t understand then. That is the earliest memory I have of that man, and rest assured, it is not the last, nor the least graphic. If I still have your attention, I want to take a minute to ask you- based on what you’ve read so far, could you find within your heart to forgive, or forget such actions if you witnessed your father ill-treat your mother that way??. Well, before you put such thoughts in your thoughts, I hope you never have to witness such violence regardless of the parties involved.
About a month later when I was comfortably seated in the living room being a fatty, stuffing my face with ice cream on a late Thursday evening as it was the last day of school. No more curfews, no homework, no anything, except play and eat. The excitement of the summer vacation was short lived when he came barging into the door demanding the presence of my mother. Out of shock and fear I went numb as my body, lips and hand went cold. I thought that would be the day I would meet my maker, which technically was him, but we all know what im referring to. Out of anger and frustration of my mother’s absence, he lashed out at me smacking the bowl of ice cream and cake out of my hand, and snatching the spoon out of my mouth. “I said where is your damn mother”. I softly answered,” I don’t know.” Boy o’ boy if I knew then that my inability to provide him with the answer he was speaking would blown his load, I would have lied. Like a lion stalking its prey, he sat in the corner chair behind the main door-patiently and angrily waiting all that same time for her to walk in. If only I could have warned my mother about what anticipated her. As soon as she walked in, he remained seated still and waited for her to turn around. My mother knowing me and being the second best friend behind my brother saw and read my fear struck eyes and knew something was wrong. As she turned around to see what was in the corner, a very swift and mighty SLAP met her across her face as she fell down to the floor. She immediately began weeping asking “what did I do now”. He responded to her question by repeating his action, and then answering, “WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM?!”. If any of you remember back to when you cried as children- how difficult it was to muster up the courage to talk while crying. The head constantly moving up and down like that of a lizard as you tried to catch your breath and speak at the same time. If you haven’t figured it out yet, that was my mother that night. A grown woman broken down to tears, AGAIN as she gasped for air and tried to answer him. “YOU WILL DIE TODAY” is the next thing he said as he walked like a savaged beast towards the kitchen and looked for the nearest knife within his vicinity. THANK GOD my mothers brother was coincidentally on his way just to pay a random visit as he knew of my sperm donors abusive ways and wanted to make sure everything was all right. As he walked in the door, the asshole was walking back towards my mother with a knife in his hand. He sprinted as fast as he could and pushed my father to the ground, twisting his arm till he let go of the knife. If not for my mother’s brother being there at that particular time, I personally believe I would have witnessed my mother die, worst of all, I would not have been able to do anything about it. How was I supposed to have been able to live a normal life if it actually transpired?. We had to move to my grandma’s house about and hour away; for that was the only way we were going to remain safe from the deranged lunatic. My brother and sister had to be picked up from the friend’s house at which they were staying and brought to meet up with us at our grand mothers house. I had nightmares upon nightmares about everything he had done to my brother, my sister and me even while over at grandmas that sleeping seemed to be impossible for the slightest noise, or any type of rumbling made me jump out of my sleep as I thought he was at his shenanigans again. I thought for a very long time as the years progressed what my mother could have possibly done to make him behave in such sadistic manners, and couldn’t seem to bring myself to any conclusions. I asked my mother and all she had to say was that “I’ve always tried to be there for him, financially and emotionally, that was all I ever tried to do.” Obviously, I couldn’t think of approaching him to question him and possibly get some type of answer form him for I feared for my life. This was the dilemma that continued even when we got back home. His nonsense went on and on and the only time I found peace was when I was close to the cousin of death-sleep.
I could go on forever bout all the negative things that was said and done by him, even his mere presence after returning home from work cleared out the room as if a smelly fart had been released in the midst of a crowd, but nothing had a bigger psychological effect on me than what he did a few years down the road, five years ago to be exact when he did what I would presume would be frowned upon by God himself. After returning home from an evening with his mistress (how did I know that was where he was coming from?- I don’t know, I just did) being 18 helped me make better sense of the late night outings and the frequent phone calls to the house by another woman. Anyway, he had a rough night I assumed, and decided to do what he did best, take it out on his family, though the beating was no longer done for we had moved to the United States and this country does not take domestic abuse lightly. Even then, there were still scuffles that we heard in our room beneath theirs. So, he came home and for no apparent reason, picked on my sister who was then 12, called her upstairs and started hysterically screaming at her with emotionally crushing words. We all raced up the stairs to see what was going on and this was his response, “so you’ve all decided to gang up against me, okay no problem”. He took my mothers bible, placed it on the floor and said “ I swear to god who made me, I disown all four of you.”…..i just got shcll shocked all over again writing this. I was hurt from his prior actions, but certain words can be forgotten, and physical wounds will almost always heal. This on the other hand was different on all levels. He had disowned us, his children, his kids who never wronged him. I was hurt, very hurt to be exact. I began to think to myself why god had cursed me to be the son of such a human being. I wanted to hit him in his mouth with all my might, but I was paralyzed. My body no longer obeyed by brain. I remember just walking out the room, down the stairs, into the playroom and sitting in the chair, trying to count the particles in the air. My father, on that day, made me hate him. I was worn out mentally, and I knew then that there was no way this man had a chance of ever getting in my good graces again even if he was on his deathbed. I had developed a word that most people consider an overstatement. I had, and still have hate in my heart.
Now, you know a little bit about my father and his ways. The little good that became of all of this is he showed me what not to become when I became a man, which I consider myself to be now. He taught me a very valuable lesson without realizing he was playing the role of a teacher, and I, the student. Hate is not something that should be used loosely, which a lot of people do. I can almost assure you that you’ve heard someone say “I hate you” at least once this year, but let me ask you one last question, am I wrong for hating my father?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Blog # 8
A good beginning point, if you care to know, would be my place of birth, the type of parents I had and all that other kind of crap. The first truth is, you wont get to know, and the second, is that kind of stuff bores me as I see it as a fact that’s beside the point. As far as memory permits me to go back, I wasn’t the richest, or wealthiest kid in town, but I lived, and still living a content life and got almost anything that I wanted, thanks to a phenomenal mother, whom I might mention is my role model, but that’s neither here nor there, -- I was emotionally satisfied getting love and care from my brother, my mother, and eventually little sister. If you’re still with me in this, you will notice that a word has not been mentioned of my father, that’s because he was the worst/best father in the world. The best teacher I had as far as showing me what not to be as a man, and the worst father due to his physical and mental abuse along side with his negligent attributes. Bro is what I call my brother till today, I never had, and I underline the word HAD a closer friend in my life, but all of that changed when he went off to boarding school a year ahead of me. That would be the beginning of the end of the relationship that we had.
What I felt then and what I feel now are like two worlds at opposite ends of the galaxy. My brother, though not the only family I had, meant the world to me. He was everything a little brother wanted in a big brother. We did everything together, from stealing chicken out of the pot while mom wasn’t completely done with the cooking, to going to the arcades together and wasting all our money and looking at each other with baffled faces. One of my best memories with him is mentioned in one of my journal entries. A clear Saturday afternoon it was-funny how I remember the exact day, OH MY GOD! Is what I remember running out to from getting a glass of water to drink. My brother, being how we were, tried doing something that I did, except I did it successfully, and he wasn’t as fortunate. He had dismounted the gate wrongly, took a wrong flip, and landed on his jaw, breaking it and chipping a tooth. I was never as scared in my young life. The sight of his blood on the floor stuck fear into my heart and I thought then, that my brother best friend was going to be taken from me forever. The worst three days of my life followed- I didn’t have bro with me-he was bandaged all over his head in the hospital from what I was told. I never knew such grief existed. Getting him back was the best thing that happened to me in my short life for I did not know loosing someone, even for a short period of time had such grief attached to it. I got my brother back and the world continued its routine spinning in circles again. Everything got better as time went on until boarding school decided to steal my beloved brother from me. His initial departure was the killer. I really believe I then, went into a young phase of depression for I didn’t know how to continue life without my brother there with me. I almost have tears running down my cheeks now thinking of what it felt like to say bye to him when he was dropped off at school. If I remember precisely, that would be the official beginning of the end of such a great relationship.
The next time I would see my brother would be during Christmas break. Upon seeing him, a bizarre vibe was felt. He wasn’t as friendly, and he definitely didn’t seem as happy to see me while I on the other hand was ecstatic and full of joy. He didn’t want to hang out with me, but instead chose to go out with other people, whom then to me, were assholes for making my brother ditch me. Little did I know, he chose to hang out with his friends than his favorite brother. This was the beginning point of developing this “thing” which till this day I still cant name, or get over. He began hurting me in a way that Tylenol, aspirin, or the best medication in the world couldn’t heal- emotionally. Being that we’re only a year and a few months apart, my time had come to go join him in boarding school. I went in with high hopes that we would continue where we left off at home in Victoria Island by the gate and the swings. Boy o’ boy was I wrong. A nasty rude awakening waited upon me. The first time I remember feeling such hurt from my brother was in the midst of his new founded friends. Ill acknowledge that I wasn’t looking my finest, I actually remember looking horrible but I was feeling emotionally neglected, and I needed my brother to condone me. In the midst of all his friends and a couple surrounding bystanders, he told me “leave me alone, go find your own friends, I don’t have time for you.” I couldn’t figure out if he embarrassed me the way he did on purpose to show his friends who I hated at that moment that he was cool, if he was truly ashamed of me, or if he sincerely wanted me to find my own friends. Being who I was, I took the worst of all three and felt he was ashamed to call me his brother. This was the pattern for my three years at school. Another occasion that ate at me was on visiting day, which is when parents and other relatives are allowed to come see their children, or nieces and nephews. Mommy brought cooked food, and oh man, was I happy to have some home cooking. She specified that it be shared evenly between the both of us, but that’s exactly what was not done. When we returned to the hostel, what seemed to me like a bunch of hungry vultures surrounded him. I had hoped he would give me my share and did what he pleased with his, instead he ate some of it and told me the rest of the food was “massacred”, a term that was used to describe people violently grabbing at your food. I went hungry and cried myself to sleep that night. Don’t get me wrong, he tried to apologize, but I would hear nothing of it for hunger, loneliness, and hurt beat me down like I stole something. As time went on my love and care for my brother passed away like human beings do. I wouldn’t say that I began to hate him- more so began to be uncaring towards him. I eventually found myself at school, made my own friends, and slowly but surely distanced myself from him. That was the end of our relationship.
After three years in boarding school, my piece of shit father asked us to come over to the United States, that we would love it here. Being respectively 12 and 13years of age, what could we really say but go along with his wish. After arriving here in the states, the pattern continued, I did not care to do anything with my brother. From parties to just plain movies, I wanted nothing to do with him, but please keep in mind, I did not, and do not despise or hate him, I just have/had an uncaring attitude towards him. As time progressed, he noticed that he liked to rap, and decided to see how far he can take Nigerian rap, while I on the other hand noticed that I like to draw. The group he became a part of-D.N.B, persistently asked me to draw them a logo, or something of that nature, but the animosity that he had forced upon me all the years was starting to play its role. I neglected drawing the logo for them, but it was an unconscious act, for I wanted to, but I didn’t have the will to. His friends, with time began asking me, “deej, why don’t you support your brother?”, or “how come I never see you at his performances?” etc. We had drifted so far apart that even as far as his shows, I didn’t catch wind of directly from him, but from third parties such as mutual friends, and I could have gotten the information if I really wanted to, but something just wasn’t there anymore for him. This was the story from the age of 13 till now. In all of this, I never knew I would feel guilty for the way I treated him for he was the reason I became this cold
About a year ago, our house got broken into, and we evidently decided to be extra cautious as far as leaving the spare key uncaringly in the front porch. Well, it happened to be my luck that on the day that I left the house last, I left the front door open. My brother called me, in response to my sister calling him to find out if he had left the house last. I don’t recall ever being so talked down at, or disrespected so much by one person in a matter of ten minutes or so. He insulted and cursed me out- “how can you be so f**kin foolish to leave the door open, what the f**k where you thinking,” and so on and so forth. In between these insults, I might add that I was getting hung up on, which pushed me over the edge. I lost it. When he arrived home from work, I was ready to behead him with my bare hands, but in all this rage, I didn’t have the heart to throw the first punch due to my upbringing. “whoa bro, what’s wrong with you, why are you so mad?” Im sick and f**king tired of your bullshit, I hate you, I have no type of respect for you- was my response to him. At that particular moment, I saw fear in my brothers eyes like no other. That’s when it finally dawned upon him. “bro, why are you so angry?, it cant be because of how I spoke to you, especially over just the door being left open, you know that’s how I talk when im frustrated so why are you so angry with me?” this is when tears began to fall from his eyes as he cried while he spoke; “I knew there was something wrong all these years, just the way you treat me, and how you talk to me, I knew I felt some type of hate vibe from you, and I just want to say that whatever I did, im sorry bro, please don’t be mad at me, I love you so much bro, but I knew there was a cold shoulder from you, please tell me what I did, and what I can do to correct it.” I responded in tears to from seeing my brother sincerely genuine with his words by saying “all those years that you neglected me bro, left me to rot in school with no older brother to look out for me as I planned to have done. You abandoned me bro. I had to reconstruct my life as if I never had you, and it wasn’t because I wanted to do that, but because you made me.” Keep in mind, as were both talking, were crying hysterically as pent up emotions of ten years just spilt all over the floor. He asked, “bro what can I do to change, or so that you can forgive me”, “nothing “ I responded for there was really nothing he could have done.
Grapes, once turned into raisins never turn back to grapes again. It’s irreversible process. Im not saying that me and my brother will never be close again, but I can honestly say that its virtually impossible for me to love and care for him like I once did, and it pains me to speak that way of my brother but what is done, is done. As he walked into my room to use my hairbrush or something while I wrote this, I could not let him see this for I felt it would hurt him and possibly reopen an unhealed wound. My brother, my best friend- I thought not even being on separate planets could separate us but I was wrong. Some things can never be undone, while some things can. They say where there is a will, there is a way- I still till this day haven’t seen a raisin turned back into a grape. I hope me and my brother share a different fate.
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