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  I slid the key into the door and turned it, hearing that reassuring click that meant it had been unlocked. A long and stressful day has once again brought me to the comfort of my warm and cozy home. However as I entered my house I wasn’t greeted by my mother in the usual cheerful way. There was an eerie mood inside, one I hadn’t felt often before. The Television was off, no Polish dramas were playing, and my mother wasn’t on the brown couch we’ve had since moving in. As I came into the dining room I could see my mom sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face. I had never seen her like this before, my mother was the strongest person I knew. She could barely hold onto the phone in her hand. My brother and I looked at each other. Grandpop is dead, he’s gone she said with a tremble in her voice. I dropped my bag which, I had been holding with one arm and immediately embraced her, my brother following forthwith. I could feel her tears hit the back of my neck.

       I hadn’t said anything, I didn’t know what to say. I remember feeling sadness, the purest form of it that had ever resided in me. I wanted to cry, I felt my eyes watering, but I couldn’t, not now. I knew I had to stay strong for her, as she had been for me in the past. He’s in a better place now mom, I told her, but it wouldn’t change anything. How did it happen I asked. He died in his sleep, she answered. Thank you, she said to my brother and I. I knew we hadn’t done much, there wasn’t anything we could do other then be there for her, but still there was so much gratitude in her eyes. My eyes watered again. I remember thinking what I would do if I ever lost her, how I could continue living knowing I’d never get to talk to her again. Do you want me to make you tea, I asked her. I had to distract myself. Yes, thank you Marcin, she answered and so I went to put water in the kettle. As I poured water in the brass kettle, I remembered doing the same back in Poland when I went to visit my grandparents, I remember what my grandpop had told me back then. One day when I won’t be on this Earth anymore, it will be your responsibility to help your mom for me he said. The first tear fell. It hit the kettle and slid down into the sink. I went to turn on the stove.

       I don’t like to remember this memory, as the loss of a loved one is never something pleasant to remind yourself of. It is easier to try and forget, but forgetting is not an option. Sharing this memory will force me to remember, I have to accept what has happened and honor my grandfather’s memory. The present I live in is one without my grandfather in it, all that’s left is his memory and legacy, unlike the memories I have of the past, a past with him in my life.

Authors Note:

Similar to the style of narration presented in the Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, in my reconstruction there is a past tense in which I narrate the memory, but there is also a present tense where I reflect upon it and I why it is important to me. In Offred’s narrative we see her describe the emotions she feels towards memories she shares with the readers. I chose to write about this topic because of how it has affected me emotionally and molded me into the person I am today. I saw this topic as very relatable, as we have all gone through something similar or will go through it one day.

I used to love to swim. I always feared drowning though. I used to swim at or great uncles lake house.

My twin sister, Marzia, loved the lake. She was taller, a dark olive skin tone and slender. You could never be able to tell that we were twins or that we were related at all. I was shorter than her, a little heavier and far fairer than she was. We were both thirteen. She had breasts and I didn’t. She wore bikinis and I wore one pieces.

Swimming at the lake meant seeing our relatives. My great uncle lived at this lake house. He was a quiet old man. Never married, wealthy and respected by everyone for his wealth. All I liked about him was the lake.

“How’s the water Jess?” my dad said

“It’s nice. I swear I could spend hours in there. Where can I get dried off?”

“Your sister getting dried off in the back so use Uncle Frank’s front bathroom.”

I went to the front bathroom and noticed the door didn’t close completely, it seemed broken. I closed it as far as I could and began to get undressed. The door creaked. Heavy footsteps hit the floor slowly and I struggled to pull the suit back up but before I could a cold hand went on my chest. It was my uncle. He grabbed at basically nothing. It was just fat on my chest and I didn’t say or do anything. He was behind me and I just stood there. Pool water still dripped off of me and for those 5 minutes, it felt like I couldn’t get a word out. Lighter footsteps could be heard from the other room and my uncle left quickly and went outside talking to my Father. My sister entered asking if I was hungry and she could tell something was wrong but didn’t ask. I never told anyone.  I didn’t know if I should tell anyone because I didn’t know if it was wrong. didn’t have what I thought men like him wanted to grab. Why couldn’t he have just grabbed my sister? Maybe someone would've cared.

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Author's note:

This event is based on my life and an event that took place a long time ago. The characters were obviously made up and the scenario is different slightly. I wanted to write a flashback like a memory from the main character that appears to be positive but turns dark towards the end reminiscent of Kesey’s writing of Chief’s flashbacks during the electrotherapy. The end of the memory is also quite like Chief’s long paragraph writing in Cuckoos Nest. The reason a picture of a lake house was chosen for the meaning it has in the story. The lake house was somewhere that was tranquil and meant a lot to the character because it meant that she could swim but now the lake house merely makes her feel like she’s drowning, hence why the second image is darkened.

"You're so well behaved." I felt like I've heard this so many times, I don't even realize these are even words any more. I was one of few black kids in my class that went to a mostly white school; all white teachers for the whole nine years.

That one sentence... In the first few months of second grade, I distinctly remember my parents having to talk to my teacher, not because of my grades or bad behavior. In fact, he was trying to make it seem that I was the worst student ever when... I wasn't. It seemed like he was poking at me to find something that he knew I'd snap about. Like the time we had indoor recess… or art class – I don't know. Whatever it was, I was always first in line to get a piece of paper and utensils for transcribing my imagination from brain to paper. But then that teacher, adamant to break me, told me that I would have to complete some writing sheet. Apparently, I missed that assignment –  but I just did it, while he stood over me for the whole ten minutes it took me to complete it, while everyone else got to draw and build towers and such. He asked me why I thought the answer was right for each problem where a word was misspelled or the punctuation was wrong. I answered "because we learned this in writing class." I handed him the completed sheet.

He snatched it out of my hand while staring intently over his glasses at me, smirking, and I felt nervous, like I'd done something wrong. He read over it about five times. He told me that I'd passed. About time you'd say that. It was the same sheet he gave us three days ago in writing class that I remembered doing!

"Darn," he must've thought. "Still didn't break." I never would. He probably realized this after winter break – he did a complete 180 flip, complimenting my hard work and my "great behavior." Still unaware of his motives, I just said thanks.

Of course, I later realized what he was doing this for, and why all of my teachers told me "you're so well behaved." Sure, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but, scratch the surface, and – surprise! Mostly white school – so seeing a black kid probably was shocking. Especially when that kid smashes the stereotype of "getting in trouble all of the time."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

For the most part, I tried to make this sound like the character were telling the story rather than it being written down. To an extent, I drew some inspiration from Margaret Atwood's writing style – specifically the voice and the character trying to remember what happened. For example, Atwood has Offred asking herself where she was or what she was doing. I did the same, where my character asked which class this situation took place. But for the most part, I wanted this to sound natural, partly to give it more dimension, but also because the basic setup of the story is personal.

Author’s Note:
Margaret Atwood influenced this style of writing which incorporates a mixture of two tenses. Past tense is used when the character is reflecting on the memory with the consistency of present tense when that character is describing the memory tied to her emotions. This shows the importance of that memory even in the character’s present time.  Atwood and Ken Kesey also use short sentences in their writing that get straight to the point — a style I used. This is important in conveying the character’s sentiments but also highlights the main focus points of their memory.

I Disremember You

The sun peeped through the curtains of my room. I feel slight discomfort, almost like I’m forgetting something. The feeling of searching for it without knowing.

The sound of laughter grows between two people.

At age six he taught us to climb trees, exclaimed my mother, barefoot!

Age six repeated in my head. How can she possibly remember such memories? People forget everything before the age three. I don’t have a single full memory even after three.

Mother stood on top of the garden that extended to the lively forest. A fig tree stood tall in front of her wanting to hide the scene. I shifted to the right, there a better view. She knelt down placing her head against the brick surface. She wore a cream-colored sweater, slightly loose jeans and black heeled boots. Her signature look.

I recognize how much has changed as the surrounding environment aged her.

Her locks loosely resting against her back. I wondered if she prepped it at the salon before seeing him. She always had it done. I don’t think today. Yet, it still falls ever so silky. I hear a painful scream escape her mouth.

My mind suddenly became blank. There is no more of that memory left in me. Did I climb over to comfort her?

Do you remember him?

Yes, I do but no I, unfortunately, don’t.

Yes, I tell them.

Days pass as the tissues surrounding her continued to build a tower. The room was nearly empty. White walls enveloped her. How did she spend her days in this terrible room that consumed her all? Her cries echoing from one wall to another. An endless cycle. My father grabbed my hand pulling me to the door. My eyes remained on her figure girdled by thin paper, sheer white sheets, grief, and tears.

The only memories I had closest to him were through her. Today, her eyes still glossy at the mention of his name — only now there’s a glimpse of acceptance. She tells me he did good things for me. If only I remembered the way she did.

Bad luck, again. It came out of nowhere, I think it was just a small bump, it was nothing to worry about. But the doctor said otherwise. The words came out of his mouth, benign tumor and surgery. Thoughts came rushing through my head. I remember thinking of that day, running down the field as fast as I can go to catch the disc. But to avoid hurting a freshman I jumped to the side, messed up the footing as I landed and there I was in agony on the ground with turf in my mouth. All I could think about was the pain. I couldn’t move a single part of my body because the shock was too great. To this day I don’t even remember clearly how it happened. What side of my foot did I land on? It happened quickly, too quickly. And there I was unable to walk, and my ankle looked like a inflated balloon.

I couldn’t remember the number of doctor’s visits I had, but I do recall many doctors telling me that it’s most likely just a sprain. Just a sprain? That’s a minor injury I believed. But of course that was just a opinion, the MRI results clearly said otherwise. With the next visit, the doctor that was going to perform my surgery came into the room with a big fat smile that it almost scared me. He told me that I fracture my fibula and dislocated my peroneal tendon. Surgery was required to put my tendon back in place. I wanted to be able to walk, run and live a normal life so I had to get this surgery. With countless tug of wars to try convincing my mother to do the surgery, There I was being prepped to be taken into the OR. My memories are blurry to this day, but I remember the surgical assistant talk to me as I watched the anesthesia slowly drop down the IV into me and my eyes slowly give out. I woke up feeling like all my insides wanted to come flying out of my mouth. It was painful, but I did it and it was over with. But here I am sitting in another room being told I have a benign tumor. I needed another surgery to remove it, and there I was sitting in the hospital with a tube in my neck.

Author's Note

In my reconstruction of a memory I tried to use the techniques that Margaret Atwood and Ken Kesey has used. The small section that we analyzed from Atwood had questions that was brought up to show that the memory wasn't clear. It made it more realistic because the memory actually was not clear. And the technique I took from Kesey is how the scene was something being remembered and how something triggered that memory. For this, it was based on a person experience and what triggered that memory was having a surgery for a second time.

I pull up to a stop light, looking to my left, I notice my old middle school. The sight of the building floods me with memories. Most people think fondly of when they were just children with no responsibilities, with no care in the world. I don’t. I wasn’t a particularly happy kid, but it was at its worst in middle school. There aren’t many good memories, but some were livable.

Walking through the hallway was a dangerous game, there was always someone there to make it more difficult than necessary. I don’t remember much of this day, but I was walking back from art class, holding a folder of drawings. A foot stuck out, the folder went flying, and I went down. I couldn’t tell who did it. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe what happened.

I looked up and saw someone looking at me, he wasn’t laughing, just looking. What was his name? It hit me that a popular kid just saw me trip. I shielded my face and looked down, refusing to lift my eyes. I figured if I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right?

A pair of shoes stepped into my view and the person attached to them crouched down to gather my papers. When I finally looked up, he smiled at me and held out a hand to help me up. That had never happened to me before. I was the disposable kid. When someone saw me fall they just kept walking, but not him.

I’m sure he doesn’t remember that day, he probably doesn't remember me at all and that’s okay. That was the happiest I felt that whole year, just the simple fact that someone else noticed. The small moment of kindness defines him in my mind, thinking back about it, I realize that everybody has a different version of you in their mind. Even though I didn’t think anybody cared back then, I know know that at least one person did, even if it was just for a moment.

Anna will never be able to erase this memory, kicking it aside like it doesn’t bother her is her best solution. She lives her everyday life being happy over walking throughout the streets, that makes her skin crawl and her head drop to look down at the floor. She says hi to strangers pretending like she isn’t terrified of anything happening to her. She wants to be better, she actually does want to be genuinely happy, she doesn’t understand why she can’t but she always hears in her head, “I forbid.”

She was 17 years old, she felt like she was going down the right path,

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I hope you go wherever I go” He said.

She was head over heels, she felt the happiest with him, they would spend the last 2 years of high school just being within each other’s comfort. Her family never supported her when it came to him, they didn’t trust him and believed that he was going to be a bad influence. Anna was enraged, she would come home every night and lock herself in her room, not feeling happy or safe under her family’s roof. She could never forget this conversation, little did she knew, it was going to be the conversation that changed her life forever.

“Hey Ann.” Her dad walks into her room.

“Hi.” Ann said, looking down at her phone.

“We need to talk about your friend.” He says.

“My boyfriend? The person I love?” Ann says, putting down her phone.

“Your friend. I forbid you from seeing him.”

Anna gets up. “You will not forbid me from doing anything.” In a matter of a few minutes, Anna had her important items packed and she was out the door to be with her supposed love of her life. She never looked back and never cried.

Five years have passed since that day, that one day, now she shuts down, she sits in a small apartment, the walls are stained yellow, she sits lonely on a short bed. She looks around and does not feel happy, her belongings don’t feel like home, nothing she has feels like home. She finally understands why she’s not happy, she tries so hard to cover up and hide the most life defining moment and denies all of her emotions.

“Forbid”

The one word that drove Anna over the edge, the stuffing of her suitcase in rage and force. Her footsteps heavy as she leaves her room forever, remembering how many nights she spent angry, despising everything her family stood for. She moved on and believed this was her only way to be happy, little did she know, her being afraid of her own thoughts costed her a life  that was not full of regret.

Author’s note:

In this reconstruction of memory, this was a story that highlights a memory that I have experienced and feel like a lot of teenagers have felt during one point in their lives. It’s hard to identify and stay in tune with the emotions, when anger takes over one person. This story is about a girl who regrets something she has done, but one wrong move and she goes wrong.  To convey this memory effectively I wanted to reveal the character’s emotions to the memory using Kesey’s technique on being super descriptive and using descriptive language to tie the character’s emotions with the scene of memory. As well as revealing the character’s relationship to this memory and its significance using Atwood’s technique by repeating a certain moment or word that’ll point to its significance.

An image represents Anna in a spherical ball with holes it in, the air is leaking out of the ball and she is holding her breath, to symbolize that reality is hitting her, this memory is still stuck in her head, it’s not her choice to forget, this memory is not allowing for her to forget. She tries to build up this strong force around her and the image shows pieces of tape just attempting to patch up the holes and the damage.

We reached the room and crashed on the twin sized bed. Our clothes were ripped apart and there was dirt lining our faces. All I could think about was that bridge. I remember her telling us there wouldn’t be a problem. My head was buried in the pillows, the only thing I could imagine was the pulling, and the lights.

That night the town was lit up for festivities. This is where we were at first, lighting sparklers and giving life to the abandoned halls. Barbara told us of this day. This was the one day that there was light on this street. Other days were overshadowed with broken street lamps and empty buildings. Barbara looked up to the dark mountain, pointed, and said that was our goal. So we followed, not knowing where or when we’d be back, or if the light would persist. This uncertainty was frightening. The road we walked on was winding and losing its way. A light was on. It revealed a towering spiral staircase. We weren’t to step on it, once someone steps on it, it buries into the ground with its crumbling rust. The other side was steep and daunting. So we went up, holding on to the stone of the Neretva water treatment plant, hoping the moisture wouldn’t result in a long fall. My hands were trembling with this fear, Barbara said it would be okay, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. There were screams from above telling us to continue, screams we couldn’t recognize, so we went up until there was a cage, hoping to ignore the loud noises surrounding us. The cage was in the shape of a cube with rusting green paint giving it color. The darkness didn’t reveal any inhabitants, and no noise that would hint to these screams. So it was safe to climb over, holding on to the small openings it gave, furthering our exploration closer to the screams. Again, we went higher until we could see the other side of the bridge. Barbara looked at me, “That’s where we’re going.” Her finger directed us to the other side, with large square gaps in the center. There were letters all over it, in different colors and sizes. I guess it was the words of those who were there before us, warning of the trek. The screams seemed to be of the same genre. Warnings. Warnings Barbara wouldn’t take. She swore it was still safe. None were in our language, so none proved useful. Looking to the forest there was darkness, looking to the town there was a circle of fire, glowing. I wished we went back, when the light was still there. The holes were big and under them was a heavy stream of water coming from the treatment center. Splashes rose like there was life under, some world we were interfering with. Our legs fell over the ledges and felt the nips from the waves pushing them different ways. Our legs crashed into each other. Our legs felt the movement of the monster. Our legs were the ones who knew.

I felt a grab pull me under the stream, it grabbed on to Barbara too. We were under, looking for oxygen to give us life. What was pulling us under? Our limbs crashed into eachother as our clothes were being shredded and faces brushed the mud below. We kept going and going down the stream. How long were we under? I don’t know. There was light on the other side, I could see it, but my focus was on breathing. In and out. In and out. My face peaked the water, I saw the light. Barbara pulled me out of the water all at once. My eyes went black.

That was all I remember. I wish I remembered more, how my clothes got shredded, who was the monster doing that? Now I’m safe. I’m on the twin bed. I’m safe.

Here I am, all dressed in an uncomfortable black outfit. The weather is fitting for the day. It’s raining, really heavily might I add. My father with a slightly stone cold face. Trying to pretend like he isn’t hurting right now. The surrounding people dressed in black, holding umbrellas and tissues. The man standing next to Dimitri is giving a speech, his words, along with the sobs of others began to grow fuzzy. He’s a cruel, cruel man. My cruel brother. Leaving me all alone.

Outside, I was forced outside. His shouts could be heard by the neighbors. Tears rolling down my face, as I crouched to the ground, hands covering my ears. My eyes were tightly shut. A curdling scream released. In the distance I could see my father frantically trying to call someone. Help.

“Bastard! This is your fault!” His voice was filled with hatred. It wasn’t… It wasn’t my fault! I had nothing to do with this! I need to help him… I was like trying to reach out, yet he wouldn’t grab my hand. I can’t hold onto him any longer. The window now shattered out of rage. My heart was beating fast, my breathing was labored. My eyes forced open, taking one good look at Dimitri. My eyes locked with his, never leaving the brown eyes that once shined. Dimitri wouldn’t listen, he kept screaming. Placing all blame on us. Guilt… It was eating at my stomach. I knew, I knew I shouldn’t be guilty. Yet, with him screaming at me. Taunting me. I couldn’t help it. Time went slower than normal. The screams stopped. My body shot up. Dimitri could no longer be seen from the window and I didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs. Dimitri… The only person I cared about. Feet running as fast as possible to the door. Not caring if I stepped on glass and bleed.

“Dimitri! Dimitri! Open the door! Please! Please, let me know you’re okay!” I dryly shouted, pounding on the door. Fresh tears running down my face once more. No answer.

I tried to escape from a house to find a home. I kept looking over my shoulder the paranoia was getting to me, suddenly I heard a voice.

“Did you think you could hide forever?” I didn’t but it was worth was a shot.

“I’m your dad and you have to listen to what I tell ya. That’s the way it is. I don’t want you to be a loser like you loser mom’s side of the family. You’re a Jones not a Williams,” The same speech I heard dozens of times before. Of all the places he could be, he was here and found me, just my luck. I do the other thing I’ve ever done my whole life, run. I run because I refuse to be controlled. I refuse to allow someone to be antagonized their whole and put up with it, only to have their abuser wear the victim’s mask. I refuse to allow someone to lie about their former spouse having affair in order to manipulate their family. I refuse to be a Jones.

“Get back here!” he yelled when about ten feet back when I initially bursted into sprint. There’s no turning back. I ran until I didn’t see him anymore, and I kept running after that. I could never be sure I wasn’t just running away from family mistreatment anymore. I was running from the slight part of me that resembles him. I’m running from the man I’m afraid I’ll become. I’m running from the future I fear more than anything. I’m running from a man that’s been running from himself.

“You thought you could outrun me?” He came out of nowhere The anger in his face was enough to start a war itself. He cocked his arm all the way back and right before I’m hit that’s when I awake.

This reoccurring nightmare happened again. Even when he can’t control me I allowed myself to be scarred by him. Although this moment happened years ago I’m only able to remember it on a good day and on a bad day I relive it.

I remember when the doctor told me I wasn’t going to live. I was an overweight man living in Detroit, living in an average house with my wife and child. While I was overweight, I still tried to get to the gym on weekends, and when ever I had freetime. I wasn’t the best with working out, but I always made sure I ran a few miles on the treadmill. I thought it would be interesting to try out running and see if I could lose some weight as well. The next summer after I started training I had already set up the idea to run a half marathon by some point in my life.

By the second month of training, I was starting to be really proud of myself. I had been doing some long runs, and at that point my farthest run had been nine miles. I was happy, and so was my wife, everything was going great. Until the doctor visit the next week.

I had gone to the doctor after work one day because I felt a little bit like I was starting to get the flu. I got to the doctor’s office and described how I was feeling to the doctor. The doctor said “Well… it might be a cold, but I just want to check if it could be something else. Would you mind taking an mri really quick?” I said sure, and got into the machine. The mri ended a few minutes later, and the doctor came into the room with a sad look on his face.

“I’m so sorry… it’s what I thought it might be. You have blood cancer.”