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Learning How to Grieve

I sat in the office of my grandmother’s house. Just seconds ago, I had been on the phone, but I now spun my chair around to survey all of the memorabilia that surrounded the room. A Mike Trout baseball poster hung against the closet door. A photo of the Atlantic City Surf, the city’s former independent baseball team, was pasted to the wall on the other side of the room. Miniature, plastic army men sat in the case parallel to me, defended by two single pieces of tape which held the door closed.

It brought a smile to my face. The first in a while. All of these goofy things belonged to my grandfather, who had died just a couple of hours ago.

***

I was walking down the street, back to my friend Jared’s house when I got the phone call. It wasn’t late, but it wasn’t early either. It was a dark night in mid October, 2014. The call was from my mom.

I assumed that it was a call to ask how I was doing. It was my first night I had ever spent at Jared’s house and she was probably worrying, so I answered. But instead of hearing my mom, I heard my dad. He was crying. As expected, I was shocked. I’d never heard or seen my father cry.

“Ben,” he said bluntly. “Grandpa died.”

The rest of that conversation and what happened directly after is a blur. I know I didn’t cry. Instead, I remember standing on some person’s lawn in Northeast Philly in the dark, completely shellshocked.

It turns out that my grandfather, grandmother, cousin, and uncle were headed to dinner around 7 or 8. They were going to celebrate my cousin Rebecca’s acceptance into medical school at Ventura’s Restaurant in Northfield, New Jersey, just four blocks away from my grandparent’s house.

When they entered the lobby of Ventura’s, my grandfather noticed he forgot something in the car. He told my grandmother that he was going to the car to get it. My grandmother asked to walk with him to the car, as it was across a busy street and my grandfather wasn’t the most steady walker. However, he insisted that my grandmother not come with him. He was fine going by himself.

But a couple minutes later a lady ran into the restaurant and nervously exclaimed that a man had just been hit outside. My grandmother knew right there that it was my grandfather who had been hit.

***

I arrived at my grandmother’s house that night after spending most of the hour ride to South Jersey listening to music, lost in J Cole’s words. Although I may have looked mad or sad, sitting silenced in the car, I was thinking.

We arrived at my grandmother’s house around 10 or 11. My uncle was there, as was my grandmother, and cousin. My family was smaller on my dad’s side. I had two cousins, and an uncle and an aunt, as opposed to almost 25 relatives on my mom’s side.

Walking into the house, there was obviously a certain sadness. On the other hand, there was also some awkwardness in the air. What were we supposed to do? There wasn’t really much to say, it was still so new and uncomfortable. I was just happy to be surrounded by my family and have the ability to help my grandmother.

It wasn’t much longer until my aunt came up to me.

“Hey Ben, could you do a favor for me?”

I nodded.

“You know how Max is in California? Well, I was hoping you could speak to him. You know hard it probably is on him to be thousands miles away with no one to really comfort him. Could you talk to him, just see how he’s feeling and stuff?”

Max was my other cousin and at the time he was in college in California. I didn’t really know what to say to my aunt because I wasn’t keen on the idea talking to Max. What would I say? I envisioned an incomplete conversation without much to say.

Yeah, I’m fine. How about you?…I know, it’s really sad what happened...I was at my friend’s house when I heard, how about you?...Yeah still feeling fine…Okay, see ya.

But I agreed and walked up the stairs to my grandfather's former office for privacy.

I tried to sound a little more cheerful than I was when I talked to Max. I didn’t want him to worry about me. I tried to keep a positive attitude, so I asked him how he was feeling and we talked about what happened to grandpa.

After we both said that we were doing fine, there wasn’t much else to say. Again, the awkwardness that I had experienced in the living room 20 minutes ago was happening over the phone. Grandpa had died. Yes it was sad, but it was still all so new. It hadn’t hit me yet and I didn't know what to ay about it.

“So, uh,” I said, looking for something to talk about, “who do you think is going to win the NBA championship?”

We continued with a couple more awkward exchanges about sports and ended the conversation.

I sat in the room a little bit longer, cherishing the peace. I rolled the chair around and surveyed all of the collectibles that my grandfather had. I smiled as I remembered his goofiness and his love for buying things for himself and friends. The room embraced all that my grandfather stood for as a person. His desk represented his love to work. His baseball cards floating around represented his love for baseball. His poster of the Atlantic City Surf, a small, independent, and struggled baseball team formerly from Atlantic City, showed his loyalty to the places, things, and people he loved, regardless of what others thought.

As I smiled, I even shed a tear. I rarely cried, but I noticed that this room was my grandfather. Looking back, this was probably where his death finally set into reality for me.

For the next few days I was surrounded by family and friends at all times. I never had the space to be upset because I was enclosed by people that were visibly sad. I didn’t want to show them that I was hurt. I didn’t want them to worry about me. Instead, I wanted to be there for them because I was confident I could figure it out myself.

After three days of missing school because of the funeral and mourning, I decided that it was time to go back to school and somewhat return back to life. My cousin, Rebecca, worked in the city, so she volunteered to drive me down to school from South Jersey, where I had stayed the last couple days. The feeling I experienced when returning back to my regular lifestyle was similar to Private Bartle’s in The Yellow Birds. When he comes back to Richmond, Virginia, he is oddly out of his comfort zone. After spending almost a year in Iraq, he felt that not a single person around him could understand what he went through in Richmond and it ate him alive.

Like Bartle, when I walked into school that morning, I suddenly felt alone. No longer did I have friends and family surrounding me. No longer were they there to comfort me and understood what I was going through. No longer were they there to distract me from my own sadness. I had to return back to regular life.

I walked into Mr. Todd’s class and people asked me where I was.

“Uh...Personal stuff,” I told them. It was around 8:05 and there was still about 10 minutes before class began.

I sat down in my seat and pulled out my computer. I felt out of place. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be with my family that knew what happened and could help me. Instead, I was sitting in school by myself. It wasn’t long before class began and Mr. Todd put on an educational movie. Great. Now, I was alone in the dark, only accompanied by a boring movie. 

Instead of being distracted, my thoughts kept returning to my grandfather. It was the first time since the funeral that I had visibly felt sad. At that moment, I could not control my emotions. As I sat there watching the movie, I honestly felt alone. No one could help me. It was one of the tougher classes I had ever sat through.

The rest of the day is still a blur to me. I vaguely remember taking a test the next period, but then I also remember working on a project. Everything about that day just clumps together in my mind.

However, I learned a lot from this experience. I learned that while your life may be in uprooted and disrupted, it still goes on around you. Most of the time, we want to conceal our feelings and hide them from others for many different reasons. Not that it’s a bad thing; it’s just people’s preference of how much information they want to tell others. You never know what one may be going through, so it’s always important to make sure you are putting your nicest persona forward. 

I also learned to understand that when you move out of your comfort zone after a traumatic experience, you just need to prepare yourself to be okay with being upset. Pain is inevitable when you lose someone you love. Is it bad? No. Is it good? Probably not. But it happens and the best you can do is prepare yourself for it.

My family is proof that it takes a village to raise a child- and eventually three at that. For me, having two parents, two step parents, and one DNA giver is just as complicated as it sounds.

I can’t remember a time that I didn’t know I was conceived by a donor. My parents always made it a point to have my older sister and I know about it.

My mom would tell us: “Your father is your father just as much as I am your mother. You’re just not related to him in the same way you are to me.” Sadie and I would nod. We didn’t totally understand it, but we didn’t care too much for it anyways because we didn’t realize that it was different. At a young age it was easiest to assume everyone else was just like us.

Sadie and I were conceived by the sperm of the same male donor and my mother’s eggs, while my younger sister (who came further down the road) is the child of my mom and my step dad. From the information gathered from my parents (I’ve only seen the actual report a few times), the donor report must have read something like this:

Donor #1738

Physical Description:

Brown Hair

Green Eyes

Height:

6’1

Weight:

176 lbs.

Ancestry:

German/Scottish

History of Disease:

No Cancer in bloodline

No Sickle Cell in bloodline

No Cystic Fibrosis in bloodline

Blood Type:

O+

Occupation:

Computer Engineer

Interests/Hobbies:

Wrestling

Sports

Computers

“There was no donor available with red hair like mine, so we chose the closest thing to it. But he’s German like me, and he has my eye color too,” my father told Sadie and me.

In elementary school, still thinking everyone was made by a donor, I wrote a short story about my family. In the story, I mentioned that I was not biologically related to my dad, that I had an “imaginary dad” somewhere. During parent teacher conferences, my teacher brought it up to my parents.

“One more thing. In her short story about her family, she mentioned that she was not related to her father. You should probably clear that up with her.”

When my mom tells the story of this day, she says that she could tell my teacher was being obnoxiously nosy and only wanted to bring it up to get the inside scoop. My parents never considered the donor a private matter. My dad was still my dad just as much as he would have been if we were related, so it really didn’t matter. Though, my parents responded with a simple “okay” as to not give her what she was looking for.

I remember distinctly that doing punnett squares for my family bloodline in science class was confusing. How could I go home and collect data from each side of my parents’ family to figure out the likelihood of me having certain traits, when I only had a half of the data? I had no idea whether my sperm donor had attached ear lobes or a hitchhiker's thumb! I would make up the data for my dad’s side because it was hard for me to explain to my teachers and they probably would have made me do that anyways.

Once I realized that I was different, I started to feel extremely foreign to the idea of how I was brought to this Earth. As many times as my parents told me the story, I could never find the words to tell someone else about it. It felt unexplainable to myself, let alone to other people. I didn’t feel any sadness or anger about it, I just felt confused and abnormal. I felt weird knowing that my sister and I were alone with this “thing” that we couldn’t describe to people. It was crazy that something could be such a big part of who I was, but also so foreign to me at the same time, like Norman Bowker in The Things they Carried who couldn’t explain the bloodshed he witnessed and couldn’t relate to his hometown anymore- a thing thing that was such a big part of who he was.

In middle school, I started being completely open about it. I figured that having to explain it again and again would help me explain it to myself.

The reactions varied, but the most common (and my favorite one) is:

“Oh my god. You could totally have long lost brothers and sisters somewhere!”

And it’s true. I could have half siblings that I am not aware of. And that was so crazy to me. Who knows how many couples picked his sperm?

And that donor had a life! Maybe he had a wife and even had kids with her. Maybe he’s famous or maybe he has the world record for holding his breath for 20 minutes.

And as I thought about all of this, I realized that I didn’t even care about any of it because I had the best dad and most amazing family without even knowing the donor’s name. This flipped a switch in my head and it took away all the confusion that I was feeling. I thought, What difference do any of these possibilities make? I was not confused anymore because I was content. And I had always been content. I just needed to explore what the donor meant for me in order to come to this conclusion.

My mom recently came up with the clever nickname “Bob the donor” for my mystery DNA sharer. Whenever my sister and I have a trait that does not come from my mother’s bloodline, we blame it on him.

“Bob the donor must have some pretty curly hair because that does not come from my side,” my mother says.

I recently have had a growing interest in finding my half brothers and sisters. I contacted the sperm bank to find out that my sister and I have at least 3 half siblings! Only once, just the other day, did I try and enter my donor number into a database. I have my contact information for my donor sharers to find me as well. Nothing has come up yet, but I will not stop trying.

I wouldn’t have my family any other way. We are different, and that’s just one thing that I love about us. If it weren’t for the donor, I would not be here, and for that I am thankful that I share his genetic make-up. Figuring out what the donor meant to me was a long, but inevitable journey. I now know that it really means very little for the way I live my life. But, whenever someone says I look like my dad, I can’t help but laugh a little bit.

https://www.wevideo.com/hub#view/559031134

(The Events that are about to take place have happened and they are all facts. The only thing is the dates may not be correct, but around the same time period.)

[ The inspiration for this story, is from reading a book called “The Things They Carried.” In this book there is a chapter that explains how the main character (Author: Tim O’brien) feels about death. And, he explains that Death makes him think more about the world, and when he tells his story in the chapter’s Good Form and In the field. After, having a near death experience back to back, that I can’t never forget, makes me cherish life more. Not, only did I almost drown but I live to tell this story another day. ]

May 26th 2008

I was eight years old at the time.  About 1 or 2 weeks my great grandmother had passed away and everyone was still mourning her passing. This was a hard time for everyone and no one was the same for awhile. My family was usually filled with laughter, there weren’t many arguments lately. And the little kids (my siblings and I) hardly got yelled at for breaking something, or drawing on the wall. Which was pretty occasional.

May 27th 2009

During a day at school, my siblings and I returned home to find a few relatives in our home. They were closely related to my great grandmother. They greeted us and we greeted them. They said the usual when we saw them, such as “You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you, or “How old are you now”, even “I remember when I was changing your diapers.” And I would sit there and listen like I cared, which I really didn’t. But, the thing that was weird is that my mother allowed strangers to me at the time change my diaper, like what if they touched me in inappropriate ways. . . But, that’s besides the point. My relatives (Cousins) decided to invite my siblings and I to a upcoming family reunion (I think they felt that we were in ‘pain’ at the time) in July. In the beginning of the month, they gave us a date, a time, and the place.

May 29th 2009

    It’s been two days since we got the news of the upcoming Family Reunion and my Mom and my Grand Ma were still speculating whether they should let us go or not because they have really never let all of the kids go away at once, and they were a little afraid because of that. They were okay with us going away to another relative’s house for the weekend, but we were going out of state and we were going to be surrounded by strangers basically. After, my Mom and my Grandma talked about it for awhile they decided on the decision to let us go to the Family Reunion. They said it would be a good experience for us. They said we need to meet our family and need to go out and have a good time, instead of being in the house during the summer.

June 13th 2009

This was the last day of school and I decided to tell all my friends about my upcoming events for the summer. I do not know if they were as excited for me going away for the summer as I was, but they all said they hope that I would have a good time. I was so excited for the reunion that I decided to go straight home after school, although I knew that the reunion was probably a month away.

June 20th 2009

It’s been a week since school ended and I could honestly say that I was anticipating all the things that I would be doing at the reunion more and more as the days went by. The days went by even slower because, for one I wasn’t in school and I was in the house because of the heat. I was just thinking about going swimming, meeting new people, and the big banquet at the end of the reunion. I was really looking forward towards the swimming although I didn’t know how to swim.

June 25th 2009

It was time for us to start going shopping for clothes, shoes, and accessories to take with us on the trip. One thing I remember is when we bought wash clothes and tooth paste my mother just grabbed a hand full, without looking at the colors. And, when we got back to the house, my mother started passing out the wash clothes. When it was my turn to get a wash cloth I had to get the last one which was a dark pink, which everyone made fun of me for. But, oh well we were  couple days closer to the big day.

July 11th 2009

It’s two days before we head down to North Carolina for the family reunion. We were packing bags, and are really excited for the next week. We were going to have a great time. But, I had butterflies in my stomach. I think I was starting to get nervous about leaving for awhile, and also going to an unfamiliar place.

July 12th 2009

Today is the day, My siblings and  go to our relatives house, to get ready to head down to North Carolina early in the morning. My cousin came and got us, and took us to the chinese store. He ordered us a couple of egg rolls each. I remember being angry because my sisters ate most of them and I only ate one. My cousin drove us to his Mom´s house because that’s where we would be staying for the night. We called his mom Flo. That’s what we grew up calling her every time we seen her. She showed us where we would be sleeping that night. After, she showed us we all took showers and went to sleep. Because, we had to get up early.

July 13th 2009

6:00 in the morning and I was really tired. Flo woke me and my siblings up, and I remember being rushed to the bathroom, then being rushed down the stairs. Flo made made my siblings and me carry out coolers, suitcases, and blankets to a Grey Hound bus that was outside waiting for us. When, we got outside I remember looking around seeing a bunch of cars and a lot of people. All family I guess. We were the last to board the bus, and now I guess our journey has finally begun.

July 13th - 15th 2009

After, we boarded the bus, I remember falling asleep right away. Now, that I think about, I really don't remember talking to my siblings as much on the bus, because I decided to sit next to a relative named Sunny Jr. The only reason why I sat next to him is because he bought me buffalo wings on a rest break. It was approaching night time and I can remember being so bored because the tv was broke and there was nothing to watch, so sleep was the only option. At, another stop I remember learning not to sit on the toilets in public places. Flo told me if I had to poop when I went to the bathroom, make sure that I put toilet paper on the toilet seats so I wouldn’t get crabs. At, the time I didn’t know what that meant, but now I do. At, this point we were almost at North Carolina, we had at least 3 more hours or so. I went to sleep for the remainder of the time and when I woke up, I remember it being really dark, but I could see a white picket fence, and a empty road. After, about 10 minutes, I seen a sign that said “Welcome to North Carolina” Everyone on the bus had gotten very excited that we all had finally reached our destination. It was like 30 min until we reached our hotel and I remember it was a big hotel. But, as soon as we got there we all went straight to bed. I remember having to share a bed with Flo.

July 17th 2009

The day has finally come. I was waiting for this day since I heard the news about the reunion. Flo let me and my sister go down to the pool with a lot of relatives. I seen a Cousin that I would see occasionally and he said he would watch me while I was in the pool, so I guess that was cool. I went to sit by the pool and a guy came over to me and introduced me to his sons. When they came over at first, I was a little timid because I didn’t know them but after awhile I began to talk more. After a lil bit, we all decided to get in the pool. I set on the steps in the pool because I couldn’t swim, and they teased me because of it. I then decided to do what they were doing because I wanted to be cool and I was tired of the teasing. All though I couldn’t swim I decided to jump in the pool at 5ft. Where none of us could swim at. All I remember is falling backwards and gasping for air, and flailing around like a fish out of water. This continued for a while (seemed like forever) until my cousin came and pulled me out of the water. I sat on the side of the pool for a little bit, until I decided it was boring. So, I decided to jump back in with everyone else, in the same spot that I almost drowned in before. The same thing happened as before, I got pulled out by my cousin, and that’s all I can really remember until the banquet, but that’s for another story.

One day, over a decade ago now, I walked into a room bigger than my house’s first floor. An ocean of blue mats covering the floor, heavy bags standing taller than adults, and arsenals of bo staves and escrima sticks in the corners of the room. This was the training room of the martial arts school known as Martial Posture Studio. My friend Tadeusz (Tuh-day-oosh) and I were in our first martial arts class. His mother, Monica, had us try it out after his built up peer pressure possessed me to follow suit. There were two other students in the room who were much older and seemed to have been for a fairly long time because of the purple belts around their waist. After a few minutes, a man dressed in a black gi,  training pants, and a black belt tied around his waist. He rounded us up and proceeded give us our first class in Kenpo Karate (Translates to Law of The Fist, Empty Hand). The thought of learning the arts of war somersault around our minds like the ninjas we thought we were. We were enthralled and decided to continue to learn this discipline which spring-boarded my path of learning Kenpo Karate .

The first few years of my training have escaped my memory. However, my teacher Ish says that I, like many other children at that age who take up martial arts, was extremely unfocused. There were some moments that made him put his hand on his brow like a porch awning to his eyes and let out a forceful sigh. I obviously was not the best at first but, that is very much normal. Even as young as I was, I knew Kenpo Karate was not at all about win or loss. There is an importance on growth. It did not matter at all about how fast or how large it was. If there was some positive change on you not only as a fighter, but as a person then, Ish and the other instructors were satisfied.

I continued training at the school but, Tadeusz had lost interest not long after we had gotten our yellow belts. The long term goal of black belt came with a seemingly endless road to get there. The road can stand amongst people like a basilisk as the amount of progress you must make to achieve it. Ish says that at full concentration, focus, and dedication, it could take someone at least five years to achieve black belt but, for most, it could take a decade. However, there was always one proverb that kept bringing confidence back to life in me and my classmates. “Whether you say you can or cannot do it, either way you are right.” Ish would often say. It was this proverb`that kept me training. It kept me hardening my knuckles and shins into a tree’s solidity, kept me in stances that emulate cats and cranes, kept performing kadas that began as a dance only to transform into a lethal choreography, kept me on the path to becoming a black belt before a freshman.

Middle school came around which was a phase in my life that had a detrimental emotional impact in my life. My friends from elementary school had moved on to other schools in the city for their middle-school lives. I came into 5th grade alone with barely a friend with me. The people in my class were mostly people that would be considered in my mind as an asshole. They always ridiculed me for my gullibility, threw slurs at me like verbal bullets and their hateful aura drove me away like a gun ringing out. I had felt lonely for most of my time at school and around this same time, I began to appreciate Martial Posture Studio more than ever before. I had discovered some of the most therapeutic techniques courtesy of my martial arts instructors. This included things like punching a striking bag with all your passion as it get absorbed like a scream into a bedroom pillow, light contact sparring with glistening gloves and padded gear as bodies whipping around like dragons around a mountain peak, and laughing as the sweat drips down from our brows like raindrops granting new growth to trees. At times it felt like a second home. A place where I could spend time without any worries of anxiety and stress pouring into my mind. Where I had many more friends to laugh, frolic, sweat, and spar with. And for a very long time, that was the best thing ever for me.

I found myself at the top of my class in middle school. I was a blue belt on the cusp of becoming a green belt and was readying myself to move onto the next class. This would also be when my biggest hurdle would appear in the form of my classmate, David. I remembered his face vaguely from kindergarten and because of that we became very good friends in our class. He however, changed progressively as time went on. He showed one quality that I had grown to hate not just in him but, in general, arrogance. He would always boast every time he beat me in a sparring match, every in-house tournament win he would have over me, every step higher he was than me his voice spread out like peacock feathers as he yelled “Superior Blood!” It annoyed me to the point where we almost had a scuffle with each other. He almost made me want to quit martial arts.

I started contemplating quitting martial arts. The social toxicity I wished to escape was invading the one safe haven I had. And even though at the time I was a brown belt, I was still being told my skills were sub-par. However, that one proverb began ringing in my head like a song you have longed to hear play on a radio. “Whether you say you can or cannot do it, either way, you are right.” I said to myself. And so I stayed. I dug my toes into the mat with each stance, used my new found focus as a whetstone to sharpen my skills, and soon enough, I was ready for the black belt test.

It was the first day of high school. A long day marking the next stages of my life. The day I became a freshman at Science Leadership Academy and a black belt in Kenpo Karate. I finished school and immediately went to Martial Posture Studio afterwards. What followed was some of the most grueling hours of my life. three hours of reciting every kada I knew, doing reps of workouts and drills, and easily the worst part, sparring my teachers each for a two minute round.  My breath was heavy, my face was bruised, and my legs were weak to stand on. After I was carried of to the side and the ceremonial kicks to the Solar Plexus, I became a black belt.

I owe a lot to martial arts. Being that I’ve trained for more than two thirds of my life, it has shaped me into the person I have become today. This transformation is similar to the soldiers in Kevin Powers’ The Yellow Birds. Like me, they were influenced by their environment that only people with similar experiences can empathize with. Obviously the influences have had different effects but, nevertheless it is still there. Sometimes I often wonder what kind of person that I would have been had I not accepted Tadeusz’s request. How would I have handle the solitude I feel during middle school? How would I have  reacted to many of the students I was with that angered me? How would I be different? I often think about these questions a lot and I don’t really like the conclusions I come to. Because of this, I am very grateful of the life I have lived.

I heard my name twice in a voice I recognized. I sat in the passenger seat of the green Nissan Xterra. I looked over, there is my dad looking right at me, just how I remember him now, short blonde hair and light blue eyes. He had that concerned look on his face, the one I pictured whenever I thought of him. “I want you to get into a good high school,” he said, as we passed by Council Rock high school, where he went, “It doesn’t have to be down there.”

“Down there” as in Philly, where I lived, with my mom and sisters. A court ruled that my mom had custody of my sisters and I, which meant that I see my dad every other weekend. Obviously, he had always wanted us to live with him permanently, and this high school talk was one of his strategies.

“Yeah, maybe,” was all I really ever replied, being in the seventh grade and not so much caring about high school at the time. I always knew that moving to Bucks County and living with him and attending high school there was one of my options, but I always sort of knew I wasn’t going to go with that option.

Little did I know, that about 6 months later, I would no longer even have that option.

It was a Friday morning, I was getting ready for school, excited that this was the last day of the school week and that the weekend was approaching. I felt that way until my mom burst through the door sobbing like she had just heard the worst news she could ever hear, right after getting off the phone with my stepmom. “Your dad died last night,” was the only sentence she could get out.

It felt like the words pierced right through me one by one. I realized that it happened before she even finished the sentence, and it didn't take a while for me to realize, which was weird because it was extremely unexpected. I felt numb, my stomach in knots and my mind overflowing with thoughts, the craziest it had ever been and the worst I had ever felt.

I don’t remember much after that; I just remember crying, everyone in my house crying. The day itself taught me a lot about myself. Among my sisters, I was always known as the “rock” because I was the one that had it all together and was always weirdly emotionless, which isn’t even how I really am, just how I let myself be on the outside. I hold most of my emotions in.

The rest of that day was a long one. My mom, siblings, and I went over to my dad’s house, which then became known as my stepmom’s house. As soon as I walked in, the house had felt different. Or, the house didn’t feel different, I did.

After a long time of just talking and crying, I went up to the room I stayed in when I was there, just walking around it and examining things. My stepmom came in at one point.

“Sweet pea,” this was a nickname she gave me when I was really young. “You okay?”

“I’m doing okay,” I said in reply. “I think it’s Kelsey you should be worrying about, she’s been crying a lot.”

I regretted saying that immediately after. I always feel the need to make sure everyone is happy, I put myself last, and seeing my entire family in that state just added to the emotional wreckage I was already experiencing.

This caused my mind to race the entire day, focused on one question: what can I do to make everything better? But there was nothing I could do. An entire person, my dad, who we all loved was gone and there was nothing we could do.

“No, I’m worried about you.” She said, in a soft worried tone she never usually had.

I usually liked being alone with my emotions. I didn’t want to put my burdens on anyone. But when someone notices or show they care, I appreciate it. So her individual attention made me happy. After losing my dad, all the support I got from people made me realize that I can’t really face problems like these alone.

The adjustments I had to make was to live without my dad. Losing a person leaves a giant space in your life that is impossible to fill. There was no person or thing that could fill that space. You just have to get used to that space, accept the fact that it’s there and that there’s nothing you can do about it.

Being thirteen, and not having any experience with losing anyone that close to me, those adjustments were hard. It was hard not going up to his house every other weekend; not getting any calls of him yelling at me about not calling him; not hearing his voice, seeing him, or anything.

Eventually, I did get used to that lifestyle, but never fully. I still think of my dad every single day, usually when I see something that reminds me of him, like hearing a song that he used to play or just a random thought or memory relating to him that pops up in my head.

Sometimes my mom or one of my sisters would bring up something about him, and after he is mentioned, there is always a short silence. “He’s really gone?” is the question that always comes up in my head during that silence, and I assume it’s in their mind too. Then there’s that realization, that yes he is really gone, and we go on with what we were saying.

I don’t feel all that different from before that situation, but then again I feel like a completely different person. I know that now I’m much more appreciative of the people around me, and much more aware that they could go any second. I was always aware of death and that it happened, but it just never occurred to me that  it could also happen to me or to someone close to me. With that situation, it made me realize it could happen to anyone.

Reading “The Yellow Birds”, a book about a man named Bartle that goes to war, I felt like I connected with him emotionally in a way that I couldn’t if I had read that book before the situation. Bartle was best friends with a guy named Murph, and being in the war, he knew that at any time he could die or that Murph could die. Before I lost my dad, I wasn’t prepared for all of that. But now I’m aware that I could die or that anyone close to me could die at any moment.

Dear Unidentified man,

I want to thank you for showing me the part of the world that you should not speak,hear, or see about. Your body showed the dark parts of you life from the bruise on you leg to the holes on your arm, your teeth was as rotten as the 4 week apple on the floor next to you. But you eyes told a different story, it was filled with love, joy, and happiness. So I thank for everything that I learned from you, but I am sorry that you had to die for me to realize the cold truth.

From when I was born till I was 7 it was always just me and my mom. My mom was very protective of me so I always was shielded from the world and was held in her protection. My mom had just started dating my step dad for a couple month now. We were visiting his mother's house at Maschern Indiana street in North Philly. I try to say this as kindly as I can but, the house was disgusting. The house only had only one light source which was on the end of the step railing and it projected a yellow light since no one had cleaned the light cover. They had an old fashioned tv were you change the channel on the TV but they had a Spanish show on so I didn’t pay attention to that. My skin felt like their was a swarm of bugs crawling on me. the air was thick and it smelled like food. There was so many bugs there that you can’t count, I needed to get of there so I asked my mom if I can sit on the step. She said yes but only if I go out there with my new cousins and that I can’t leave the step.

So me and my new cousin were sitting on the step looking at the sky. It was about 5:00pm and you can see the sun start to set. I heard my cousins talk but I didn’t understand their lingo so I kept quite. I realize that they didn’t have shoes on and I thought that was weird but I never questioned it. They walked to the corner and told me to follow them, I checked to see if my mom was in the door before I ran towards them. We were playing “spit spit spit you are not it” when suddenly you hear a car suddenly press the gas a couple blocks down. So we all turn our head to the noise and then we raise the car was coming up their block, they yelled duck as if this was a routine for them. So I did, as I was ducking the car back door slides open and a body wrapped in a rug or blanket gets thrown out in front of us while the car was moving. As the body started to roll, the blanket or rug that he was in started to unroll with him. It happened so quickly that I didn’t realize what just happened. I started to smell an odd stench in the air and my head followed the smell. That's when I saw him. He was laying on the sidewalk, his body was as stiff as ice as if he had been dead for hours. The first thing I saw was the band wrapped on his upper arm, then I saw the holes on his arm, then I saw how thin he was and his teeth. While I was examining him from a distance, my cousins were jumping over him as if he was not human. The sun shone on his eyes and that’s when I saw them. They were the lightest blue eyes that I have ever saw. They looked like the sky on a sunny day, his eyes showed a different story. But before I could continue to look my mom had swooped me into her arms and cover my eyes. She took me straight home and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Like Rat Kiley in “The things they carried” I wasn’t my funny self anymore, I become more dull towards the world because of seeing death. After seeing a dead body for the first time, I never looked at life the same again. Growing up I never really thought of death or anything beyond life, I never realized or acknowledge that death was real.

That night I asked my mom what happened to that man. “Nothing, he was just sick.” my mom said.

“Why didn’t he go to the doctors to get better?” I asked. “I don’t know, but don’t worry about.” she said. Being the child that I was I let it go. But as I got older, I started to realize what really happened to him. According to the investigating, the guy got high with his friends a couple blocks down and he OD. His friends didn;t want their block to get “hot” so they dumped the body a couple blocks down. All of that over drugs. At a young age almost every adult you meet says “Don’t do drugs kids”.  “But why” asked every kid. Some might have gotten a response back but most didn't because they were too young to understand. Some kids rebel and go against what their parents say and I feel like because they don’t know the real world consequence. If it wasn’t for that day, I wouldn't be the person that I am today. By the time I was in 8th grade, majority in my class either had sex, use drugs, drink, and steal. So many people tried to influence me but what had stopped me was the man, because it showed the the real long term consequence and not the happy and fun short term enjoyment.

But the most important lesson of all that the man taught me was that everyone dies. No one is promised to live a full life, no one is promised to live to see their kids get married and have grand kids, and at the end of the day. Rich or poor, you still end up in the same place. You can not cheat death, so yes live life to your fullest but don’t take advantage of you life and not waste it on short term enjoyment. The problem with today is that we care more about money than our lives because we were never shown about death and the ending for the cycle of life because it's ‘safer” to not show that dark part about humanity. It’s better to be reminded that you will die than because you don't take anything for granted than to be reminded that you are alive making you think you are invincible.

So thank you once again, for teaching me about life and the price that comes with it.

Sincerely,

The innocent bystander  

More often than not, you keep silent because you’re afraid that the words you want to speak will not want to be heard. An unnatural silence, something that you had learned to master as the years had gone by. Thinking back, you know that not even half of the things you wanted to say have made its way through your lips. Teeth clenched, lips tight shut, gaze lowered, that is who you are. But who are you? Are you your everlasting silence or the words you never spoke? Growing up, you were always labeled the “shy” kid, who sits in the corner of the classroom and who silently gets her work done. The kind of kid you wouldn’t necessarily miss if they were absent, or really notice when they are sitting in the room. Raising your hand in class was a miracle, but only did so when you were absolutely sure you would be right. The euphoria that you’d feel after sharing your thoughts would be a highlight, something to cherish. You knew you wanted to do that more often, but your fear is bigger than your want, until one day...

“Class, it’s time to start thinking about a class president!” My fifth grade teacher Ms.Phillips asked, with her cheerful smile.

You clenched your hands tightly, just thinking about the position made you scared. You knew what class president really meant. It meant standing on the stage, in front of the entire grade and sharing your ideas of a better school with them. It meant communicating with different students, staff and parents in order to make your vision a reality. It meant getting over your shyness Rifah, you’re not ready for it. But your mind was already bustling with ideas. What if we could start a school recycling system? You had read that in a book somewhere and thought it could really help the entire school actively make a change. In what ways could we clean and beautify the school, to add more school spirit? How could we make our fifth grade graduation the most memorable moment of our lives?

“Remember, each fifth grade class elects two representatives from their class to run for the position. The person with the most votes out of all the class representatives becomes president and the person with the second most votes becomes vice president. The rest of the class representatives get put on the council and will be lots of help along the way. Anyone interested?”

You scanned the room and watched two or three brave kids raise their hand. Naturally, they were the “top kids”. No one called them that, but everyone knew it. They were the kids that actively participated, got good grades and had lots of friends as well. It was definitely going to be two of them, no doubt. Soon enough it was time to move on to math, english and then finally time to make your way back home. As you packed your belongings you couldn’t help but wish you raised your hand.

The next day before recess, your teacher stopped you at the door after the room had cleared, saying she had something to say. What could it be? Did you do something wrong recently? No, it couldn’t be that. She sat you down in a chair in front of her desk. “Rifah, have you thought about running for class president at all?” Ms.Phillips asked earnestly.

“I...I mean...I’m not too sure. I haven’t really thought about it.” You said, looking down at the ground. It was easier to lie when you didn’t look into her kind eyes.

“Well a couple students mentioned you’d be a great candidate. So if I were you, I’d think about it. You’d make a great one.”

“But I’m so quiet all the time. How can I be president?”

“Being class president is not just about making speeches and public speaking. It’s about identifying problems in our community, coming up with creative solutions and really connecting with your classmates. You possess qualities like intelligence and empathy that are needed in a leader. You may be on the shier side but that has never stopped you from helping a friend. Your classmates have recognized that and you should too. We can work on the speaking part together, no worries.”

You finally lifted your head from the ground and met her smile. Maybe you could actually do this. You went home that day and your parents were nothing but supportive of the idea. They helped you write your first speech, the one you’d be sharing with your class. This speech would be the deciding factor on which two students would be elected from your class. You wrote about a few promising ideas you had that would help make your school a better place like the recycling plan and a few beautification projects. You emphasized on the idea that this was not just about you, but the effort and dedication of the entire school community. You wanted to use your position to give classmates a voice in their education, to have their opinions and ideas heard. After practicing reading and rereading aloud with your parents, Ms.Phillips and even a few kind friends, the day finally came to present to the class. You were nervous as you stood at the front of twenty five other people. You shut your eyes for a second, thinking maybe you couldn’t do this. Maybe this was a bad idea Rifah. For you, this was as scary as Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried going to Vietnam, out of his comfort zone and away from safety.  

“Come on Rifah, you can do this.” A classmate said, cheering you on. 

As you began to open your eyes, more and more people cheered you on, smiled and supported. You had never felt more safe to speak in your life. With a deep breath, you began the speech that won you one of the two nominations for class president. You were so happy that day and proud too. You did it. The girl that was afraid to raise her hand to ask to go to the bathroom just shared her ideas, dreams and aspirations with the entire class. But soon enough you were faced with a bigger feat, a speech in front of the whole grade, asking them for their vote for the position of the president. You were scared, but this time you knew you had the support of your classmates and teacher. You started your speech, nervous as usual. But as more people smiled, laughed at the new jokes you added and cheered when you said something they enjoyed, you gained your confidence. You didn’t end up becoming president or vice president, but being on the council was the best reward you could ever ask for. The role changed your life, honestly. It taught you it was okay to be shy but it is extremely important to speak up for yourself because your opinions are valid and important. Your ideas would change the entire game. You had that power. It took years to be confident in yourself and even today you aren’t fully, but you have grown to accept who you are and love that person. You have become more outgoing and talkative throughout the years.  It’s probably because you’ve been quiet for so long that sometimes you can't keep your mouth shut! Just like how O’Brien has come to terms with going to war and accepted that it had shaped him greatly as a person.

“On his eleventh revolution he switched off the air conditioning, opened up his window, and rested his elbow comfortable on the sill, driving with one hand.

There was nothing left to say.” - The Things They Carried

Life is full of strong emotions that we need to live with. As humans we have to find ways to process and deal with emotions and issues. These ways of dealing with emotion are as diverse as the human race itself. For me, travel is important. The Movement itself is what can make a difference.

We had left early in the morning when the sunlight was still asleep. We had hauled all our baggage down the long path leading back to our house with only one eye open. As the car pulled out of the driveway my head fell back onto the back cushion and back into sleep. I reawoke at a sain hour. There was already a sense of a change of emotion inside me. As I watched the trees fall on either side of me in a blur I feel released. I’m in a enclosed metal bubble with people I love moving a 60 miles per hour away from the places that are the root of my problems. I rested my head back against the grey suede seat.

I gazed out a slightly tinted window at a long sunrise in that distance. My source of negativity was falling rapidly behind the fast moving grey car. When an emotion or conflict is linked to a specific place there is, for me, a direct connection to moving farther away from it and feeling better. Throughout the long days of sitting, my sister singing in the backseat, early morning departures, late night arrivals, pit stops, fast food stops, and winding roads I’ve come to appreciate road trips as a release, a forced retreat. There’s not much you can do in a car so it's a given time for what you need. For me this combination of time with distance increasing from my problems makes it a healing time for reflection and growth. I look back at the sunrise and then back at my mother who is calmingly controlling the car then I look back out the window.

Travel is the root of calming and healing for me, but this can be expanded with the  destination being healing as well. In this case the destination is a southern small town filled with love, good cooking, and family. In the heart of the south where time seems to move slower and people are good at showing something greater than the limited scope of your emotions. This destination was another layer of calming.

My mind is set to a framework of progress. Progress makes me happy. What is progress if not a kind of movement, like travel. These two differ because progress is in the end result while travel in the journey. Travel in necessary for progress because you must be in a different place than when you started. In contrast progress in not necessary for travel. I find healing in the travel that is too simple to be progress, but is enough to not be rest. To me travel in resting while doing something.

All travelers land somewhere. My family’s car rolled into the driveway at my grandparents house that night when the stars were shining through the clear night air like they never do in Philadelphia. We were at there in South Carolina. We stay with my grandparent when we are in South Carolina. My grandfather bought a good 30 acres of land and built a house on the edge of it. The rest of the land stretches out into forest. The next day and days that followed I wandered out in those areas.

The pines trees stretched out before me in long seemingly unending rows. The grounds was orange with pine needles and a mixture of dirt and sand. The air was warm with southern sunlight and a light breeze. It wrapped around me as I walked forward. My feet avoided the subtle dangers of thorn bushes and fire ant hills. The light bounced off leaves, bark, and the clouds themselves. Each time the light carried a piece of the color from where it had come. My feet drifted away from the “path” and in and out of the shadows, past trees and branches on the ground. I was surrounded by a changing environment, but also controlling the change in my own environment. This was the balance of progress. I was changing, generating new places as I moved. At the same time walking is second nature to us as humans so the mind can process as the body moves. Dozen of minutes passed as I wandered in these dense and beautiful forests.

Walking through the environment around me I felt like Norman Bowker in “The Things They Carried”. Slowly drifting around the lake telling himself the story that he wouldn’t tell anyone else. We both drifted for the sake of movement and nothing more that that. He would tell his story in his head and I would tell mine in mine. In his journey around the lake Norman noticed people, things, events happening in the environment around him. The travel in not a dream state where things in my immediate environment don’t affect me. I see the bark on tree. I still am aware of the beauty around me. Norman Bowker stopped for food and almost told the fast food attendant about his problem, but stopped short. As he drove around the lake he went over the stories and how they might play out in his head. I’m not a huge talker about how I’m doing. I won’t really run to anyone for unloading my problems. Instead I think I unload them to myself in travel. Or maybe my environment or maybe both.

I reached a clearing in the trees that was marked with a ring of sand and some dirt bike tracks. I breathed in and out slowly aware of all the cacophony life around me. I stood for a second still. In this second I felt my body woke from the hike and my mind wandering, but engaged. I was not anywhere, but I felt like I was somewhere. I can’t explain what happens in those moments. Epiphany, realization, cure, touch with divine. But the way I see it that doesn’t matter. What matters is the feeling of completion, wholeness and how it come about. The travel and movement. In this second I felt whole, but then turned around and started the journey back like Norman Bowker on his loops.

Reminiscing and Learning from the Past

Although I may not always indicate it, I have been through many experiences of my life that didn’t exactly go as smoothly as I expected them to. I have desired for many days to flow smoothly with no major problems to talk about, but circumstances partially beyond my control would prompt me to get extremely nervous and paranoid. Even when the circumstances could be seen as not very anxiety-worthy by other people, my mind would be clouded by thoughts of how my parents would react when I told them about what happened. The first time I remember being nervous and paranoid in school was the second time that I got a C grade on an assignment that I completed. After both of my parents had harshly scolded me for keeping the secret of getting a D grade for the first time in my curricular history (they believed I hadn’t done my best and rushed without even trying), I was deathly afraid that history was going to repeat itself and I would be harshly scolded again. This would have once again emotionally scarred me and driven me to the verge of crying uncontrollably. I was so nervous that my stomach was aching for the rest of the day at school, as I could hardly wait for the chance to finally get the issue off my chest. The good news is that not only did neither this experience nor others like it elicit no actual anger or disappointment from my parents (although they did wish that I could have done a little better), but they also helped me to prepare for future experiences of similar natures. In a way, I suppose the mistakes I have made in the past could be considered blessings in disguise, as they have helped me to grow and learn as a person and taught me how to handle situations of similar natures in a more rational and responsible way.

The main protagonist of the novel The Yellow Birds is a young U.S. Army Soldier named Private John Bartle. He is 21 years old, emotionally reserved, and ultimately scared of what may come his way during the First Iraq War. As the story progresses, we witness him going through one traumatic experience after another, each one seeming to be even more heinous than the last. While Bartle is obviously horribly emotionally scarred, he somehow manages to maintain a stoic front, or at least an apathetic one. This repression of his emotions is what ultimately leads to him lying about his friend Daniel Murphy’s death, as well as his post-traumatic stress. The silver lining to the cloudiness of his experiences is that he eventually put the past behind him and settled his debts, albeit too late, as he had already been sent to jail for lying about Murphy’s status, having claimed that he was missing in action instead of killed in action.

Even when in jail, the past comes back to haunt him, more specifically in the form of Murphy’s mother Ladonna, to whom Bartle promised to take good care of her son before being shipped overseas. This visit from Ladonna forces Bartle to try and reconcile his past and learn from it, as he feels guilt not only for failing to protect Murphy, but for making an empty promise to Ladonna. In fact, before being shipped out, his squad leader, Sergeant Sterling, actually called him out on how stupid that promise was retrospectively. As he so-eloquently put it, “Promises? Really? You’re making f***ing promises now?” It is hinted but not explicitly written that Sterling’s argument against making promises of a similar nature to Bartle’s promise is that when you’re going to war, there is no guarantee that one specific man will come back alive. So it stands to reason that it would be foolish to guarantee a safe return when you cannot foresee the future, least of all make someone immune to death and destruction. Somehow, despite my lack of war experience, I seem to find myself to be relatable to Private Bartle, at least to a certain degree.

While I may not have been to war or suffered from PTSD, I have admittedly been through peculiar experiences that prompted me to get them off my chest and talk to someone about them. The most important distinction between my experiences and Bartle’s experiences (apart from their different natures) is that while Bartle had to bottle up his emotions until the end of the novel, I have been known to get my problems off my chest almost immediately when I get the chance. This is because I believe in a philosophy akin to “honesty is the best policy.” While I may sound naive and simple to some of the more cynical readers of this essay, I truly believe that if you are honest with someone about your actions when you make a mistake, not only will they still love you but they will also try to understand and help you to learn from them. Although, to be fair, my honesty policy is more applicable to minor mistakes such as getting a failing grade on an assignment than it is to problems as serious as murder and sadism. Besides, I am not exactly a fan of the concept of bottling up my emotions for so long that my sanity starts deteriorating and I slowly start to become stoic and depressed. But then again, who is, am I right? You see, I prefer to get my problems off my chest sooner so that I can feel as though the weight on my shoulders and the aching pain in my stomach caused by my anxiety have disappeared, or at least eased off on me.

One of the more serious mistakes I had made in my life was when I was in sixth grade and we were taking SATs. I had just gotten back a graded assignment from math class which, once again, had received a C. I wanted to talk to my math teacher about it, but my homeroom teacher said that I had to wait until the SAT work period had ended. Unfortunately, I was so nervous that I wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I asked my SAT supervisor the same question and he gave me the answer I wanted. Of course my homeroom teacher found out about my manipulation and I had something new on my plate to confess to my parents. When I confessed my mistake of manipulating teachers in order to get the answer I desired, they were disappointed in me. They weren’t exactly horrified that I got another mediocre grade, as they were used to me getting the occasional C or D, they were really upset that I acted selfishly and dishonestly manipulated the teachers for my own personal gain. In order to make up for my crime of manipulating the teachers, I had to type up and send emails to each one expressing my apologetic sentiments and promising them that I would never do such a thing again.

Luckily for me, my punishment was temporary, as it was merely a suspension of my electronics privileges for the weekend. I managed to pull through that punishment by finding other recreational activities such as reading and pacing, as well as accepting that my punishment was more akin to a learning experience than to an act of sadism. I could see that my parents weren’t punishing me because they wanted me to lose my mind from a shortage of video gaming, but rather wanted me to learn from this experience so that I would never manipulate people like that again. Strangely enough, I actually felt some sense of enjoyment being suspended from video games for the weekend, as I recognized my punishment as a learning experience to reflect on. Besides that, I was able to keep myself occupied with other recreational activities, such as reading, pacing, watching a movie that Dad playfully forced me to watch, and eventually going out to dinner with my family on Sunday Night.

I’ve never been good at being honest. My apologies are harsh, and my confessions are quick. Often, I smirk when I’m discussing something serious about myself, as if my memories are some sort of misunderstood inside joke. I’m stingy with the punchlines. I cut and choose the amount of myself I give away very carefully. I remember my pain purposefully and privately. And worst of all, I write about it.

When I was eleven, I began a planned endeavour into depression. I started self harming routinely. Originally, I wanted attention. Or maybe help I didn’t know I needed. Isolation was closer to me than I liked to pretend. Ideally, my friends would see that my unhappiness was enough of a project to pay attention to. So I rolled up sleeves for easier visibility. Hurt myself a room away from someone in the hopes they would walk in. None of them ever did. I wasn’t disappointed, because I didn’t really understand what I wanted to happen. Emotional reflection and analysis is not a privilege afforded to sixth graders.

One day in July, I stripped next to the pool and two of my friends caught sight of my wrists. They spent the next two hours in the water twisting, pulling, grabbing, and scratching at them, giggling like maniacs. It wasn’t the reaction I expected. Technically it was attention. And technically it scared the shit out of me. Things spiraled. Friends saw, friends laughed, and friends always, always left. I stopped being able to tell the difference between boredom and numbness. Emotions started to make me feel pathetic. My mother found out, and I hated myself for exhausting her. So I told myself I had attempted an experiment and had failed. That all this nighttime would end and I’d be happy in the morning. It didn’t work. I underestimated addiction and its ability to stalk. Depression was quiet and dogged and dark and at fifteen I started writing it down.

When I came to high school and discovered slam poetry, I got jealous. A beginning poet is the most natural form of envy. I went to slams and saw these beautiful, emotional people giving themselves to crowds who reached back and shouted, We hear you! We love you! Give us more! The act of being received like that is a lonely teenager’s dream. So in freshman year, poetry became my newest and most accessible way to self destruct. I followed suit with what I had seen, and glamorized my own mental illnesses. I wrote poems about hurting myself, about my mother, about my father, about being sad, about crying, about suicide, etc. The audience responded the way I had hoped. I got support. I got more hugs than I could count. But it made me feel absolutely nothing. There was no clarity. No emotion. No resurfacing. No therapy. It was recitation of trauma. And I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t working. I think now I do.

Poetry is often known as a way of emotional expression and translation. But to me, its actual purpose has always been clear: to make grief pretty. Writing dormant pain back into existence is praised. Digging into oneself is rewarded. A large audience has no agenda for the performer because they are anonymous. So applause is conducive to how easy the story is to respond to. Writing about myself is an act of separation. Heart from body. Mind from thought. Joy from smile. I objectify my experiences to the point where I’m convinced I didn’t have them. Once the experience does not sound like yours anymore, you are ready to begin.

This phenomenon is not isolated to poetry or depression. O’Brien mentions his experience with it in The Things They Carried. “The act of writing had led me through a swirl of memories that might otherwise have ended in paralysis or worse. By telling stories, you objectify your own experiences. You separate it from yourself. You pin down certain truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly happened...and you carry it forward by inventing incidents that did not in fact occur but that nonetheless help to clarify and explain.” (158) He believes that trying to explain the war encourages him to falsify memories for easier delivery.

The exact same thing happened to my poetry. I created new incidents. They may have never actually happened, but they assist in making the pain seem more attractive and sensical. Being understable convinces the listener that the poet understands themselves enough to recover alone. And if not alone, then the most they’ll need is a few hugs and I love you texts. Writing about pain can make the conviction that there is only pride in steady recovery. Often the self fakes their own growth through their writing to reassure themselves and those around them that they no longer need help. A slam poet shouts, Look at what I’ve been through! Don’t you all feel something for me? The easier the trauma is to receive, the more support is given. And the more the changing world seems to accept the self, no matter how false the presentation of the self is, the more the self feels validated and, to a sense, normal. It’s the most seemingly honest way to seek attention.

Then something happens when the poet is no longer shy of the spotlight. When tearing yourself open becomes a paid pastime and the only familiar way to garner support, the microphone becomes just another addiction. You become dependent on the attention you receive. Many assume that writing is catharsis, but regurgitating trauma always comes with the price of acid reflux. Of course, the act of sharing can shake memories out of us that may otherwise have rotted in paralysis or dysfunctionality. But really it just hurts. And making it into an artform just makes it a procedural hurt. Therefore, we become jealous that other poets might utilize the pain that we worked so hard to get our bodies used to feeling. Slam poetry teaches children to fingerpaint with our trauma and the unhappiness of a poet is our only antecedent of paint. We’re swollen with heartache. And the pen’s only purpose is to prick.

In the same vein, I still feel reluctant to use the word trauma to describe that which I write about, because it has become such a foreign concept to me. What is trauma? I hurt myself, sure, but how valuable is that? Ongoing self harm doesn’t have enough balance between relatability and good endings to be appealing. Scars are artistic. Fresh wounds are not. Therefore, writing about scars is easy. But writing about the act of creating them is impossible. Clarity doesn’t always come with hindsight. Even this essay feels like a pitiful and futile reach for empathy where there is none. I can write poem after poem about tears and sadness and whatever, and never came close to honesty. Which, honestly, is what I did. And I was fine with that. Lying to the audience. To myself. It was familiar to say everything and speak nothing.

But of course, this facade catches up. It may take hours. It may take years. But the process of rebirthing yourself as someone you are not is always inevitably undone. In a way, my personal undoing is an ongoing process. Part of it is writing with brutal honesty. To not apologize to myself for how I have written about myself in the past, but to continue without doing so. This essay is a prime example. I did not lie once in what you’ve just read. And I won’t again.

In Barcelona, a troubled and anxious man, Señor Rodriguez (Ahlik), runs into a hospital alarmed about a text he received from his famous girlfriend Shakira (Afi). She texted him because she is in the hospital. He is surprised by the results of the hospital visit. Watch to find out what happens.

Ameena Atif

January 7, 2016

D Band

1. The film that I will be testing is Descendants. Descendants is a 2015 American film directed and choreographed by Kenny Ortega. The film stars Dove Cameron, Cameron Boyce, Booboo Stewart and Sofia Carson as the sons and daughters of Disney villains Maleficent, The Evil Queen, Jafar and Cruella De Vil. The plot follows these teenagers adjusting to life outside the Isle of the Lost (an island specifically for the villains), while on a mission to steal the Fairy Godmother's wand and free their parents from captivity. Descendants meets the Bechdel test because of its characters and plot. The movie features multiple young women in major roles. It also stars two young women in lead roles. These two women often conversate with each other and it is not always about a man. In fact Maleficent’s daughter, Mal, encourages daughter of The Evil Queen, Evie, that she doesn’t need a prince to make her feel special.

2. Bechdel Test

• The movie has to have at least two women in it.

• The film has two main characters that are women and other supporting characters. However there is a young man in this film that is getting ready to obtain a position of the power (Mitchell Hope as Prince Ben, son of Queen Belle and King Beast). This does display a patriarchy. The roles that the women play in this movie do not depend on the roles that the men play.

• who talk to each other

• The female characters in this film talk about the legend of the good and the evil, their current situations, and eventually how they can make everything better.

• about something besides a man

• The female characters in this film talk about different things than men. The main focus is the legend of the good vs. the evil, their current situations, and eventually how they can make everything better.

3. My Film Test and Review

1. The roles that women in this film perform should not be dependent on the roles that men perform.

1. The film has two main characters that are women and other supporting characters. However there is a young man in this film that is getting ready to obtain a position of the power (Mitchell Hope as Prince Ben, son of Queen Belle and King Beast). This does display a patriarchy. The roles that the women play in this movie do not depend on the roles that the men play.

2. The women in this film should not pictured to mimic the “bitchy woman” stereotype.

1. Maleficent and The Evil Queen are portrayed negatively however that is credited more towards their role as a villain and not their role as a woman. Their children, Mal and Evie, are portrayed negatively in the beginning of the film because of their mission to steal the Fairy Godmother’s wand. However I must say that all of the villains’ children (boys and girls) are portrayed negatively because they all worked on the mission to steal the wand.

3. There should be people of color in the film.

1. There are people of color in this film.

Overall I think that Descendants is a good movie and perceives women well.

1. Movie: Legally Blonde 2

2. Background: This movie is about Elle Woods who goes to Washington to help pass a bill. She meets a friend that helps her out by the name of Victoria but she was playing behind her back; not supporting her bill as she said that she was. Elle finds a true friend in Grace who helped her to find the truth about Victoria.

3. Meeting Bechdel or Mako Mori Test: This movie meets the requirements of both the tests however I would consider it to meet more standards of the Bechdel test. It meets the requirements of fiction, two women talking about things other than men and sometimes names are added. However the names are added as much as what could be considered. My rating for the movie under the Bechdel test is about a 3.5 out of 5.

4. If I was to create my own anti-gender bias film test I would call it: WORM (Women Origin Roles’ Matter). The criteria to meet this test would consider

1. At least two female characters; One of a considerable minority ethnicity

2. Not beginning the movie because of a failed relationship (boyfriend/girlfriend, marriage resulting in divorce) or sparking the movie for finding love.

3. Not supporting a man’s story

5. Writing a review using my own anti-gender bias film test, in other words using the WORM test I would rate Legally blondes at a 4 out of 5. This is because the movie supports the requirements for having at more than 2 female characters and one is a minority. Nevertheless at a high position job on Washington which isn’t portrayed very often in television or movies. So that stands out a lot. In addition, the main character was engaged but she left her husband to go to a different state for her own beliefs. She didn’t beg him to come nor have a hard time because she was following her own story not his.

Review of Highway (2014 Hindi Film)

By: Rifah Islam

“Highway” depicts a kidnapping of a secure and protected young girl named Veera. She is the daughter of a very rich and important man in the business industry who has political connections. In the beginning of the movie, she is getting married. There are festivities all around the house. Tired, bored and looking for adventure, the night before her wedding she calls her fiance and asks him to take her on a long drive on the highway. He is initially hesitant, but gives in after Veera persists. On their way home, they stop at a gas station. Veera gets out of the car to stretch but instead finds herself in the middle of gun shots. The gang involved captures her, knowing that she witnessed them robbing and take her away. Soon they realize whose daughter she is and they start to get nervous. One of her abductors Mahabir, however, is especially willing to do as much as he can to stay out of trouble. Mahabir, a friend and hostage Veera move from city to city to try to stay hidden. At first, Veera is met with physical abuse from the boys. She is extremely scared. Once she even manages to run away while they hide out, only having to run back because there’s nothing around miles and miles.

While venturing with her kidnapper Mahabir, Veera realizes that she has found more freedom through this kidnapping then she has had her whole life. Her relationship with Mahabir starts to strengthen and there is no longer abuse in the relationship. She begins to trust him so much that tells him about being molested by her uncle. When she told her mother, her mother made her promise not to tell anyone and did nothing in order to help her. Soon Mahabir realizes that he has fallen in love with her and tries to send her back home, but Veera refuses. She loved this newfound freedom and him. The two decide to continue to travel, eventually finding a house in a mountain village and spending a night there. The next morning, the police have found Mahabir and Veera. They shoot him and he dies. Veera is completely shocked and heartbroken. She is brought back home but can no longer stand her family and their hurtful antics. Veera ends up telling her family the truth about her uncle. She tells them she no longer wishes to live with them and has other plans instead. Flash forward, Veera has a job in a factory and buys a house in the mountains to live in. In the final scene, she remembers Mahabir and how the journey they took together changed her forever.

This movie does not meet the requirements of the Bechdel test. There are not two women with names who talk about something other than a man. In fact Veera is the only female character with a name in the movie who has lots of speaking time on screen. However, Highway does pass the Mako Mori test. Veera is a strong female character who gets her own narrative and doesn’t support a man’s story. The whole entire film is about her and her story. Her captor Mahabir is only a supporting character in her story. This film passes my version of an anti-gender bias test. The requirements of my test are

1. A strong female character

2. Who is given enough speaking and screen time to resolve their conflict

I think Highway passes my anti gender bias test. Veera is a power packed character who is able to resolve her conflict by the end of the film. Most of the scenes in the movie include her. In many ways, regardless if the movie passes the test or not, Veera is a feminist character. I think the final scene shows that especially, how she no longer cared about the consequences of telling her secret to the rest of her family and how she becomes an independent woman who lives off of her own work. It’s really inspiring and overall Highway was an amazing film.

The first quarter of English 2 for Copper stream was the beginning of an era for my learning experience. It marked the beginning of what would be a world-changing period of educational growth. In terms of outline, Copper stream wasn't far from any other 10th grade English class in the city. What made the experience so unique was the discussions we were able to have on the text that we all read as a class. Reflection on last year, specifically in that class, I've been able to come to the conclusion that group analysis and discussion is the best way to understand literature.

Since its original publishing in 1954, William Golding’s “The Lord of the Flies” has grown to be one of the most frequently challenged novels in recent history. This is due greatly to its allegorical references to society. I remember sitting and picking apart and analyzing the content of the book in E-band for almost the entirety of the first quarter. The fact that there was enough in the book to allow me to analyze it for a whole quarter and still find new things is what makes it so powerful. As we powered through the book, the students that were truly engaged in the class and its works were building up to a mass revelation. As we were preparing to begin the process of our benchmark, I was anticipating Kay assigning the class a prompt about human nature, due to the fact that it frequently appeared in the book and was often discussed in the class. That wasn’t the case, but it wasn't far off from what we actually ended up doing. We were given the task of forming a thesis statement and justifying our thesis throughout the course of our essays. Having only written essays based on specific prompts before, this style of writing was all new. Writing that essay caused me to reevaluate the manner in which I wrote analytical papers. I had never been given the task of forging a thesis that had to meet specific standards before. D.U.C.K stood for debatable, unique, creative, and knowledgeable. If our thesis statement failed to meet that criteria, we would only be granted approval when we submitted something that did. Within a week, the majority of the class had submitted their essays and were awaiting a grade. After he had read and graded the essays of the class, Mr. Kay commended Copper Stream, stating that the batch of essays that had been submitted might have been the best that he’d ever seen. I would like to think that we did the novel some justice. The goal of Lord of the Flies was to spark great debates and conversations, and that’s exactly what it did.

The thesis that I used for that essay was “People are often restrained by society. In the William Golding’s “Lord of the Flies,” the boys have been on the island for around two months when Jack begins to paint his face. When Jack begins to paint his face, it symbolizes his release from societal restraints.” I proved this thesis by using a series of quotes. The first quote and analysis was “When Jack first paints his face in chapter three he begins to break away from his societal restraints. When he wore the mask, Jack felt liberated from shame and self-consciousness.” What came with reading so far into the book was being able to see from the get-go that most often, it will contain some form of metaphorical symbolism, and not everything should be taken so plainly as a boy deciding to paint his face.

Literature isn't something that can be memorized and regurgitated onto a piece of paper so someone can say you understand it. Everyone has to come to their understanding of literature at their own pace and point. Nobody reads literature the same way, and nobody understands it the same way. Literature is a powerful thing, and I'm glad I got to experience it the way I did.

I found my pace, and eventually, my point, by being able to share my literary journey with a group of people embarking on the same journey. Through this, I found my own way. Discussions allowed me to see how everyone was comprehending it, therefore making me look at things in a multitude of different lights. Literature never only means one thing, so it shouldn't be taught like it is either.

2 Questions:

How many memories would you suggest that I use?

Reflection:

I learned that not everyone is going to have the same view as you and not everyone has the same preferences but that's okay because not everyone is the same. I also learned that I should take the things people are saying in a positive way not a negative way, I say this because you can learn from mistakes or you can get advance for the present or the future.

I switched the picture of me because there was a white border on the previous picture and it was out of place and drawing attention away from the rest of the slide. I also added a picture to cover more of the slide, and lastly I also rearranged the words and their placement.

In grade school I had a friend named nick. Teachers would always call him out because he was scared to read in front of the class. From the beginning his self confidence was low. He was very shy and didn't talk to many people, and if someone new tried talking to him he would take a long time to feel comfortable with them. Nick had a stuttering problem. Whenever he was in front of a large group of people his voice would lock up and he would shut down. His self confidence was destroyed in the 8th grade when a teacher made him stand up in front of the whole grade, all 225 of us. He was alone and he shut down completely botching his graduation speech. I talked to him afterwards and he said he had never felt so sick before in his life. His confidence was no longer existence, he shut eve the people who were closest to him out.

People with speech impediments and other problems with speaking and writing have severe problems with their self confidence. They feel as though they are not normal. But what is normal? Is there a direct definition that labels these impediments as not normal? Normal is defined as standard, usual, typical or expected. But how do we define normal? Society's normal is, if people are all the same they are normal. Any defining feature or change to their personal, or physical appearance warrants them to be “not normal.”  There is a story written by Mike Rose called “I just want to be average,” And that is a direct quote from the story that points out how people who are not seen as normal feel about their surroundings. People who are not “Average” or “Normal” can feel like somewhat of a group of outcasts. They are separated from the mainstream classes and put in their own “Vocational Track” which means d-level learning which does not help. In d level classes you are not treated as a human being, and you are certainly not respected by the people who are teaching you. This very easily make these students feel like they do not matter. This is why many of them act out or show off, in an attempt to get the attention that they so desperately need. If people took their time to sit down with these students and try to help them, they would not feel the need to act out and do bad things to get someone's attention.

My older cousin Nicky had a speech problem when he was younger. It was hard for him, he was teased and put in a special learning class. A teacher sat down with him one on one and walked him through how to cope with stuttering. He told me it was one of the hardest things he has ever done, but having a teacher to help him and calm him down when he got annoyed or angry with himself, helped push him through the problem. Today he is an officer in the United States Navy, and has no problem whatsoever with speech.

With proper learning strategies and help, people with speech problems and other disabilities can feel like they are part of this so called normal society.