To live where no one has seen my face.
To be where I have not been.
To be heard where my voice has not traveled.
To mesmerize eyes that have not seen me.
To open a new chapter where no one has read my book.
To leave everyone’s mind…for good.
Child-like.
I have always loved spontaneous actions and moments in life. Those have always been the best. Its a reminder of being alive, and knowing that happiness, above all else, is something treasured, pure and true.
I despise that we as humans worry. We worry about many things, lots of them we don’t have to. We watch movies like Fight Club, drooling at Brad Pitt’s beautiful body, but also wishing we could turn off all the sensors in our mind which cause us to worry. Money, bills, clothes, food…all elements our life that create extra creases in our brow line. Though essential for a comfortable life, they are things which sometimes we wish we could do without, or at least I do.
I treasure the smile of a child. Its real, true and full of amazement. Growing up is what we have to do. Losing the smile of a child isn’t something we have to do, and there is no reason why we can’t have it all.
Fear is the only way we learn. Yes, school is nice and helpful. But fear is our natural instinct at learning. A dog gets hit by a car, it learns the big metal boxes can hurt. We touch a hot burner on the stove, we learn not to touch it any more.
I’ve learned a lot about myself here lately. One notion I’ve come to love is I realize I need my “child-like” smile, and my maturity, to get me through whatever I’m facing, friend or foe. I’m not sure how the rest of my path will look, but I’m ready to drive hella fast right through it, laughing all the way.
I despise the people upstairs…a lot.
I like black. It hides things, it scares people and fits the contours of my body better than any other color.
I laugh at things that wrinkle people’s foreheads. I apologize, but as the saying goes, first impression always make the difference. Ha ha ha. Sure…
I love elegance. Its an aspect that’s been lost in the day of hipsters and plastic Hilton wannabe’s. I love when the subtle raise of a woman’s eyebrow turns everyone’s head.
I don’t wear clothes with prints, and I apologize. I’m not comfortable. Call me plain, but Chucks, jeans and a tee are how I get things done.
I’m short, and in all my life its always yielded benefits. Here’s how. 1) You always get the cute grocery guy to reach the soda on the top shelf. 2) You always get to be in front for photos. 3) When I danced, I always got the front line. and 4) People always underestimate you, and I think that’s the best benefit of it all. It’s like a tightly sealed firework, you never know how bright the colors will be. You never know loud the boom could sound. And you never know whether sparks will chase you into your bed.
I’ve been told I’m a good kid. Conversations with my parents cause me to think otherwise, but maybe they just need to vent, and I’m their scapegoat. I kinda don’t blame them. If I were remarried to a man as stubborn as my stepdad (a trait which he’s passed onto my brothers), or engaged to someone as unpredictable as my stepmom, I’d wanna scream, too.
School’s cool. I’m bored though. I would love a change of scenery. And this workforce, this thing that every person I talk to says, “Wait until you have to work everyday, it sucks,” seems ridiculously appealing. Um, I’m sorry you don’t like your job. I’m gonna like mine.
I love The Golden Girls. I’m like all four of them rolled into one. “Little Richard was in Bermuda?!” Gotta love Rose.
I’m gonna throw away this gum now. It’s lost its flavor.
Cold Shock
Don’t you think I know what’s going on? Don’t you think I may have already realized what road I’m on a long time ago? Wait, no it wouldn’t hit you. It doesn’t make you the damsel in distress, so no.
When we’re young, we’re told that we can do anything and go anywhere as long as we had the drive and said, “please” and “thank you.” That is complete and utter bullshit. If your hair’s a little darker than human resource person might like, you aren’t getting the job. If your pants size isn’t in the single digits, you’re lazy. If you have tattoos, you rob banks and worship the devil. If you have any hint of Spanish origin in your name, automatically you grew up in a house of 12 and are attempting to get your slice of the American Dream. These are realities that the common cluster of America refuse to acknowledge and will forever ignore. Again, if it doesn’t make you look good, then it doesn’t matter. Look good, or put you in distress.
If there’s anything I feel sorry for, its the walls of the rooms, where ever I reside. They are what see and hear my thoughts, my heart and the constant fight I have with myself. I sometimes think I should put up Yellow Wallpaper. It would only be fitting. Half the people reading this won’t get that.
I hear people laugh outside, and it makes me nauseous. I even delayed a nap just to hang a big black curtain, hoping the sound waves of laughter would stop at the material before making it to my ears.
And isn’t it sad, I have no where to vent, but to a piece of technology that doesn’t give feedback. It is so true; In the end, no one cares. And I don’t expect them to. But let’s just say I’ve got a lot of acquaintances that should audition for Broadway because they sure sold me a lie.
I love my black, but I’ve finally let it fill my heart unintentionally. I no longer feel a steady thump in my chest. Its become more a cold shock through my veins that let’s me know I’m alive. I don’t know how I emit somewhat of a warmth to others. Maybe I’m losing that, too.
I don’t want easy. Easy is for sluts and weak people. But I’ve forgotten how to ask for help.
“USE THE ROD! BEAT THE CHILD!”
“I am a nightmare walkin’, psychopath talkin’, king of my jungle just a gangster stalkin’…” – Colors,
Ice-T
*Side note: if you don’t know that song, you’re lame. LOL!* I’m not going to ramble on about gangsta life, as I have no idea how it goes. But I do know how certain people make me feel…And the things that they do trigger my anger like nitrate film being set on fire.
I’ve learned now more than ever, the classes of graduates leaving high school and entering “adult” life have either little to no consideration for others, or are just that stupid. I’m going to assume it’s the latter until someone sets me straight. I find it hilarious to watch these individuals roll on through their lives thinking that their parents/legal guardians (which ever) will continue to clean the mess they leave behind. Literally.
Were you children born in barns? Do you adore the reek of a crumby house? (Again, literally.) In my opinion, stickiness is like stepping in cat crap. Its a nuisance, hella hard to get off and an unnecessary extra I don’t feel like dealing with. I’ll remind you. I’m not that bad, you’re just that gross. Yet, I fear that the idea of courtesy left your mind just as quickly as the burp that escaped your mouth. Pity.
And you…Ms. “Sell me a lemon.” (And oh if my last name was Trunchbull, I’d definitely put you in the chokey.) No one really cares how sad and pathetic your life is. It’s not suppose to be easy. Triumph are for those worthy of greatness and if all you’re going to do is complain about where your from, then you’ll never see where your going. Get over it. (I’ll even help you build a bridge…maybe.) You may not see as everyone else does, and you don’t have to. But you should get a grip. It is not hunky dory in the area you claim to want to stand firmly in. Disney characterized graphics with deco type font do little to catch the eye of people whose opinions matter.
Leave your foolishness for the pathetic life you say you live. Abandon the actions that you know have caused others grief. The outcome never changes, only the ears in which your “sad story” bull crap falls on. Struggle does not discriminate. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last. Again, get over it.
I’m not perfect, and I don’t want to be. Give me your bad criticism. I welcome it. Mainly because if you make any sense, I’ll consider it, and if you don’t, I’ll laugh. Either way, you’ve given me a reason to smile. But I do know “what’s up” (Orale). I’d advise you to jump on this bandwagon as well. It provides for a greater view.
The Life of a First Generation College Student
“When will you be finished?” That question has plagued my entire college career.
I suppose that’s common for a first generation college student.
Unless you’ve walked down your college career in those shoes, you have not ideal what its like.
I walked into the world of the unknown. I didn’t know what I was doing or even what a “college hour” was. And aside from that, I had no one to turn to for guidance.
I love my family. I come from a strong Hispanic-Apache family with the best morals and hard-working, blue-collar ethics. All of the men in my family have never faltered to provide for their families, and we have a big family. However, with the big family came the notion that college wasn’t in the equation.
My grandfather (daddy’s side) left poorly paid jobs in Corpus Christi to find work in Houston. His first job was as an auto-mechanic, and he nearly had a break down upon earning his first $500 check. He never made that kind of money in Corpus. I know that’s chump change now, but this is the late ‘50s, early 1960s, and he already four mouths to feed. That didn’t include my grandma and himself.
My grandparents made sure that my father and uncles learned that you had to work for what you wanted, and you had better made sure it was what you wanted. My dad learned from his father and became a certified diesel mechanic. He can fix anything. But he’s also had to suffer with deplorable working conditions, jumping into the back of a big dump truck where rats, possums and all kinds of other vermin squirmed and squealed. He’s a hell of a worker and his boss would probably keel over if my dad said he found work elsewhere.
When I made the decision to attend college, aside from my grandparents and parents, most of the family had doubts about me being serious. They were already “so proud” that I finished high school without getting pregnant or walking across the stage with a bun in the oven. But I kept at it. I knew what I wanted.
The first day I went to register at community college, my father sat next to me in a computer lab and either flirted with other girls near me, or gripped because he couldn’t log on to a computer. It was funny and made me laugh, but at the same time, it left me alone to figure out the whole college registration thing for myself. I registered for 18 hours having no earthly idea of what I was doing. I don’t really remember that semester.
Its been that way ever since. My dad will ask about school and say, “Why isn’t it like high school?” or “Do you really need that class?”
After I moved to Texas State, it really became an issue. “Don’t take classes that you don’t need, I’m not made of money.” Yes father, because I want to make my senior year as complicated as I can. I’m already cramming because he wants me to be finished in two years as opposed to two and a half.
I’m not saying my father is horrible. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be, really. However, I could do without the snippy comments (Love you, daddy).
I don’t know how meaningful my rambling is, but being a first generation college student means more than being the outcast of the family or, “the cousin who thinks their better than everyone.” It means you’ve achieved something that will result in a better life. Something that represents resistance to the norm, and a much more certain future.
A white sky
Sunny days are perfect for summer. They make the world a universal tanning bed. The sun warms whatever body of water chosen for swimming. Gray, rainy skies are perfect for romance and time to read. They remind everyone that it’s okay to stay home.
But a white sky can be happy, emotional, bright and dull all in one. With a white sky on a cold day, you rub noses after breathing on each other’s hands. The bright white makes you shiver, but you know its okay because the sky smiles when you do. White skies can be gloomy and wrap an invisible blanket of serenity after a shudder-some day.
White skies are the neutral between sun and gray.
For a day
Ease and bliss was given to me for a day. I was able to breathe the way you do. I was able to sleep with my hands open, not clenched under my pillow. My thoughts didn’t have alternate endings. My thoughts weren’t forced into the numerous bad situations that loom over me like hands on my throat. For a day, I was able to see clearly, like a child amazed by blue sky. The warmth of the bearing sun was enlightenment. The hum of the bees soothed me instead of causing me to run against the wind. Every morning since, I’ve longed for this day. Visit me again. Bring me your peace. I want to breathe the way you do. Ease and bliss was given to me for a day.
The mallet
There is so much violence in the world. It’s ridiculous. It’s as if evil is all that people want to do most of the time. Screw having a good deed for the day, I guess that died with lop-sided pony tails.
But there’s an internal violence that knocks on the inside of our skull. It’s a violence not easily caught or corrected with handcuffs and iron bars. The judge can’t sentence you to a prison term because you already have one. The judge in my head has begun to pound the mallet a little harder each day. When all is quiet, I can hear it clear as day. A constant reminder of a charge I can’t quite understand or am familiar with. I know that it can stop. It has before. But certain circumstances have forced me into listening to the brutal pounds of the judge’s mallet.
Eternal dark of the sun-less mind…
I’ve turned myself to stone. I’ll admit, there are plenty factors that have forced me into my current state. And I’ll never forget any of the people or incidents that have made me feel as if my heart has no beat. Don’t start in with the parental therapy. I may have not heard it all, but I’ve heard enough. And frankly, it hasn’t worked yet. I can’t pin point when all of this “wall-building” started, and unless you know me pretty well, you wouldn’t even see it. I can talk to anyone. I can lose myself in a conversation with a complete stranger. I can get someone to talk to me about things they usually wait for the third encounter to confess to. Seems pretty neat. However, I listen to everyone’s confessions. It’s rare that I get to share my own. It’s like I’m a priest, only I don’t live with a bunch of nuns. Parties and dancefloors scream my name. I’m the one shouting at the DJ when he says the club’s now closed. I can hide things better than best illusionist in the world. But the wall’s starting to crack, and I’m all out of sealant. There has been so many times…so many times where I should have broken down to my knees in tears. Times where I should have screamed my lungs out, or made someone feel as stupid and belittled as they made me feel. I should have tore someone apart with all the dirt I had on them after what they did to me, and I didn’t. Each time, I bottled the situation. I slit another tear in my heart and lowered the temperature in my being to a colder degree. I now live in an arctic hell, but when you ask how I’m doing, I smile just as bright as the sun glows. I take on more than I can handle and constantly profess that the sweat doesn’t bother me. People lean on me for support and I’m stronger than oak. The smallest whimper in their voice is enough to make me jump in front of a bullet for them. Should this be the case, I’m not suppose to have problems. There’s no way that I can look as if I have an ability to quiver or raise an eyebrow in fear. It’s not possible. That emotion is something I don’t have time for. But as of now, as I sit in my own arctic prison, it’s the only presence that looms after I realize that I’m all alone. Alone. Being alone makes me think. Makes me think about the time you screamed at me for talking to someone you didn’t want me talking to. Makes me think about how if I just would have stuck it out a little longer, that maybe I’d have someone who cared about me. Makes me think about how I matured way too fast growing up, and learned that there was a lot I’d have to do for myself. Makes me think about ALL the times they’ve left or broke it off and didn’t even have balls enough to let me know. I intimidate you? Me and all of my 4’11 self intimidated you? It’s as Marilyn said, “If you can’t handle me at my worse, you don’t deserve me at my best.” I’m torn between crying and being angry for all the times that I didn’t. I’m serving time for telling myself I was weak for coming close to shedding a tear or becoming upset of something small. But all the small things and all the times I told myself that I didn’t need you or that I said it was just another fish in the ocean have amounted to this volcano of horrible emotion that I can’t process. With each passing minute I feel myself becoming colder. The smile you love is becoming harder to show. Yes, the stage is my runway, but my runway is rickety, rusty, and missing a few floor panels. It needs to be polished, but I’ve no more shows to perform and no one to perform for. I could never be cold towards anyone that holds high regard for me, or who loves me. But I’m not quite sure how to bring the warmth back into my mind once more.
