The Epiphany
| The Writing Assignment
| Grading
Form |
Score 4 Learning Experience
Score 4 Family Conflict: Moving Out
Score 4 Celebrating Clemencia
Score 5 Being Responsible
Score 5 Death of a Loved One
Score 5 "Love………"
Score 6 Determination
Score 6 A
Meaningful Life
Score 6 MOTHERHOOD
Tell about an important moment in your past that let you
see clearly something about yourself that was, until that moment,
obscure. Some writers call such a moment an "epiphany," an
almost religious insight; others speak of the "aha!" experience,
which reveals truth. Your writing will both capture the moment for yourself
and help your audience see what you have seen.
Score 4
Learning Experience
A resident from Okinawa, Japan, I came to United States in March 21, 1995 to
complete my undergraduate degree. During four years of study, I have learned a
great deal of American Culture along with English as a second language itself.
Being in another culture is as learning more about my own culture and own
identification of who I am and who I really belong to. If I had never left my
country and had such experiences, I would probably be blind still. Here I am; I
came to realize my family values: how important Family is important.
Japanese culture is called a "high culture" along with other Asian
cultures as Chinese culture, which means that culture has a long history and a
great deal of traditions. Since I was a child, my parents told me how important
it is for family members to get together and help each other. My mother used to
tell me, " you couldn’t trust anybody but your blood; your blood would be
there for you when you needed help but nobody else." Everything is for
family, family, and family. I probably have been forced to believe in family
tightness because it has stayed in the corner of my head at all the time. Coming
to United States, away from my family, is my idea or a remedy to solve my
problem but the escaping cannot answer the question. The first two years of
staying in the United States was wonderful. I was exposed to new people,
attitudes, and atmosphere. Sometime it is hard to be away from home but still, I
could not realize how important they were to me till a month of May 1997.
It was a middle of finals week in Tennessee where I was going to the
University before I transferred to Cal State San Bernardino. I checked a message
in the answering machine from my younger sister after I came back from my
classes. She was crying on the answering machine saying, "Please call me
back!" It sounded like bad news. First, I thought she had some trouble with
her friend because she always has had some problem with her new friends. I knew
it was too early in Japan, so I waited for a couple of hours to call her back.
When I called her back, I found out that my dad had been in a car accident; he
was run over by taxi cab driver on the way home. She did not know exact the
details what happened to him, but she knew that he was brought to the hospital,
unconscious.
I panicked and I told her I would call home and find out more about father’s
condition. She told me I should not to do so because my mother did not want me
to know about the accident. I was shocked. Why? Why did she not want me to know
about it: I am their daughter. Questions and confusions came in to my mind. I
waited one day to see if she would call me back; she did not. I called home the
very next morning. My mother told me, "Everything is fine. Your father is
going to be okay. How are your classes?" I was trying to find out my
father's condition, but she would not tell me as much as I wanted her to.
"I am going home tomorrow," I said. My mother’s response was
"no." She told me to come home after I finished all the finals, for
summer vacation.
I tried to get ticket to go home. It was too expensive to get a flight within
a week, and I had to wait three weeks to go home. Those three-weeks seemed
longer than years. I couldn't think about anything but going home. I worried not
only about my father but also my mother. I wanted to know why she did not want
me to find out about my father's accident. When I got to the hospital, my father
was suffering from broken shoulder and leg and head injury. I could see a lot of
fatigue in my mother. Later, I found out that my father was unconscious for
three days. It seemed so unreal that my father was in bed with a lot of cuffs
and IV drips. He was just moved from ICU (intensive care unit) to a normal room.
My mother was acting when we were around her, but I could see her in her eyes
the reason why she did not want me to tell me about the accident on that day.
She did not want me to worry because I was on other side of Pacific Ocean and
there was no way I could come home.
From this experience, that moment I saw my father and mother’s face, I
realized that no matter how busy I was, how far away I am, family was really
important to me. I was going to quit school and stay home that year, but my
parents told me I should not. I started it, so I had to finish it. One of the
reasons I moved to California from Tennessee was to be closer to home, to be
able to get direct flight to Japan. I am planning to graduate soon, hopefully,
this June. I am so happy that both of my parents are planning to come and see me.
Score 4
Family Conflict:
Moving Out
I was five when my parents divorced and six when my mother remarried. The
transition was not an easy one for me. At the age of eight my mother and her
husband had the first of two children. Jim, my mother's husband, and my
relationship became strained due to conflicting personalities and the addition
of his and my mother's natural children. Over the next six years our household
was a battleground; sides were taken. It was after one such battle that I
declared victory for myself by leaving. I was fifteen; it was the last day of my
freshman year in high school and I had no idea when I woke up that I would be
moving out that evening.
Mornings were hectic for our family. My mother left early for work leaving
her husband and I to get the girls and our selves ready for school and work.
Jamie and Jan were seven and six at the time and still needed a great deal of
attention in the mornings. Being the young children they were, they tended to be
slow causing Jim to lose his patience and grow upset with me. Being the oldest,
blame falling on my young shoulders was common, I was the oldest therefore I
should know better.
The clock was ticking, we were making Jim late, and I stood downstairs with
Jan waiting for Jamie. She couldn't find her backpack. Jim had been yelling most
of the morning and felt it would be helpful to continue, "Jamie stop being
stupid and find your damn backpack".
Hearing him call a seven-year-old stupid for something as trivial as a lost
backpack was becoming too familiar. Famous sayings of Jim included, "You're
being a jerk", "Stop talking just to hear yourself talk", and
"You're being stupid". I had grown used to the daily verbal abuse, and
in the later years had learned not to cry and to stick up for myself. This sign
of independence wasn't well received by Jim, who thought I was being smart.
Although I had grown stronger, I wasn't immune to the name calling, especially
when it was directed at two small innocent children. It broke my heart to hear
the way he spoke to and treated them.
"She isn't stupid," I told him.
"You shut up," was his oh so clever response.
Finally we made it out the door. Jim dropped me off at school without a word.
Walking into class I sat down next to my best friend, Mike, and cried away the
last day of my freshman year. Mike had known me for the previous two years and
was used to seeing me crying. He listened, as he was always willing to do. I
told him how tired I was of the yelling and fighting. In the family I was a
constant source of arguments between my mother and Jim. Guilt had begun to
develop in my mind. I was convinced I was causing problems with the girls and
didn't want them to have the life I had had for so many years. I decided to
leave.
I was the first one home. With resolve I picked up the phone and to call my
mom at work. "I'm leaving and I'm not coming back till he's gone."
"Ok." She didn't have to ask why; I had ten years worth of reasons.
The next call I made was to my dad. "I'm moving in is that ok?" He
too said ok and didn't need to ask why.
I went to my room. The idea to leave had struck me with a sudden force that
morning. Throughout the day I had wavered about my choice. Now looking about my
room of fifteen years the decision became clear. In reality I had already made
the choice. Going to my closet I saw that I had packed many of my things. I
don't remember doing it, but I had been packing for awhile. The realization of
the moment struck me. I had known for a long while that I needed to get out and
had started preparing. Observing my clothes and personal items in boxes was a
moment of great significance for me. The insight into my subconscious reassured
me in my endeavors. I was doing the best thing for myself.
The rest of the afternoon I was busy with the rest of my packing. I waited
for my mom to get home. When she did we packed her trunk with my things and
left. I sat silently in the front seat of her car holding a stuffed dog, Katie.
I was leaving my mom, sisters and my home. Luckily I wasn't going far, my father
only lived across town.
That evening Jim came to talk to me. We spent over an hour together sitting
and talking. He talked while I sat. I listened to him tell me how we were going
to be a happy family and he and I could work it out. Everything was going to be
perfect. There wasn't a sincere word out of his mouth in that hour. In reality
he was mad that my mother had made him apologize at all. When our
"bonding" talk was over I went back to my dad's, where I stayed.
In the months and years that have passed since that day I have become a much
happier person. My relationship with my father grew stronger. I never said a bad
word about Jim to the girls, although in recent years they have begun to confide
in me their own feelings of dislike for him and are learning to speak up for
themselves. Jim and I don't speak much, we spend some time together when I visit
the family and manage to be civil for a few days a year.
I made the right choice in leaving. Seeing my things packed before I had made
the conscious decision to leave helped convince me that it was what I needed to
do. It has made me a better person. In the last six years I have never regretted
the choice I made to leave. It was what I needed to do to have a chance at a
happy childhood and young adulthood, which in turn has made me a happier adult.
Score 4
Celebrating Clemencia
Most people dread funerals so I don’t feel isolated in my phobia. Eighteen
years went by before I attended a funeral. It’s not that there weren’t any
deaths in our family because we had our share. Aware of my fear, my parents
never pushed me to attend these burials. However, an unforgettable phone call
that I received after losing my aunt opened my eyes to how my phobia affected
more than just me.
I was a freshman in my undergraduate program when my Aunt Billie passed away.
My unfulfilled vows to visit her tormented me when I received the news.
Punishing myself, I went to her funeral. It was exactly how I expected, odd. Of
course, everything was black; limousines, coffin and the attire. Everyone
participated in this void ness. The choir drudged through dreary songs as tears
fell throughout the church. The building was so small; I couldn’t avoid seeing
the unfamiliar shell in the casket that hardly resembled my Aunt Billie. Being
in the first row made me feel as though I was lying right beside her in the
casket. When I noticed the stitches that held her eyes shut, I couldn’t help
sinking into my own black abyss.
Crying tremendously left the whole funeral a tearful blur to my memory.
However, as promised, I received my punishment. One thing that I remembered from
the whole ordeal was when the Preacher Jones said, " Stop saying that you
lost Billie. When you lose something, you don’t know where it is. You know
where she is; with our sweet savoir!" The black-robed preacher continued
pouncing around the alter like a panther ready to attack the congregation for
not repenting from their sins. As intimidating as his sermon fell, it made sense
and it stuck with me.
The only other person who could help make sense of it all was my grandmother.
Gung (an affectionate name we gave our grandmother) knew what funerals meant to
me and she helped the pain subside. Her frail, but comforting hands continually
rubbed my back through the funeral. Whenever the preacher glared at me as though
I was his next victim, I laid my head on Gong's bony shoulders. Her soft,
salt and peppered hair would tickle my forehead as I inhaled her subtle perfume.
Gunga beauty lit up any room or situation; tan complexion, wisdom-filled brown
eyes and soft spoken lips. As I embraced her beauty, My guilt seemed to seep
right into her because she immediately read my pain.
"You know hey-hey (my nickname), Billie knew that she was sick
and she didn’t ask you to come see her just for a visit. It was her way of
getting you to come celebrate her entry to a better place. You see the good Lord
wants us to rejoice when our love-ones pass over. They made it!"
Gunga always had a way to turn my worst fears into comfort. I didn’t know
what I would do without her until she passed away also. It was three months
before my wedding. She called me early Saturday morning. Gunga was so
considerate, never calling because she always thought that she would be taking
away from my time for studying or playing with my daughter. So when she called,
I was so excited and shocked to hear her little weak voice on the other end. She
teased about having her dress and hat ready for my wedding before my mom did.
She told me that she loved me and that she was so proud of me because I was the
first grandchild of thirteen to get my degree. When I was a young girl, she
would always say that she wanted the Lord to sustain her to see me graduate from
college one day and get married. Now, the final big day that she wanted to see
was so near.
I wanted Gunga to be at my wedding more than she did. That was the problem.
Gunga was diagnosed with heart disease three years before my wedding. When she
was diagnosed, the doctor gave her a year to live. Two years after cheating
death, she whispered "We both made it," at my college graduation.
During our early morning conversation, the epiphany of me having to let go of
her suddenly hit me. I realized that she was holding on so that I wouldn’t be
faced with my phobia right before my wedding. Comforting Gunga for a change, I
told her, " You know Gunga; I truly love you. We have accomplished so much
together. I want you to rest and feel better. You don’t have worry about
fixing my problems. Promise me that you will try to rest more, promise. That’s
all I want for my wedding is for you to be okay."
"I promise hey-hey. Now get off the phone because you’re
running up my bill." We laughed and she hung up. Remaining on the phone for
a minute, I debated on whether or not to call her back because my heart felt
that it was the last time that I would hear her voice. A couple days later,
Gunga peacefully slipped into her final slumber.
At the beginning of the funeral, my aunt read a letter that was written by
Clemencia "Gunga" Peterson. Her demands were that we smile and rejoice
for her journey home to her Father. "Yolanda (My aunt who was reading the
letter), please tell my grandchildren to take care of each other and don’t
waste my food. I want them to clean their plates at dinner tonight!" The
closing of the letter asked for our participation in a song that she selected.
After my aunt pitifully left the pulpit, the choir director shouted, "Hit
It!" The band started playing a jazzy rendition of the song "When the
Saints Go Marching In". We all started laughing because we could imagine
Gunga marching right up to those pearly gates and getting a smile out of Peter
as he opened the gates for her.
As the song filled my ears, tracked down my throat, and empowered my inner
being, I started singing and clapping my hands. Walking through the church and
hugging all of my family members and friends seemed only natural during this
uplifting melody. Some people were reluctant because they wanted to participate
in the traditional voidness, but they eventually succumbed. If any one could
bring joy to the dreary, it’s Gunga and she was still in business. Though I
asked her to rest, she was still teaching me by helping me to overcome my phobia
and love people enough to let them go.
Not every funeral will be like Gunga’s (she has a style all her own) so I
still have some reservations to get over. However, my continuous prayers are for
me to help make each journey a celebration and deliver light where it is void.
Most of all, I thank God that I found the strength to stand on my own two feet
through the very close relationship I had with my grandmother. Now, I found
extreme comfort that my Clemencia is getting her rest!
Score 5
Being Responsible
I graduated from University of Trisakti at the end of 1997 with a bachelor
degree in engineering. Realizing that I had passed the last comprehensive test,
I experienced tears of joy at that moment as if that time was the greatest
accomplishment that I ever had in my life. Afterward I called up my mother and
said, "Mom, I did it, I passed the test with a good grade." And with
tears falling down from my eyes I said, "Thank you mom, for all the prayers
and encouragement that you have given me, allowing me to pass my entire
comprehensive test with an excellent score." In fact, I realized that my
mother is the key to my success.
The next day, I decided to look for a job that will satisfy my needs.
However, I felt lazy to look for one because I feel that I have the need to be
free from all the coursework's. After studying for five years to achieve my
Engineering Degree I felt that this was the right time to have some type of
relaxation. Unfortunately, I had to cancel my vacation plan because I had no
place to go. Therefore, I decided to look for a job.
When I was a student in the university, I had a very bad habit of waking up
late in the morning. Usually, I woke up around noon or later than that. Thus, if
I had classes in the morning and felt that I did not want to wake up I would
call my friend and asked them to sign up my name on the attendance roster. In
fact, I kept this habit until I graduated with my B.S degree in Industrial
Engineering. I continued this bad habit by sleeping the whole day and having fun
on my routine.
Following my sleeping laziness my father called me up and asked me to talk
with him. He says, "Do you realize that in the last few weeks you have not
done anything other than sleeping, eating and traveling? Do you expect to have a
successful future if you just hang around every single day?" I replied to
my father by saying, "Dad give me a break, I don't want to be stress at
this moment." However, my father told me that I need to think about my
future career because I am the architect of my own success.
Following that hectic conversation, I started to think about my father's
advice. I began to realize that I was being too lazy for the last few weeks and
I needed to change my bad behavior. Therefore, on the next day I started to look
for a job in the newspaper and began to send some of my applications to the
potential companies.
After a few weeks, a letter surprisingly came to my house explaining that
there was a company who were interested on my applications and looked forward to
have an interview. At that moment, I felt happy to have a chance to get a job
interview because I have never thought about this opportunity before. By having
the chance for the interview I could prove my ability to my parents and myself
especially my father. The next day, I went to the company for an interview.
While I was driving, I tried to relax myself by hearing some soft music. After I
arrived at the company, one of the HRD representatives gave me an interview for
about 30 minutes. At the end, the representative told me that he was going to
contact me after his manager reviews the interview's result.
After a few days gone by, one day my mother shouted at me and told me that
there was a telephone call. When I picked up the phone I realized that it was
from Triguna Corp., which was the company who had interviewed me a few days ago.
My heart started to beat very fast and my mind began to wonder about what was
the call about. However, when I answered the phone the officer told me that his
manager approved my interview and wanted me to start working on Monday morning
at 8 a.m. As a result, I hung up the phone and told my mother that I got the
job. With a happy face she told me how proud she is to have a son like myself.
Also, she informed my father about this good news and he replied to me by
saying, "That's a very good news son, but you still have to remember that
this is just the beginning of a long and hard working day. You have to wake up
early every morning and come home late at night!" I realized the fact that
my father words were true, but I still could not understand why he could not be
proud of my achievement.
The next day my mom woke me up at 7 o’clock in the morning. Although my
eyes were very heavy, my mother kept forcing me by saying, "Harry, hurry up
and take a shower. It's already 7 o'clock, you have to be at the office before 8
o’clock!" I forced my feet to walk on the cold floor in order to go to
the bathroom and take a shower. After I finished my shower and got dress up the
time was already 7.45 a.m. So I quickly drove my car to the office. However, the
traffic is very heavy and really slowing me down from reaching the office at the
right time.
After spending about 20 minutes of traffic in the road, I finally arrived at
the office. When I sat down on my chair, the boss secretary came toward me and
told me that Mr. Bob want to see me right away. At that time I knew something
was going wrong. Thus, I jumped right away from my chair and started to walk
toward my boss' office. I knocked at the door and from inside I heard him
inviting me to come inside his office. I came in and greeted him by saying,
"Morning Sir." He replied back to me and told me to sit down at the
chair while he was finishing something on his computer. My heart was beating
very fast and my hand was sweating as if I was in the middle of a big
confrontation.
After completing his computer works, he asked me about the reason of my
lateness. With a trembling voice I told him that the traffic was the cause. I
said, " I am sorry sir, but the traffic was very busy and that is why I
came late today. However, he said that the traffic was not an excusable factor
to come late on the first day of my job. His faces started to turn red and he
appeared so angry at me. I just sat there and listened to what he had to say. In
fact, I realized that I have done a very bad thing. After he explained the fatal
things that I have done, he grabbed a piece of paper from his printer, asked me
to read it, and signed it at the end.
When I started reading the paper I began to realize that the letter was
intended to verify the end of my status at the company. In a simple word, I have
been fired. I was shocked and disappointed. I looked at my boss eyes and
projected my disbelief at his decision. Although my boss apologized for his
decision by saying, "I am sorry to give you the letter but that is the
company policy," I still could not belief the reality. I felt as if my
heart has stopped beating for a moment.
However, I have learned a lot of things from this valuable lesson. I have
learned that in order to become a successful person I have to be discipline and
to be responsible. In fact, I have to teach myself to omit my laziness by waking
up early in the morning. Although the painful experience about getting fired
from a company still haunting me but I tried to look at that experience as an
essential factor who have change the way I think, act, and behave myself. Now I
realized the importance of discipline and responsible in determining one's
success. I hope this valuable experience will guide me to the future and that I
can use it as a valuable asset to become a successful person.
Score 5
Death of a Loved One
Throughout ones life it is inevitable that they will experience the emotions
that one feels when a loved one dies, however, death is a matter in which many
people can never truly prepare for. When older people die it seems somewhat
acceptable or expected, but when it is a young person people often deem the
situation as unfair. My experience with such an instance made me realize several
things about myself that without actually going through this moment this part of
me would have remained obscure.
I awoke on Sunday, November 10, 1996 thinking how great if felt not to have
to go to work. I couldn’t wait to call my friend Gilbert to see how the big
flyer party went the night before. My parents banned me from partying that
particular weekend. For some reason I kept feeling like I had missed out on
something by not going to that party. My mother accused me of being a "wild
child" because she said I could not refrain myself from going to a party
for one weekend without throwing a fit. It was not that I really wanted to be
out. I was feeling guilty because Gilbert was a little upset with me due to the
large amount of time I had been spending with my boyfriend.
It was tradition for Gilbert and I to have nightly discussions on the
telephone, whether it was about something on television or personal matters. Our
peers often thought we were romantically involved, but we profusely explained
that we were like brother and sister. People never quite understood how two
people so different could be such good friends. He always told me that having me
around was like having a second mother. I insisted on verifying that he did his
homework for class and that he did not consume too much alcohol when we went
out. Gilbert influenced me not to be such a "school girl," which many
would say is not such a good thing, but I learned to enjoy high school instead
of being filled with stress.
Everything about that particular Sunday and my life changed so abruptly as I
picked up the phone to hear my friend Vanissa’s panicked voice on the other
end.
"Ness, what’s wrong," I asked.
She replied, "Gilbert’s mom hasn’t heard from him since last night
and we thought he might be at your house. "
"No, I haven’t heard from him, but I know it’s not like him to
forget to call his mom."
"Can you page him 9-1-1? He usually calls you back, right?"
"Yeah. He has never NOT called me back anytime, except for when he’s
at work."
I paged Gilbert at least five times and still an hour went by with no
response. My intuition had led me to believe that something was terribly wrong.
Anxiously awaiting his phone call, I picked up the phone on the first ring-only
it wasn’t Gilbert. It was Vanissa again. This time all that came out of her
mouth was, "He’s gone Jen!" I dropped the receiver and stood in
shock because my internal assumptions had been confirmed; my best friend was
dead at age seventeen. My father had been standing next to me because he too was
awaiting the outcome of that call. He had earlier told me that I was over
reacting to Gilbert’s lack of response to the pages I had sent him. Tears
began to roll down my cheeks and I was suffocating like a fly drowning in honey.
My father attempted to comfort me and all I could do was hit him fiercely in the
chest.
"Ness said he’s dead! No, he can’t be dead," I shouted from the
top of my lungs.
It was at that particular moment that I realized I never told him how much
his friendship meant to me. It seemed too "cheesy" to me that I should
tell Gilbert I loved him because I felt odd sharing such words with anyone. Now
I see just how naïve I was to think that words could not be so powerful and
refreshing. Every once in a while I dream about seeing Gilbert and telling him
"Thank you for your friendship and all those wonderful, funny memories I
have of us together." I suppose, in a way, this is my way of letting him
know how I feel because I can finally admit my mistakes to myself.
The Riverside Sheriff’s report said that Gilbert was in a van traveling at
90 miles per hour. The driver and the other three passengers, including Gilbert,
were drinking that night. As they were turning off the Rubidoux exit the van hit
a transistor box. It exploded on impact and all four young men died immediately.
We were lucky enough that Gilbert had his pager on him that night because it
flew out of the car. Had the pager not fallen out, the Sheriff would not have
been able to identify the victims for their bodies were charred to ashes.
Before that moment of realizing a person I really cared about was no longer
just a phone call away, I used tell people I did not have time for them. I was
too concerned about working and making sure my love life was not too dull.
Spending time with my family always used to be last on my priority list, but now
I try to spend every moment possible with them. It is also important for me that
everyone else around me enjoys the time we share just as much I do. I never want
to take anyone’s time for granted just as I do not want him or her to take me
for granted. I have also realized the power of words and communication. Not a
day goes by that I do not wish I would have told Gilbert how much of the void he
filled in my life, but I am grateful to have learned such a valuable lesson at
an age where I still have a chance to make good use of it. I will do my best to
let my present and future family members and friends know how I feel about them.
It saddens me to know that Gilbert’s death was the only way in which I found
this thoughtless side of me.
Score 5
"Love………"
How many of us fantasize about true love growing up? When we’re young we
see a lot of fairy tales or movies romanticizing love in people’s lives, but
does this apply to real life? Do people ever really live happily ever after?
Perhaps some do through trials and tribulations, perhaps some don’t. It must
be said, however, that the ending is mostly up to each character determining
their own fate or destiny through decisions they make in life. When people get
married, they are choosing a partner for life and in that sense are
pre-determining their own destiny, happy ending or not.
My mother always instilled the best morals and values in my brother and I
when we were growing up. Her philosophy on choosing a mate for life includes
specific criteria that each candidate must meet. For example, I should marry
someone educated, on the same intellectual level as I am, who has similar career
or academic goals. He must come from a good family, have a good job, and have no
prior entanglements such as children. Much to my mother’s dismay, I went
against her standards when I entered my first serious relationship in high
school.
I was always better at making friends with guys rather than other girls in
high school, which explains why my boyfriend and I got to know each other so
quickly. Freshman Spanish class was where we talked the most, joking and
disrupting class frequently. At the time, he had a girlfriend and I a boyfriend,
so we often talked and traded advice. Over the next two years we became best
friends throughout different relationships with other people. Many people
suspected that we liked each other and were already seeing each other, yet we
hadn’t crossed the line of friendship to romance. The decision to cross that
line was initiated by him, and followed through by me. We had been close friends
for two years, so I trusted him a great deal and felt I knew him like a book.
When we were freshmen, he had asked me to be his girlfriend. I turned him down
believing it would ruin our friendship. After that, I always wondered what might
have been, so when he asked again two years later, I decided to give it a try.
There is a sense of comfort in knowing someone so well that you know what he
or she is going to do or say before they even do it. This was the feeling I grew
to have after being with my boyfriend for a year and a half. I knew he was on
the jealous side, that he was quick tempered and sarcastic, but that he loved
me. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done for him, nor was there
anything I didn’t do to show him that he meant everything to me. Watching all
those movies about true love growing up, I came to believe in it while with him.
I knew I hadn’t felt this way about anybody before and truly foresaw a happy
ending despite my mother’s misgivings.
Summer arrived and I had just graduated high school. I was living with my dad
because my mom had kicked me out of the house. She was over her limit of
tolerance when it came to my boyfriend. My boyfriend and I saw each other every
day, and I had just gotten off work and was on my way to his house. I wasn’t
feeling too well because I had an ear infection and a cold, but I wanted to see
him anyway. When I arrived at his house it was about nine thirty at night and he
was moody as usual.
Sitting down on the coach in his room I asked "So how
did your day go sweetheart?"
"What do you mean how did my day go? It
went the same as it always does," he smartly replied. Then he asked
"So why’d you write some big long message in Mario’s yearbook?"
He
and Mario had been best friends since junior high school, and he and I had been
friends since that same Spanish class freshmen year.
I asked, "What are you
talking about? He wrote in my yearbook too, and it’s not like we’re not
friends. What’s the big deal?"
"The big deal is I don’t think you
had to write all that stuff in his yearbook," he remarked implying guilt.
I
said "Well it’s not like you two don’t know each other. You know we’re
just friends and I didn’t write anything bad like ‘give me a call sometime’
or something."
"I don’t care what you wrote, I don’t need you
making me look stupid," he retorted.
Finally tired of his jealousy and
ridiculous accusations I shot back" You know what? Fine! I won’t make you
look stupid anymore because this relationship is over!"
I stormed out the
door, slamming it hard behind me. My ears were ringing and I was mad with a
headache. Realizing he was going to be quite upset at my outburst, I hurried to
the car, got in and started the engine. Just then he threw the front door open
wildly, heading towards my car with thundering footsteps. A chain link fence
that must be opened in order to drive out enclosed his yard; I was stuck.
Helpless, I kept the doors locked and the car running, praying he would let me
out of the yard. He began pounding on my driver side window and shouting at me
to unlock the door, I saw no other choice. I felt the hearing go out in my left
ear as he pulled me from the car and threw me on the ground. His parents were
gone and he lived in a neighborhood where a cry for help would go unheard, and
so I remained powerless. An hour later I left, amazingly in one piece and with
no major bruises. Crying all the way home and finally to sleep, I had nightmares
all night long.
Compared to other women in abusive relationships I was very lucky to have
gotten through unscathed physically, but emotionally I was scarred deeply. All
of my effort, love, and trust had been thrown back in my face. I didn’t
believe in anything anymore, love, life, or myself. When I broke up with my
boyfriend afterward, he was angry and threatening. At first I played into this
by still calling him so he wouldn’t come to my work, then I realized he was
all talk. If he really was determined to hurt me he was just going to do it
instead of just threatening to. I began to challenge him and told him I wanted
nothing to do with him. For awhile he would get very angry and threaten me more,
but I realized he was just mad because he wasn’t getting his way. Finally he
gave up his tactics and let me be, apologizing profusely for everything after a
long period of time passed. This was a turning point in my life because I
realized that I have to put myself before other people. Blinded by love, I
ignored warning signs of violent behavior and the fact that we had a bad
relationship all together. I saw for the first time that love was not the most
important thing life, but that being happy and independent was. As a result, I
can’t say I regret that relationship because I learned so much from it, how to
stand up for myself, believe in myself, and demand the respect that I deserve. I
will never settle for less than what makes me happy, and I can now go into a
relationship with open eyes. My self-confidence and esteem rose so high that I
wouldn’t take back those years with him if I could. Staying in that
relationship would not have led to a happy ending; I can make my own fairytale
by controlling what I do in life, with school, careers, and love. I’m just
glad he was my boyfriend and not my husband, a mistake to learn from and move on
from. Does true love exist? Yes; but it must be felt mutually to provide a happy
ending, and it’s up to every character to control their own destiny and not
rely on fate to do all the work. Every person believes in love to at least some
small degree, but sometimes love must be overlooked and set aside as a smaller
priority to find true love, and patience and selectiveness are definitely
virtues.
Score 6
Determination
When I was younger, I thought of myself as a coward. I was afraid to take risks, and for the most part went through life passively, often regretting afterwards the chances I chose not to take. In the past few years, however, I have undergone various experiences which have negated that feeling of cowardice. The
culmination of these experiences came on September 19, 1999, as I hung roughly five thousand feet over Perris Valley, and in that precarious position I came to a realization.
Sky-diving: it is the true cliché of testing courage. The part of the experience which is most difficult is also the simplest; it is merely the action of taking a single step. But while the muscles allowing the movement are not aware of the consequences of their actions, the mind is, and getting my mind around that simple step is a challenge I was never sure I could overcome.
I had been challenged before, sometimes by others, but most often by myself, striving to break out of that feeling of cowardice. I began testing myself as a direct response to the fear I had felt in other situations and the regret which usually followed when I failed to conquer that fear. I disliked being afraid, but I disliked even more the way I thought of myself as I succumbed to that fear; as a result, I would force myself to do whatever it was
of which I was afraid.
While I had the idea somewhere in the back of my mind, however, I never gave it direct thought. In each case wherein I made myself work through my fear, whether I was snowboarding down a slope faster than the last time, climbing a difficult rock without the safety of ropes, or even asking a girl out, I never consciously thought about why I made myself do the things which frightened me. With some activities, obviously, having fun was a part of it; while there were other reasons behind it, speeding down the hill or inching up the rock was
exhilarating because it was scary.
This is also applicable in part to sky-diving, so when the opportunity came to step out of a plane and plummet at 120 miles an hour toward the ground, I jumped at it - no pun intended. It was something I had always wanted to do, and I felt that perhaps I was up to it.
I went with four people from work, and we spent most of the day learning form, procedure, system, and safety. It had been an overcast day, and as regulations would not allow student jumps to proceed under such conditions, there had been delays while the haze cleared. The schedule was pushed forward, and as a result, our group had to wait for an available flight, although we had finished with our instruction. I had an hour and a half to consider what I was planning on doing. Without the instructor to focus on and with nothing to occupy my mind, I sat outside with my friends joking around but primarily obsessing about what I would be doing in the next few hours.
After the interminable wait, our group was called to prepare; we got into our jumpsuits, had ourselves strapped into the parachutes, and went through several safety checks. We then headed for the plane. I find it odd, looking back, what one never considers in certain situations. When I thought of the parachute pack, I thought of how it looked, and how it would be strapped on; I thought of how the parachute would open, and how it would fly and how I would control it; I never thought about the fact that it weighs forty pounds, the equivalent of carrying a five-gallon Sparklett's water bottle on one's back.
Although the reality of my situation solidified once I was on the plane, I will not say that the flight up was nerve-racking. I was apprehensive, a fact I readily admit with an expectation of understanding. It is a nervousness which closely resembles, at least to me, that which precedes making a class presentation, but slightly intensified. The nervousness increased with every minute, every hundred feet, every slow circle of the landing zone. A specific moment which stands out in my mind is that at which I made the simple but, under the circumstances, very profound realization that I would not be returning to the ground in that plane. Drawing out this tension was the fact that, because I was the first one into the plane, I would be the last one out the door. As I finally approached the open square in the plane and took my position, the apprehension had reached its peak.
It has occurred to me since that all of my victories over hesitation and fear were, up to that point, brought about by necessity. The necessity, however, was not external but internal. Lives had never depended on my facing fear; nor had friendships or jobs or grades. Rather, it was my own psyche - my ego, my self-image, my determination to succeed (and, in a few aberrant cases, a pitiful desperation) - which began forcing me to do those things which scared me. I considered later that stepping out of the plane might have been different; I had, after all, paid nearly four hundred dollars for this opportunity, and to back out at this point would not provide for a refund. I rejected this possibility, however. Standing at the edge of twelve thousand and five hundred feet, I was not thinking about my money; the only thing I was thinking about was how I would face myself if I failed to take that last step.
Finding oneself at the last step is in itself an experience. To look out into that twelve and a half thousand feet of empty air and see the expanse of earth lying below, with its thin skin of buildings and roadways now almost indistinguishable - to step to the edge of the plane and feel the wind whipping past - to hear the roar of that wind over the drone of the engines and consider the amount of open space into which one will jump - is a very focusing experience. At the same time, however, at this point where nervousness should have completely overwhelmed my senses, I found that it instead began to clear. Though I did not consciously block it out, it nevertheless faded as my mind became completely occupied with the procedure I would have to follow from that point on.
With only seconds having passed since I came to the doorway, the procedure began: check with the instructor on my right; look forward; lean out; lean in; lean out and step out; wait four seconds, then relax into an arched position, knees bent, arms out, and hips downward. It sounds very precise and straightforward when one hears it on the ground; the actual experience, for a novice, is neither. Though I did well, there were four or five seconds following the initial jump during which I went into a sort of quasi-shock, thinking not of the procedure but only of the fact that I was falling, and that although the ground was still very far away, it would approach very rapidly.
I returned to a state of complete awareness, however, and followed each step of the skydive until that hoped-for moment when I pulled the ripcord and felt the parachute open above me. It opened perfectly, and as I floated silently above the valley, with nothing surrounding me but air for almost five thousand feet in every direction, I had two thoughts. The first was Thank you God thank you thank you thank you, and it was accompanied by an intense
exhilaration.
The second thought, also accompanied by exhilaration (this feeling would pervade my thoughts for at least another hour) but more coherent, was that I had done it. Despite the fear I had of jumping out of a plane, I had stepped to the doorway and then beyond. I had gotten past the fear and had beaten it. Never before had this conquest been so apparent; skydiving had, in a single second, exemplified a mental series of events which had never been so concise. The experience had focused and defined my drive to overcome my fears, and I realized that if I was able to conquer such a direct and immediate fear, it was possible to conquer all others. Though it sounds like an inspirational cliché, it had shown me that my determination was stronger than my fear.
Score 6
A Meaningful Life
When I first met April, she was part of a group of teenagers I often saw at
local rock concerts and festivals. Gradually, we spoke more and more, and I
discovered that although she cultivated a casual, hippie type
persona, she actually was an ambitious honor roll student. She was
almost a foot taller than I was, around six feet tall, yet almost timid in her
manner. April had long brown curly hair usually worn loose, had kind brown eyes, and
wore sixties-influenced clothes, which reflected her easygoing manner.
April and I often ate lunch together at school and since no one in the group
had a date for our school’s Midwinter Ball, we all went together. At the
dance, April was the one who told me I should go to the dance floor and dance
with the group, even though I was shy. We double-dated with college students
from Claremont and went to the Laff Stop where we sat in the front row and were
heckled by the comedians. April and I went to Hollywood with her friend Noah and
bought silly souvenirs at shops on Melrose Avenue, and we usually were at the
same local concerts and would sit together and talk.
Since April was a year older than I and a grade higher in school, we saw
each other less, usually on weekends after she left Riverside to go to college
at UC Santa Cruz. We kept in touch by writing letters, and I remember how she
wrote several letters telling me how hard it was and that she was having trouble
adjusting. I wrote back but I was unsure of how to respond to the bleak tone of
her letters.
On Easter Sunday of 1989, my Mom was dropping my brother off at Sunday school
and I went along for the ride, and to go out for breakfast afterward. Trying to
find a song I liked on the radio, I stayed in the car when they got out. It was
a beautiful day, just after a rainstorm the night before, and I could smell the
orange blossoms from the nearby groves. When my mom came back to the car, she
looked shaken.
"What’s wrong?" I asked.
"There’s been an accident with some of your friends."
One fatality, I didn’t ask who it was.
"They were going back to Santa Cruz while it was still raining, the car
hydroplaned and crashed, and someone was thrown out of the car."
I told my mom who I thought it could have been, but I was wrong.
A few days later, I sat at the breakfast nook in my house, eating cereal
while reading the Press Enterprise newspaper. I turned to the Obituary section,
and I stared in disbelief at the picture. It was April’s school picture, her
date of birth, and the day she passed away entered underneath. Tears came to my
eyes as I realized that she had been the one killed in the accident on Easter
weekend. She was the first person I had ever known who was my age and had passed
away.
I called another mutual friend of ours who also could not believe it. We were
both almost in shock. I told her I felt guilty because I had not responded to
April’s most recent letter even though I had meant to write back soon. Now it
was too late.
My friend felt even worse because the last time she saw April, she shared a
Coke with her, even though she had a cold, she said afterward, "Well, she won’t
die from it."
We both shared our mutual sadness and guilt that our last contact with her
had not been what we wished it could have been. I wished that I had written back
to her and comforted her, and my friend wished that she had spoken less
callously.
My friend and I agonized over whether to go to her funeral. I, even at the
age of seventeen, had never gone to a funeral. We did watch some of the funeral
from across the street from the cemetery, but neither one of us could bring
ourselves to go over. For years after, I would replay the events of that day in
my mind and wish that I had had the courage to brave whatever emotion I would
have felt and to say a final goodbye.
Even though I did not attend her funeral, for the first time since I was
fourteen, I attended religious services, which led me back to attending
regularly. The sense of loss I experienced brought me to a realization of the
finite nature of life and the need to have meaning in it. Losing April made me
rethink the direction that my life was going in and helped me to realize that
there was more to life than music, dancing, clothes, and other superficial
concerns.
I began to think about what I wanted to do with my life, and one of the
answers was that I wanted to study Social Sciences, such as Sociology,
Psychology, and Anthropology, which led to my taking some community college
courses concurrent with my high school courses. I also brought up my high school
grades, and along with becoming more spiritual and focused I also worked harder
at being a better friend and getting along better with my family.
Twelve years later, I can see that my adolescent self gave way to the
beginning of my adult self on that Spring morning in 1989. Although some of the
changes in my life took place over a period of time, they are changes that have
remained profound in my life. I completed my Associate of Arts degree in
Sociology in 1992. I took a break from school for a while while my husband and I
started our family, but I hope to finish my Bachelor of Arts Degree in Social
Sciences soon. I have continued to attend religious services and have been a
crisis hotline volunteer for ten years. I still remain friends with several of
the people I knew in high school.
I still remember April often and I know that her memory will always remain
with me and with the other people she knew. Her influence still touches my life.
I remember she was kind to everyone and tried hard to include other people in
her group and she did what was important to her and did not bow to peer
pressure. She taught me how important it is to do the things that have true
meaning in one’s life and to appreciate the people we are close to in our
lives.
Score 6
MOTHERHOOD
Motherhood, who needed it? Being the oldest of six, my
siblings ranging from three to eighteen years my junior, I had no illusions or
delusions about what having children entailed. Motherhood was fine for my
mother, but it wasn’t for me. Taking care of infants and toddlers was not
something I enjoyed.
My husband and I were married while in our early twenties. Our
customary answer when friends and family started asking us when we were going to
become parents was, "never." This answer was mostly a defense to keep
the question from being repeated over and over. We did not discuss the question
itself between us for many years. Three of my siblings had children, and I told
myself that being an aunt was the closest experience to motherhood that I
needed. The problem wasn’t that I was sure I did not want to have children. I
was just so unsure that I wasn’t ready to make that decision unless it was
forced on me, which it was, by age. I, like a stereotype, was not immune to the
ticking away of my biological clock.
My husband turned thirty, and I was not far behind. The
discussion about becoming parents finally occurred for real. Unless we wanted to
wait until we were really old, we should become parents soon. We decided to stop
trying not to have children. In a couple of years we would be ready for the
experience of becoming parents. Two months later I was pregnant.
The pregnancy came to fruition in the spring with the birth of
a beautiful baby girl. Personally, I never thought much of babies. Women
gathering over newborns and ogling and cooing always struck me as rather silly
and pointless. Babies inevitably all looked alike to me, though perhaps mine was
a little bit more charming than most. I experienced what I assumed were normal
mom things. Love was an emotion realized. I was sure that I would probably give
my life for hers. Watching her sleep for hours while observing the expressions
moving across her face was a favorite pastime. When she was old enough to
interact with me, she was fun to play with. If she were crying or fussing and I
could not figure out why, I felt despair and anxiety myself. Her physical
comforts were always foremost in my mind. Dressing her in pretty things and
letting other woman ogle and coo over her was an enjoyable experience. I was a
mom and thought I knew what motherhood was.
Then, one day, my daughter hugged me. I am sure that the
sensations which overwhelmed me cannot adequately be described. Multiply, by an
infinite number, the emotions felt when a patriotic song is being sung or at the
end of a sentimental movie. Understanding that degree of emotion would not be
enough to comprehend fully what I experienced the day my daughter hugged me for
the first time. The glands in my throat ached. Tears welled up in my eyes and
overflowed. A tingly feeling waved across my scalp. My heart felt like it was
expanding in my chest yet breaking at the same time. Breathing became painful
and I had difficulty taking in air. The intense physical reactions I underwent
were surpassed by the intellectual and spiritual revelations which I discerned
at that moment.
She wasn’t yet old enough to say the words, "I love you
Mommy." Until that moment, I did not realize that she was a being capable
of love. I did not realize that she returned my love. I did not realize, until
that moment, the immensity of the love I had for her. My daughter’s arms went
around my neck, and I truly realized what motherhood is. Motherhood isn’t
pregnancy or giving birth or taking care of a child’s physical needs.
Motherhood is the ability to love greatly. I had reached a level of love, of
which I didn’t realize a human heart was capable. In my past I had heard
religious teachers say that the closest example on earth to God’s love for
humanity is the love that a mother has for her child. I finally realized what
that expression meant.
Those little arms went around my neck, and I learned that
motherhood is the ability truly to love another person with a God like love. It
was no longer a probability that I would give my life for hers, but a certainty.
Whatever personal sacrifices necessary for her well being and quality of life
would happily be made by me. The love I had for her was unconditional. No matter
what errors and misjudgments she would make in her life, the quality and
abundance of my love for her would in no way be altered or diminished. Each and
every milestone reached in her life would give me gratification. When her life
experiences cause her to feel inadequate and undermine her self confidence and
happiness, I would be able to empathize fully with how she would feel. I knew I
would wish to be able to take her pains and hurts upon myself. If the
possibility existed to suffer through her emotional growing pains myself, I
would be glad to experience them for her. My daughter won’t believe that I
will share her pain, anguish, despair, happiness and pleasure, not until she
becomes a mother.
It was only a moment. Her arms encircled my neck and she gave
me a squeeze - a squeeze that warmed and constricted my heart as well as my neck-
a moment that changed my life forever because I finally realized what being a
mother meant. I also, during that moment, realized how much my mother loves me.
Waiting For The Sky
Throughout my years as a filmgoer, a genre that had always
fascinated me is the prison movie. From Paul Newman in Cool
Hand Luke to Pam Grier in the Big Doll House, the
protagonist is always locked up along with a struggle. This
struggle is usually a battle to pass time that can go slower
than the time it would take a mentally retarded child to learn
nuclear physics. Hollywood’s portrayal of prison life is
hopeful and usually full of activity. In the film, Cool Hand
Luke, the inmates pass time with card games and egg eating
contests. "The Man With No Eyes", a frightening prison
guard in the film, always reminds the inmates that their time
still belongs to the government. In reality, jail is a far off
place from any Hollywood prison film. A movie is over and done
with in about two hours, while a real life prison sentence can
last an entire lifetime.
There was a point when I entered the Southern California
jailhouse when I saw the sky disappear into a concrete jungle. I
realized I was without freedom, and my time belonged to
"The Man With No Eyes". The guard immediately took
away my shoelaces and belt reminding me of Arlo Guthrie’s
"Alice’s Restaurant", and how the guards didn’t
want there to be any hangings that day. I was given a new name
spelled using numbers instead of letters. I didn’t remember it
then, and I don’t remember it now, nonetheless, the guards
told me not to forget it. I said, "Okay". I was then
ordered into a ten by ten ft., concrete room with a steel toilet
and sink in the left hand corner reeking of desolate sickness. I
was in the company of about sixty-five other men. I didn’t
know what time I had arrived at the jailhouse. I wanted the time
to pass right to the point when the whole nightmare would end. I
found a two and a half inch space on one of the wooden benches,
and squeezed between two fragrant smelling men. The man to my
left had a head full of unevenly dispersed hair plugs; his
paranoid demeanor, complemented his methamphetamine, induced
picking of skin, scabs, and anything else on his body mistakenly
scooped up with his one inch, filthy fingernails. On my right
sat a man who looked like a "poor man’s" version of
Kirk Douglas. He appeared as though he was unaffected by the
perverse odors escaping from every orifice of his body. He kept
mumbling, "I hate fucking faggots, God told me to",
over and over. I didn’t acknowledge his existence. I just
waited.
I waited in silence. I didn’t know what I was waiting for.
Maybe for someone to realize I shouldn’t have been there. Or
maybe for someone to tell me they had made a mistake. I couldn’t
stand not knowing how long I would be in there. It seemed as
though there wasn’t a window within a thirty million mile
radius of that room. I wondered if it had grown dark outside. It
was still a never-dimming fluorescent inside the small room. I
was taught in eighth grade civics that in the United States, a
person was innocent until proven guilty. Sitting in that cramped
room, I didn’t feel as though I was innocent, and I didn’t
remember being proven guilty. I had nothing to occupy myself
except my hysterical thoughts and my recollections of the
Constitution. I tried to shut off my mind and open up my senses,
in order to forget. I inhaled deeply through my nose.
Immediately I was hit with a steady barrage of body odor, sweat,
halitosis, puke, and feces, but I was unable to shut off my
olfactory sense. Many voices without faces continued babbling
and blurting the same things over and over again. "What are
you in for?" "How much time have you done?"
"Who’s your parole officer?" and so on. I thought
about the notion of "doing time" that they meant, and
how that phrase made sense to me at that moment. I, along with
all those other men had given up our time to gaze at the sky,
smell newly cut grass, and taste the pure mountain air. All of
our new time, inside that small room, was spent waiting for the
chance to get back the old time we had given up for idiotic
reasons. I needed a cigarette, food, and a bathroom where I’d
be able to have a bowel movement without sixty-five men watching
me wipe my ass. I had no choice except to wait for all those
many things I took for granted, such as shitting without an
audience.
At this point a well-groomed man in a nicely ironed, San
Bernardino County Police uniform opened the door. His obnoxious
smirk showed off the bottom halves of two rabbit-sized teeth. He
stood with a reformed posture, constantly adjusting his belt. He
said,
" I want everyone in here to line up in the hallway,
single filed, hands out in front of you. You will follow me to
where you’ll turn in your garments, and get your bed linens.
No talking!"
To me, "bed linens" meant a longer stay, longer
than the period of a single day. I thought maybe if I was
sleeping the time would pass faster. But I didn’t want to
sleep without knowing when I would be finished doing
"this" time. The officer looked at us like we were all
lepers and he was the lucky guy that never got infected.
Panic-stricken, I asked the officer if I had a chance of getting
out before bedtime. He looked at me like I was a child asking my
father for a $100.00 to spend in a toy store. He took a deep
breath like he did a job well done that day, and said,
"No one’s leaving tonight unless bail is posted, and
that takes eight to twelve hours." Eight to twelve hours,
what was that? Twelve hours was a plane ride to London, half of
a day, and a hell of a long time to wait for something like
freedom. Earlier that day I had notified my heartbroken parents
of my arrest. Through all their weeping, they told me they’d
come bail me out as soon as possible. I hadn’t planned on
exceeding a twelve-hour time frame.
All sixty-five of us lined up in a single file line with our
hands in front of us looking like upstanding, hard-nosed
criminals. We were then lead into a room where we were informed
to strip. There was not one hint of homoeroticism present. I was
in the presence of dirty, hairy, acne-scared, wounded,
gangrened, uncircumcised, nudity. The worst kind of nudity. As I
stood there stark naked in the cold, I felt my manhood shrivel
up like the legs of a polio victim. I received my new clothes,
which consisted of bright orange pants, a bright orange shirt
and a pair of confining white underpants. I looked around the
room at everyone in their brand new, matching clothes that
glowed like a sunset over Newark, New Jersey. I felt as though
the purpose of the new clothes was merely another way of being
told that our stay may be an extended one. The color orange
became my most hated color in a matter of minutes.
I was then led to my room where I was to stay on my
unexpected vacation. I entered the cold, cafeteria-esque room.
The colors of the room were bland enough to have sucked the
creativity out of the entire Renaissance. The ceilings were
cathedral, towering over an orange carpet of guilty men. I spent
the following day of my life sleeping and trying to sleep. I
didn’t have any dreams though. I waited to be able to gaze
into the sky and to have dreams again. On the bed beside me was
a little Mexican man. He had hazelnut, colored skin and his hair
was a "flock of seagulls". He explained in broken
English that when they call your last name and say, "Roll
it up", over the loudspeaker, you are free to go.
I waited to hear those words. I’d wake up at night to
listen for those words. I wondered what was going on in the
world outside. Did my parents forget about me? Did they know I’ve
already been waiting for two days? I was in a world that I never
thought I would ever visit. Surrealism took on many other new
meanings. The sky grew further away in time. And "The Man
With No Eyes" drew closer with open arms. At meal times I’d
just stare at my grade Z, processed meat and slimy garbanzo
beans waiting to go back to my bed and listen for my name
attached to that million-dollar phrase. Time was a new kind of
abstract. A clock was as common as a filet mignon dinner in that
place. Through the few, miniscule, rectangular windows,
scattered up high on the back wall, I could see the sky. I didn’t
see the sky I once knew. Instead, I saw an Impressionistic
painting. The painting changed frequently from blue to white,
gray, pink, red, black, and sometimes the dreadful color of
orange. I tried to let that vision of Impressionistic art become
a method of knowing the time of day, but dawn, dusk, and
overcast all looked the same to me. I began to think there was
no time at all. There was just a pause in life, as I once knew
it.
On the fifth day of my entrapment, waiting, felt like a lost
cause. But I had to wait I had nothing else to do. As I lay on
my bed, I remembered what I did when I wasn’t spending my days
waiting. I remembered the sweet kiss of my girlfriend’s lips,
the warmth of a hug from my parents, and the feeling of a warm
refreshing shower. At that moment I heard what I had been
waiting for, "Joseph, roll it up." A euphoric rush
sizzled throughout my entire body. I leaped out of my bed faster
than a lion leaping on its prey. I was lead through an
institutionalized labyrinth of hallways to get to the room where
I was given my clothes back. I yearned for that fresh air which
I once knew, as I raced through a plethora of paper work
authorizing my release. I scribbled out my final signature and
was soon face to face with the exit sign. Its red glow shone
back at me in eternal bliss. I stepped outside unworried of
explanation to my family and the path that lay ahead of me. All
I could do at that moment was gaze into the luminous mass of the
sky above, in utter relief. I know now and I knew at that moment
the value of my freedom. I vowed that I’d never have to wait
for the sky again, as long as I live.
Adam