(no subject)
When I was nothing but a kid...
Back when the first British phone call was made. Back when the Detroit Tigers won games. Back when Ronald, not Donald, was president. Back when Coke Two embarassed the cola industry. Back when Hilary Duff didn't exist. Back when Gorbachev was staggering through the Cold War. That back when.
A cyclone killed 10,000 nobodies in Bangladesh. Shall we weep? The Ford Taurus was released four months later, still the ugliest car in existance. The anniversary of Hiroshima was near. A Boeing 737 burst into flames ending fifty five lives as I was thrust from my mother's womb. Fifty five for one, I say, fifty five for one.
But a very important one. I was born in Southfield, Michigan, 1985. I did some things as a toddler only my parents could regurgitate. Fast forward five, I attended a hoity-toity Christian private school. The walls were coated with religion. You could literally lick them and taste a piece of God. The uniforms were a gross hybrid of grays and puke blues. The sensei's, the teachers, they were the worse. They beat us with rulers when we were bad. I don't remember being good.
But did it matter when this was the result?
I should think not.
We said "Haaay" to Jesus daily, prayers etched into the back of my mind forever. I rolled my eyes, gritted my teeth, pretended to care. Didn't. First grade disappeared just as the second appeared. I switched private schools for some reason I'm not aware of. I endured more school beatings. They hit our hands with rulers for outbursts of the slightest.
My parents moved, and I was scheduled to attend the third of four elementary schools. They slit my social life with razors to the wrist. Gave it a little twist. I remember when they told me, I would be going to a public school in '94. Like 'Nam, I was frightenened. I remember thinking of chaos and anarchy. Students running around setting fires to trash cans and spray painting stupidity on walls. I remember begging them to alter whatever part of their minds thought this change would be for the best.
My mother told me not to be scared. And how exactly was that going to happen? Public school students had guns! I thought. Public school students were unruly and ba ba ba bad to the bone. I stepped foot into class on the first day, looked around at all the pale students and said, "I'm in the wrong place." Who was I? Oh, just one of fifteen blacks in a sea of white. My teacher sat me down, apparently I wasn't. I can recount being close to spilling tears.
My dad said to me, that man said to me, "Now you go to one of the best public school systems in the state of Michigan, act accordingly." I look back at those Dalmations on the bulletin board and think how appropriate. Take a gander at what I mean. I didn't like these people. I didn't like this school. I wouldn't continue attending it for all the green eggs and ham in the world. But I was nothing but a kid and my choices were slim, limited.
All I wanted was to be with people who were like me. People who understood me. I started off disliking a lot things, like Joey Damman's new shoes, Keith Christianson's stupid ass cello, and Brian Svik's busted face. Still hate that kid to the day.
Carlyn - right.
Nevertheless, I looked forward to recess as I got to play with the only three other black people in my grade. Carlyn, her name was Carlyn. She was sweet and quiet, just like me. I crushed on her instantly. I knew guys were supposed to like girls and boy did I like her. I just didn't want her cooties. I had that weak in the knees feeling everytime she was around. I stuttered in her presence. She never even knew.
Some things change, and some things never do.
It was spring. A light drizzle fell upon the ground. I was outside running around with Mcauliffe and Kondak. I don't quite recall what happened, but there was a tightness in my chest. I fell to black. I woke up in a white bed, my sight was blurred and hazy. It felt like someone had tied my lungs around the bridge and thrown me off the Mackinac. My first serious asthma attack. My breathing irregular. My pulse faint. My life in delicate hands.
And I nearly died. Pneumonia swept in and battered my already frail immune system. I passed in and out of consciousness for days. I remember seeing my parents at my side. I remember seeing my brother cry. In and out I went. Ever since then, I became ashamed to tell people I had a physical ailment. I thought it a weakness. It took me several years to get over.
Eventually I found the niche of friends and activities for me. Only to be yanked from it, not too soon after.
And then I went to middle school and everything fell apart. I encountered my first gun. And strangely enough, a public school student wasn't holding it. The worst was yet to come. To be concluded later.
Back when the first British phone call was made. Back when the Detroit Tigers won games. Back when Ronald, not Donald, was president. Back when Coke Two embarassed the cola industry. Back when Hilary Duff didn't exist. Back when Gorbachev was staggering through the Cold War. That back when.
A cyclone killed 10,000 nobodies in Bangladesh. Shall we weep? The Ford Taurus was released four months later, still the ugliest car in existance. The anniversary of Hiroshima was near. A Boeing 737 burst into flames ending fifty five lives as I was thrust from my mother's womb. Fifty five for one, I say, fifty five for one.
But a very important one. I was born in Southfield, Michigan, 1985. I did some things as a toddler only my parents could regurgitate. Fast forward five, I attended a hoity-toity Christian private school. The walls were coated with religion. You could literally lick them and taste a piece of God. The uniforms were a gross hybrid of grays and puke blues. The sensei's, the teachers, they were the worse. They beat us with rulers when we were bad. I don't remember being good.
But did it matter when this was the result?
I should think not.
We said "Haaay" to Jesus daily, prayers etched into the back of my mind forever. I rolled my eyes, gritted my teeth, pretended to care. Didn't. First grade disappeared just as the second appeared. I switched private schools for some reason I'm not aware of. I endured more school beatings. They hit our hands with rulers for outbursts of the slightest.
My parents moved, and I was scheduled to attend the third of four elementary schools. They slit my social life with razors to the wrist. Gave it a little twist. I remember when they told me, I would be going to a public school in '94. Like 'Nam, I was frightenened. I remember thinking of chaos and anarchy. Students running around setting fires to trash cans and spray painting stupidity on walls. I remember begging them to alter whatever part of their minds thought this change would be for the best.
My mother told me not to be scared. And how exactly was that going to happen? Public school students had guns! I thought. Public school students were unruly and ba ba ba bad to the bone. I stepped foot into class on the first day, looked around at all the pale students and said, "I'm in the wrong place." Who was I? Oh, just one of fifteen blacks in a sea of white. My teacher sat me down, apparently I wasn't. I can recount being close to spilling tears.
My dad said to me, that man said to me, "Now you go to one of the best public school systems in the state of Michigan, act accordingly." I look back at those Dalmations on the bulletin board and think how appropriate. Take a gander at what I mean. I didn't like these people. I didn't like this school. I wouldn't continue attending it for all the green eggs and ham in the world. But I was nothing but a kid and my choices were slim, limited.
All I wanted was to be with people who were like me. People who understood me. I started off disliking a lot things, like Joey Damman's new shoes, Keith Christianson's stupid ass cello, and Brian Svik's busted face. Still hate that kid to the day.
Carlyn - right.
Nevertheless, I looked forward to recess as I got to play with the only three other black people in my grade. Carlyn, her name was Carlyn. She was sweet and quiet, just like me. I crushed on her instantly. I knew guys were supposed to like girls and boy did I like her. I just didn't want her cooties. I had that weak in the knees feeling everytime she was around. I stuttered in her presence. She never even knew.
Some things change, and some things never do.
It was spring. A light drizzle fell upon the ground. I was outside running around with Mcauliffe and Kondak. I don't quite recall what happened, but there was a tightness in my chest. I fell to black. I woke up in a white bed, my sight was blurred and hazy. It felt like someone had tied my lungs around the bridge and thrown me off the Mackinac. My first serious asthma attack. My breathing irregular. My pulse faint. My life in delicate hands.
And I nearly died. Pneumonia swept in and battered my already frail immune system. I passed in and out of consciousness for days. I remember seeing my parents at my side. I remember seeing my brother cry. In and out I went. Ever since then, I became ashamed to tell people I had a physical ailment. I thought it a weakness. It took me several years to get over.
Eventually I found the niche of friends and activities for me. Only to be yanked from it, not too soon after.
And then I went to middle school and everything fell apart. I encountered my first gun. And strangely enough, a public school student wasn't holding it. The worst was yet to come. To be concluded later.