Old Writing
I just stumbled upon a drawer in my room filled with old pieces of writing from school. I think I will re-type the written ones and copy and paste the ones saved on an external hard drive of mine. Here is one:
When I Became a Criminal
The warm night breeze softly licks my forearm as it hangs out of my car window. My car, white as a wizard’s beard sharply contrasts against the sheer darkness of this summer night, as it gleams in the street lights. I am calm, driving down my home street. I have driven this route many times, year after year. Usually, I drive slowly down the street, gazing upon all of the familiar houses on the block: the cat lady’s house, crazy Hank’s wild looking house, a teacher from my elementary schools home, and finally, my own. Tonight, however, feels different. I feel a twinge, as if something is awry. I look around at the houses, but all seem to be in order. I stop at the stop sign I’ve stopped at, year after year, and then it becomes apparent what is different. Closely behind me, in my rear view, I lock eyes with a pair of headlights. Not just any headlights, but very familiar headlights; ones that invoke fear and loathing.
“I’m on my own damn street”, I think to myself, trying to shake the headlights telepathically.
I press the gas and my car lurches forward at my normal, slow and deliberate pace. My heart flutters in my chest with anxiety. I stop looking at the houses on this part of the block, my mind set on my driveway at the end of the street, my eyes locked on those damn headlights behind me. I pull into my driveway, and a feeling of ease washes over my body, temporarily removing the anxiety. As I pull into the driveway though, lights flash behind me. No, not the lights you see on a snow plow. Or the lights you’d see on an ambulance, or tow truck, or any other familiar lights from some friendly, helpful vehicle. No, these are the dreadful red and blue lights from atop a police car.
“Why the hell are you pulling me over now?” I wonder. “You had the whole street to pull me over, why do it when I reach my own driveway?”
I decide this is the first time anyone has ever been pulled over in their own driveway, and as I reach into my pocket and finger the jar containing my weed, I decide this is the first time anyone has ever been arrested in their own driveway as well.
That night, although I was not arrested for the contents of that jar, I did receive a ticket that required me to come to the police station on a certain date, to be booked just the same, and receive adequate punishments. I have been arrested three times for possession of marijuana. Never have I been caught in an act of violence or wrong doing of malicious intent. I have only been apprehended with buds of a forbidden plant which years ago were used widely as a cure-all by shaman and doctors alike. Why then, am I being arrested for its possession? I was arrested because our leaders saw a threat in the plant economically. It was too beneficial in too many ways to be allowed to run rampant in our society. Therefore, its benefits would never be tapped and profited upon by our people and demonizing propaganda would see it become a widely misunderstood and shamed plant.
First, I believe marijuana is illegal because of the way our society and its forerunning profiteers go about their business. The United States society is one of many symptoms, and also, one of numerous manufactured cures: in the form of pharmaceuticals. I believe it is because of the money made by the owners and propagators of the pharmaceutical industry that use of easily accessible, procurable, and earth-grown substances is disallowed. Oh, and because an actor-turned-President named Ronald Reagan, to gain some type of image and good standing with his people and peers, began a self-proclaimed “war on drugs” which worsened the penalties and scrutiny for it’s possession. This further condemned our people to become a pill-popping nation. In my eyes, and I’m not alone in this view, we have taken patients and people with special needs, and turned them into common criminals.
I’m not trying to write an essay on the legalization of marijuana. That would hold no purpose in the grand scheme of life, or our society. I will, however, tell about how I have been affected by the consequences of being caught with it. As I stated before, I was pulled over in the driveway of my parent’s house when I still lived there, and I was in possession of marijuana at the time. After being put on probation for it, I was labeled a criminal in the eyes of our judicial system. Being labeled a criminal and treated as one has very adverse affects on a person such as me. I’m a non-violent, honest, good-hearted person with good will towards all around me, as long as they are treating me and my loved ones the same. I’m an environmentalist, an idealist, and a transcendentalist. I would hardly think of myself as a criminal; synonymous with felonious, evildoer, transgressor, culprit, crook, or hoodlum. These thoughts deeply affected me, down to my soul, tearing me apart inside. I slipped into a depression. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt no self-worth. I was intensely angry at the thought that my country saw me as a criminal. I felt a compulsion to find a way to change the world around me, for it was just as upside-down and ass-backwards as my own world had turned. Alas, a criminal is not allowed many things in this world; especially the means to have a say in changing it.
I stepped out of my white Honda civic two door, its white body now glimmering blue and red against the blazing lights behind me.
“Get back in your car, now!” yelled a voice from the lights.
I did so, even though I was a handful of steps from my front door, and from my bed.
“Turn your car off and put your hands out the window, with your keys where we can see them!” the officer ordered, still shrouded in darkness and masked in blinding light all at once. I did as ordered, and the officer finally emerged from his hiding spot, the lights flickering off of his badge now. Blue, red, and then gold. Blue, red, and then gold.
“Anything illegal in your car that I should know about?” he implored. “Judging by your smell, I’d say there is.”
“Yes”, I said calmly, defeated. “There is.” I handed him the jar out of my pocket. That’s when I became a criminal.
This was supposed to be a narrative essay. I know I lost my way a little bit there in the middle, but it came back around. Meh, at least the teacher realized I was the only one in the class with the ability to spell most words correctly, and I knew what a writer's trick was, and used them often. I could have wrote anything I wanted for any assignment, and she would've given me an A+. I never even wrote the last paper as our final, and when I got my final grade, she had given me a 98% on it, as if I had done it. hahaha. Amazing.
When I Became a Criminal
The warm night breeze softly licks my forearm as it hangs out of my car window. My car, white as a wizard’s beard sharply contrasts against the sheer darkness of this summer night, as it gleams in the street lights. I am calm, driving down my home street. I have driven this route many times, year after year. Usually, I drive slowly down the street, gazing upon all of the familiar houses on the block: the cat lady’s house, crazy Hank’s wild looking house, a teacher from my elementary schools home, and finally, my own. Tonight, however, feels different. I feel a twinge, as if something is awry. I look around at the houses, but all seem to be in order. I stop at the stop sign I’ve stopped at, year after year, and then it becomes apparent what is different. Closely behind me, in my rear view, I lock eyes with a pair of headlights. Not just any headlights, but very familiar headlights; ones that invoke fear and loathing.
“I’m on my own damn street”, I think to myself, trying to shake the headlights telepathically.
I press the gas and my car lurches forward at my normal, slow and deliberate pace. My heart flutters in my chest with anxiety. I stop looking at the houses on this part of the block, my mind set on my driveway at the end of the street, my eyes locked on those damn headlights behind me. I pull into my driveway, and a feeling of ease washes over my body, temporarily removing the anxiety. As I pull into the driveway though, lights flash behind me. No, not the lights you see on a snow plow. Or the lights you’d see on an ambulance, or tow truck, or any other familiar lights from some friendly, helpful vehicle. No, these are the dreadful red and blue lights from atop a police car.
“Why the hell are you pulling me over now?” I wonder. “You had the whole street to pull me over, why do it when I reach my own driveway?”
I decide this is the first time anyone has ever been pulled over in their own driveway, and as I reach into my pocket and finger the jar containing my weed, I decide this is the first time anyone has ever been arrested in their own driveway as well.
That night, although I was not arrested for the contents of that jar, I did receive a ticket that required me to come to the police station on a certain date, to be booked just the same, and receive adequate punishments. I have been arrested three times for possession of marijuana. Never have I been caught in an act of violence or wrong doing of malicious intent. I have only been apprehended with buds of a forbidden plant which years ago were used widely as a cure-all by shaman and doctors alike. Why then, am I being arrested for its possession? I was arrested because our leaders saw a threat in the plant economically. It was too beneficial in too many ways to be allowed to run rampant in our society. Therefore, its benefits would never be tapped and profited upon by our people and demonizing propaganda would see it become a widely misunderstood and shamed plant.
First, I believe marijuana is illegal because of the way our society and its forerunning profiteers go about their business. The United States society is one of many symptoms, and also, one of numerous manufactured cures: in the form of pharmaceuticals. I believe it is because of the money made by the owners and propagators of the pharmaceutical industry that use of easily accessible, procurable, and earth-grown substances is disallowed. Oh, and because an actor-turned-President named Ronald Reagan, to gain some type of image and good standing with his people and peers, began a self-proclaimed “war on drugs” which worsened the penalties and scrutiny for it’s possession. This further condemned our people to become a pill-popping nation. In my eyes, and I’m not alone in this view, we have taken patients and people with special needs, and turned them into common criminals.
I’m not trying to write an essay on the legalization of marijuana. That would hold no purpose in the grand scheme of life, or our society. I will, however, tell about how I have been affected by the consequences of being caught with it. As I stated before, I was pulled over in the driveway of my parent’s house when I still lived there, and I was in possession of marijuana at the time. After being put on probation for it, I was labeled a criminal in the eyes of our judicial system. Being labeled a criminal and treated as one has very adverse affects on a person such as me. I’m a non-violent, honest, good-hearted person with good will towards all around me, as long as they are treating me and my loved ones the same. I’m an environmentalist, an idealist, and a transcendentalist. I would hardly think of myself as a criminal; synonymous with felonious, evildoer, transgressor, culprit, crook, or hoodlum. These thoughts deeply affected me, down to my soul, tearing me apart inside. I slipped into a depression. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt no self-worth. I was intensely angry at the thought that my country saw me as a criminal. I felt a compulsion to find a way to change the world around me, for it was just as upside-down and ass-backwards as my own world had turned. Alas, a criminal is not allowed many things in this world; especially the means to have a say in changing it.
I stepped out of my white Honda civic two door, its white body now glimmering blue and red against the blazing lights behind me.
“Get back in your car, now!” yelled a voice from the lights.
I did so, even though I was a handful of steps from my front door, and from my bed.
“Turn your car off and put your hands out the window, with your keys where we can see them!” the officer ordered, still shrouded in darkness and masked in blinding light all at once. I did as ordered, and the officer finally emerged from his hiding spot, the lights flickering off of his badge now. Blue, red, and then gold. Blue, red, and then gold.
“Anything illegal in your car that I should know about?” he implored. “Judging by your smell, I’d say there is.”
“Yes”, I said calmly, defeated. “There is.” I handed him the jar out of my pocket. That’s when I became a criminal.
This was supposed to be a narrative essay. I know I lost my way a little bit there in the middle, but it came back around. Meh, at least the teacher realized I was the only one in the class with the ability to spell most words correctly, and I knew what a writer's trick was, and used them often. I could have wrote anything I wanted for any assignment, and she would've given me an A+. I never even wrote the last paper as our final, and when I got my final grade, she had given me a 98% on it, as if I had done it. hahaha. Amazing.