Reparations

Should African Americans receive reparations for slavery? If so, who should receive them since all blacks aren’t direct descendants of slaves? How do you go about handing out these reparations? All of these questions and more were brought up in my African American History class during a group project last Thursday. I found this presentation very interesting because this was one point a pretty hot topic and still is a sore spot for many older African Americans.


It’s quite obvious that Blacks still have some animosity towards Whites because of slavery. As I always say, can you blame them? I personally don’t because technically you can’t get mad at the Europeans for doing exactly what we were doing to each other in Africa at that time. I have heard countless conversations on this subject and it’s hard to “pick a side”. America no doubt made A LOT of money off of slavery; if you calculated the amount today it adds up to 1 trillion dollars! Clearly we were never compensated for our hard work and didn’t receive a formal apology from the government until the year 2008! How crazy is that? I mean even though Blacks probably bugged the crap out of the government for a formal apology earlier, what the heck difference does it make now? WHAT SLAVE DO YOU THINK HEARD THAT!? It’s not the apology we’re looking for, it’s more so that we want those racist Whites who are still out there and even the ones that aren’t racist but try to ignore or skip over the fact that slavery happened to acknowledge the fact that it did, admit their ancestors were wrong, and stop discriminating against us. I mean, that’s all I want. Blacks on the other hand need to stop walking around acting like they can’t make something out of themselves because of discrimination, clearly we can do better. Which brings me to my next point, how should the government distribute reparations for the blacks that suffered through slavery and even the aftermath of slavery?

Even though there’s no way to be sure who to hand out money to, I believe the best way to make up for what was done is to fix the education system. As everyone should know, Blacks were denied their rights to education for a very long time and because of that it affected their ability to build wealth, get good jobs, and many other things that still affect us today. If there were more educated blacks there would be more Black doctors, lawyers, presidents and so on. This would also help us in many other ways. I believe the government should start in the lower levels of education first and go back and simply build better schools in every black neighborhood in America. Then equip these schools with the same things that the white schools in most counties have. Now some White people may think, education is equal and there’s nothing wrong with the Black schools out there, but if you come to Richmond and see the difference between something as little as the classrooms or the cafeterias in the Black schools and White schools you would probably change your mind. Although we may be learning the same material from teachers who are just as qualified or smart as each other, who wants to walk in to a run down, rinky dink school every day? That right there is discouraging and makes many Black kids feel like their government doesn’t care about them. There are major differences in the sport facilities also. Granted, many of the predominantly Black schools in Richmond are very old there is still no reason they shouldn’t be updated just like the new county schools. I feel as though if many of the Richmond city kids I know had the privilege of walking into a nice, new high school every day the past four years with nice classrooms, brand new books, and just a really cool environment they would have never wanted to skip school and would have been encouraged to do a lot more activities. I look at the sport facilities of the county schools and wonder why we can’t have nice gyms and better tracks and fields outside, or even separate fields! At the high school I played basketball and softball for, the gym was quite old, the football field was also used for soccer and any other “grass sport” they may have had and the softball field was away from the school and was terrible! My coach had to drag the field himself with very old equipment and every time it rained we could count on either not having practice on the field for a while and just playing in the grass or having to go in the gym to practice. The county schools have much better facilities and even their DIRT was better than ours! I know that sounds silly but it’s the little things that matter to us kids. One school in particular that’s fairly new in the county near Richmond is called Cosby High School. The school on the inside is just plain and simple Awesome. The gym was very nice and the fields outside were on a whole other level. They have both practice and play fields for soccer, football, baseball, and softball. They even had different fields for varsity and junior varsity baseball and softball. The high school I played for had two fields, one for softball and one for baseball. Luckily softball had the nicer field, even though there was a little walk to get there.

If new schools were built for Blacks that were identical to the schools for the Whites and even other things like community centers and other places that kids go were all equal, things would be a lot different. I think the dropout rate would go down and a lot more kids would want to go to school and work towards a better life. Nowadays all Blacks kids think about is getting out of the hood and never going back. What they don’t realize is that by not going back and giving back to their rundown neighborhoods by building better facilities, those neighborhoods would always harbor poor Black families. If the government were to ever hand out reparations, they should just give us justice and build better facilities for our children, so they can grow up with the exact same opportunities as the White kids and finally things would begin to equal out.

Break Time

I can't wait to go home for Thanksgiving. I've been counting down the days that I finally get to see my family and friends again. While I'm very excited because Thanksgiving is always a big thing in my family, it will also be a very sad time. I look forward to being in the company of my family but dread the conversation I know is going to arise.

I'll focus on the happy part first! Every year my school has a "homecoming" that we refer to as Harvest Fest. We consider this our homecoming because my school is very small and we don't have a football team, or any other sports, so we always designate the last day of classes before Thanksgiving break as Harvest Fest Day. On this day the each "family", our version of homerooms, partners up with another "cousin family" and competes in games to see who will eat first. The National Honor Society is in charge of running all the games; football, soccer, volleyball, and basketball. I was President of the NHS last year and we had a very successful Harvest Fest. All the games went smoothly, everyone cooperated which is sometimes a tough thing to get people to do. We served hot chocolate during the festivities and we collected a lot of canned goods to donate to the food bank. After all the games, the families are gathered in the auditorium, at this time a lot of alumni show up and fellowship with the rest of the student body. Then we tally up the scores and announce who eats first. As family names are called kids run down to the cafeteria to get the delicious food that awaits, which isn't always that good. We usually have turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, string beans, mashed potatoes, and rolls prepared by the cafeteria. We also have an assortment of desserts brought in by the faculty and NHS members. After everyone has finished eating, and the alumni keep arriving, people hang out in the cafeteria, the parking lot, or most of the boys will go back to the gym and play football. This will be my first Harvest Fest experience as an RCHS alumni and I can't wait to see all my friends! I look forward to seeing my teachers too and the rest of the faculty that I was close with. After Harvest Fest my group of friends usually goes to IHOP to eat "real food" and then ride around the city looking for things to do.

Now for the not so exciting part of the break. Other than the fact that I'll be swamped with studying the whole break, I know I have to look forward to the dreaded conversation of my grandmother's death. My grandmother passed away this summer and this will be the first holiday without her. I can remember the exact moment my father told me my grandmother had died. My family was over my mother's best friend's house eating dinner; my mom, dad, grandfather, and me. My grandmother had been in a nursing home for a while and she wasn't doing well at all. I walked into the dinning room to fix my plate and I saw my mother in the kitchen and she was crying. I stood in the doorway and asked what was wrong. That's when my father said, "Grandma just passed". My jaw dropped and my plate almost fell out of my hand. I was shocked! Not because she was dead but because my immediate feeling was one of relief. My grandmother had been suffering for a very long time. I knew she was in pain and every night I prayed that God would put a stop to her suffering, but to allow her to stay here with us. I knew I couldn't have both but I just couldn't bear to see her the way she was. Every time I went to the nursing home I either stayed in the lobby or the car. The few times I did go in I wouldn't stay in her room very long. I was just so sad because my grandmother meant the world to me and was always one of the strongest and most influential women in my life. I didn't cry the night that a few of my family members gathered at my house to be with my mother and my grandfather, who had been living with us for the past 3 years or so. I sat in the living room with my parents, sister, and cousins and tried to make sure everyone else was ok, while I held all emotions back. I wondered why I hadn't cried, I felt mad at myself for not showing any emotion, even though I was dying inside. Little did I know, my emotions would come after everyone else's had pretty much simmered down. I remember the first time I saw her body at the funeral home, the tears started flowing and from then they never stopped. The next day was the wake. My mother held a special ceremony for two organizations that my grandmother had been a part of, the Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority Inc. and the Continental Society of Richmond. I rode with my mother to funeral home and sat in the hallway as the first ceremony went on. I could hear them all in the room singing and celebrating my grandmother's life and again I broke down. I cried throughout the whole entire wake, and every time a person came up to me it was water works all over again. I figured the next day at the funeral would be better. That day I felt fine as I got dressed to go to church. I could tell everyone had kind of accepted it and I thought I had too. We got to the church and as we all went in I felt the tears coming on once again, but I was able to hold them back. I did fine throughout the beginning of the funeral, the church was packed and I was sitting on the front row in between my older sister and older cousin. One of the deaconesses who was a good friend of my grandmother came up to pray. As she prayed she began to talk about some of the characteristics of my grandmother and as I reminisced I broke down so loudly that I had just about everyone's attention! My cousin held onto me tight as I cried the hardest I have ever cried before. I had my head buried in her chest for the rest of the funeral because I just couldn't stop crying. After the funeral was done I cried on the way to the burial site, at the burial site, and again on the way back to the church. When I got there I finally calmed down and I stopped crying. Still to this day I cry when I think about it because I know she would be proud of how much I accomplished that she missed out on.

I know when it comes time for Thanksgiving dinner the topic will come up because my grandmother used to bake pies and fix jello and yams, but this year that will be totally my duty. I hope I can prepare those foods deliciously in her honor. As always, here's a poem I wrote about my grandmother during the time that she lived in my home as her condition was getting worse.

 

As my finger ran up and down the blue life jacket, i watched her shake/
I had to keep looking away from her lifeless body, my eyes needed a break/
I looked around and i saw oprah lying on the floor
her easy spirits peeking out from beneath her, my eyes shoot to the door/
more water and ice from my slowly dying patient/
I jus wana go back to the days that now seem ancient/

I close my eyes as i try to reminise/
no time for daydreaming, cuz i gotta finish this/
i hate how she looks @ me as i feed her so i close my eyes/
jus gotta hurry, not much longer, im trying not to cry/
4 years ago i was told to be strong cuz they're breaking, be everyone elses spine/
but when will i get to let out what im feeling inside/
i gotta be the wall that supports them, o well/
but y does that mean i have to look death in face @ the gates of hell/
i tell him go back she aint ready so leave us be/
he looks @ me laughing, sees the bright lights and goes reluctantly/

Thats the light of the sun shinning in from outside/
i look @ her sadly as i stand @ her bedside/
you havent quite lived until you've stared death in the eyes/
she still aint dead yet, im kinda surprised/
so why cant she be the strong one cuz im dying inside/
dying as i watch her from the sideline/
shes still holdin on likes she waiting on something/
we already made history so mayb its Thanksgiving/
the last chance to see everyone together and bring joy to her heart/
a heart that works irregularly, beats are worlds apart/

Damn im still pressin the brakes/
green light, its time to accelerate/

I put the spoon in the bowl and slide it to the side to drain the milk out/
i slowly bring it up and wait for her to open her mouth/
its like feeding a baby, no problem right/
until she looks @ you through her blurred sight/
until she calls you by someones name you've never heard/
until you see the pain trapped in her eyes like a caged bird/
but the caged bird dont sing anymore/
my hand drops and again i scan the floor/
my eys travel up her frail, pale body/
shes shaking so hard, reminds me of Mr. Ali/

She says shes done she doesnt want anymore/

she swallows her pills, drinks the water, eats the ice, staring off into space/

 

tears running down my heart but not my face/

 

i gotta stay strong, not fair but gotta be the spine/

 

cant cry or show emotion though its buildin up inside/

So i quickly gather up her tray and walk out the door/

My Soldier

One person who has always been a big part of my life is my father. My father has always been there for me, not just because that is his duty as a parent, but because he is truly passionate about being there for his kids in every way possible. My father isn't just a statistic breaker, but my best friend. We are so much alike I sometimes forget he is my father period. When we're together it's us against the world, like two rebels. I love my father dearly. He has taught me how to act like a lady, how to handle certain situations, the importance of education, the importance of family but most importantly, the importance of equality.

My father is a double amputee confined to a wheelchair and a Vietnam War veteran. He fought in Vietnam after being drafted in October of 1966. My father won quite a few medals while in war for various things. Once that I personally am especially proud of is his Purple Heart. My father stepped on a landmine on April 28, 1968, two days after his twenty-first birthday. After many surgeries he eventually loss both of his legs, cut off right above the knee. My father had a rough time coming back to the states after fighting in the war. He had to deal with not only the racism going on in that time, but the hatred towards soldiers who were looked at as baby killers. My father is such a strong individual because of everything he went through. I admire that strength and strive to be just like him. He has always taught me to never let anything hold me back, through his actions. He surely never did, playing basketball, tennis, golf, participating in races, veteran wheelchair games, and countless other activities and competitions. He worked for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, fighting for equality in the work place and against racism, sexism, and other types of discrimination.

My father is my inspiration in life. Looking at him and how he keeps his faith despite his disability gives me a greater appreciation for life and teaches me to not judge people by their outward appearances. My father is definitely the strongest man I know. He is my everything and my goal in life is to make him proud of me.



This is a poem I wrote for my father and gave to him on Father's day earlier this year.



"My mama always said you've got to have a backup plan
because in this world dreams don't always come true
And even though you want to be a baseball player
You've got to learn a trade, just in case your dreams don't fall through"
that's what he told me...as he began pouring out his life story

He had so much promise
I didn't know him then but I know him now and I can tell he was going far in life
he was a strong willed boy that would push passed all struggle and strife
with two kids and a wife, he looks back
he looks back @ the things he could have had
dreams destroyed by a man and his war
dreams destroyed by followed orders
and he tells me...he wouldn't change a thing
and I smile
everyday I see the results of the war
when it was all over his plans were slightly different from before
I couldn't begin to imagine how it would feel to get a birthday present of that sort
to walk out in an open field and have your life shaken up and turned upside down
I can't imagine what probably went through your mind as the world ended...or at least seemed like it did
One explosion
he had big dreams, he was going to be a pro ball player
and I think he would have been great too
I mean I look @ him now and sometimes, I find myself sitting back saying WOW
for complaints there's no room
how could I when he doesn't
even when he's wincing from the pain
he finds the strength in himself to still ensure me that everything is going to be okay
I wish I could take it all away
I wish I could go back in time and change that one day
make him walk a little more to the left or the right
even if it meant we would never cross paths

My father is my soldier, literally
he's like an angel in God's army
fighting thru air with his head held high
no sword, he carries no weapon just his faith
I've never seen him cry
I've never seen any emotion come out of him other than pure bravery
which makes sense because his purple heart is made of pure Gold
and he's a hero...which is why bronze stars are seen @ night when he's out so I've been told
if God recreated man....my father would be the mold
that trap lessened his stance but he's no less of a man

Looks can be deceiving, that's the story of his life
and you'd be surprised hearing his accomplishments @ first sight
2 days before his 21st birthday
and it would probably have only taken him 2 seconds to walk about 2 inches more to the right or left
but that day has made him who he is
that pointless war made him a hero
one man's foolish opinion was another man's downfall...and then upbringing
one man's foolish doings changed his life, for better and for worse
but it's for better not for worse in my mind
because I couldkt imagine him any other way

my father walked out on the open field...scanning
and in an instant there was a flash
one explosion blowing his mind and his legs
and as all his dreams floated down the drain
his plans changed
one explosion, in one instant
one & one make 2 days before his 21st birthday

the numbers add up and match perfectly don't they?
jus like my father, he measures up to all his fatherly duties
he's unstoppable
even by the landmine he stepped on
it took that one explosion to lessen his stance
but I already told you he no less of a man,
he's so much more
and no matter how many times life tries to knock him down he never hits the floor
which is why nowadays, when we play baseball, he hits the home room and I run the bases
its the basis of our system...he starts it out and I finish
its like I told you before he was going to play professional baseball
so no matter how many curveballs life throws @ him he going to hit em all

I'm proud now
I used to be embarrassed to walk though the store with him
or to say to my friends...yo that's my dad
but as the years passed
my embarrassment has turned into pride
as I've seen other peoples father's drop like dead flies
its like being a good father is no longer in style
but my dad doesn't rock the latest fads
he doesn't drive a Benz
but he does ride on 24 inch rims everyday
and I'm proud to walk along his side as people stop and stare @
the double amputee Vietnam veteran that I am more than honored to call my father
my modern day hero
my inspiration
my soldier

Basically a black rant

Why do Black people hate each other so much? That is a question that would raise many eyebrows because most Blacks wouldn't agree that it true, but it is. For the past couple of weeks in my African American History class we've been having group presentations about different topics during class time. One of the topics had to do with crime rates and the group that presented showed that even though Blacks are always shown in negative media, the statistics didn't reflect that there are more blacks committing the crimes that we are associated with. It was very interesting to hear some of the discussions going on in class about why Blacks are portrayed as blood hungry monsters from a person of another race's standpoint. All of the things that were said made me think about my opinion on why blacks are portrayed this way and why some people are quite frankly afraid of blacks. As I was pondering over this in my mind I kept wondering, If black people are so mad at the world and want to blame whites for all of their problems, why do they continuously kill or harm each other?

Black on black crime and black on black racism are phrases that most Black people are familiar with. I know I sure am because I have experienced and witnessed them happening many times on many different occasions. I've never been able to understand why black people would rather hurt each other rather than help each other. It's like we're all jealous of the things that someone has and we must knock them down in order to feel better about ourselves. Why can't we be happy for our brothers and sisters? It's crazy to me the things that go on in this world pertaining to ignorant black people that have no sense whatsoever. I think black on black crime is ridiculous and should never happen regardless; not to say that if a black person is going to hurt someone they should be white, because I don't agree with violence period. We shouldn't go around hurting each other because we're setting a bad example for our children and in the end we're just hurting ourselves.

Another thing I still to this day do not understand is why blacks have a history of racism…towards each other! That's just crazy to me. Why on earth would a black person look down on or hold at a higher standard another black person just because of the shade of their skin, after all our race has been through! Back in the day light skinned blacks were looked at as "high yellow" because some of them thought they were better than other blacks because they were closer to being white than other darker skinned blacks. These "yellow" people had a bad rep of being snooty and stuck up and many would say they looked down on their fellow African Americans. While darker skinned blacks were looked at as being bitter and as I've heard some older people say "mad at the world because they're so black". These stereotypes have most definitely carried over today and I can attest for that. I personally have been hurt by these stereotypes and try to steer people away from them because although I'm light skinned, I don't think I'm any better than any other black person I know. I feel like these stereotypes have taught my darker skinned black sisters to either feel bad about themselves and develop low self-esteem and grow to hate me and other light skinned black people because they think we are stuck up. I know for sure I'm not stuck up and have never come off as such. I have been called high yellow and referred to as stuck up many times, but it was always solely because of my skin shade.

Another thing that has always bothered me is other black people saying I'm not black, either because of how light I am or because of the way I speak or conduct myself. I honestly don't think I'm that light, and whenever I say that my friends have a field day laughing at me and making fun of me. When I was younger I was much paler and never tanned and I also spoke very properly, quite the opposite of most black kids I came into contact with. Many of the people that knew me when I was younger are the ones that today would definitely say that because of those things, I'm not black. Since when is my heritage or culture defined by the shade of my skin or the way I act? Is a white person who uses slang more than me or who has a tan that may be darker than my skin black before I am? Why am I told that I'm not allowed to use "the n-word" because I'm not black? It's hilarious to me the things that I've hear people say to justify why I'm not black and many other kids I know that are either too light or "act to white" to be considered African American. So the question I am raising here is, if I'm not black…then what exactly am I? And if the answer is yellow, as I have heard many times before, then can I make up a whole society of yellow people so that I can finally have a race that will claim me? And when I fill out applications that ask for my race…can I check other and write in yellow? The answer to these questions is NO!

Why can't we all just get along, accept the fact the black people come in different shades and all go through the same struggles, and move on. Black people are a very amusing group of people.

Life without parole

http://media.causes.com/595178?p_id=3278131

 

I watched this video that someone sent me on Facebook this girl named Sara Kruzer who was sentenced to life in prison without parole at the age of 16 for killing her "pimp". In the video you could tell that Sara was and probably still is a good person who could have made something out of herself if it hadn't have been for the bad cards life dealt her. According to the video there are 2270 children serving life without parole for their crimes compared to 12 children in the rest of the world combined. So, the question here is; should kids who commit murder before the age of 18 be sentenced to life without parole?

I definitely don't think that all children who commit a severe crime should be sentenced to life without parole because there are always situations that I think give people a little more leverage over others. I also believe that people can change and most people will learn their lessons; we are all human so we all make mistakes, some bigger than others. Although there is not really an excuse for wrong doing there is always room for improvement. Sara Kruzer for example was in an abusive household and was unfortunately influenced by a man who led her to the wrong path. She couldn't have been in a proper state of mind when she murdered "G. G." and must have been in fear of her life in some way to have committed such a crime. I don't think she would have just killed him for no reason. I guess I'm just hoping she was doing it because she felt like it was her only way out of the situation she was in.

Aside from Sara Kruzer's situation, I truly believe children can change if they really want to and putting them in prison for life isn't helping them at all. Of course they deserve some type of punishment, but part of me wonders; what gives us the right to punish people for their sins? Isn't that God's job? But then again we can't just let criminals run loose around, even if there are everyday sinners walking around enjoying life, and to me no sin carries any weight.

This is a tough question to answer without having second thoughts, I personally just like to live life believing that there is some good in everyone, and we aren't born bad because bad behavior is learned by example. Sara Kruzer definitely had a lot of bad examples set for her, and she followed them like a lot of kids do. After watching the video, I really believe that she has not only learned her lesson and received enough punishment, but she is a better person and could help prevent other kids from making her mistakes by telling her story. So I end this by saying…no child should receive life in prison without the possibility of parole in which they have the chance to prove themselves worthy of a new life.

Double Standards

    Why don't we practice what we preach? Why do the things that apply to our peers not apply to us in the same manner? Why is okay for us to do something, but not for others? Or vice versa, why is okay for some people to live a certain lifestyle, but not us? What I'm getting at is an issue that has been a hot topic in my circle of friends for quite some time now. Why is okay for my best friend to be gay, but not me? A double standard I hold for myself.

    I have plenty of friends who are homosexual and of course I treat them no differently from anyone else, I am me no matter who I am around. I have never had one of my friends ask me my opinion of their lifestyle until recently, when one of my friends, who has been struggling with their sexual identity for some time, came out to me. I could tell there was something that was bothering them for a while so one day I sat them down and asked them what it was. My friend burst into tears and let out all of the feelings they had been keeping inside of them for a very long time. The thing I found strange was that, although they were crying because they were afraid to admit it to their other peers and family, they were crying mostly because they knew that the feelings they were having were wrong. I told my friend not to cry because they couldn't help the way they felt and that they weren't wrong for feeling this way, because in my opinion being gay is not a choice or a decision, it's simply the way you are born and you can either ignore the feelings you have to fit in with the "norm", or embrace your inner self and be you regardless of what other people think. Then my friend said they believed all of that, but the way they were raised led them to believe that it was a sin, and they did not want to be punished and go to hell for something they could not control. I thought for a minute. Yes the Bible does say that any man who lay with another man is committing a sin, but to me no sin carries any weight, and if God can forgive us for stealing, lying, cheating, and disobeying our parents, which are all things we can control, then He has to be able to forgive us for things we cannot control, like our feelings. I told my friend this and it cheered them up a bit, and they said they wanted to believe that but it was still hard. They asked me was it wrong to interpret the Lord's word to make them feel better about their lifestyle, and I said no not necessarily, but how can you go your whole life hiding behind a mask because you are afraid you are going to be punished when you die? I then commended my friend for fearing God more than their peers, and said, God loves all of His children, including the ones that go astray from His word, that means you, not because you are gay but because you are not perfect, nether am I!

My friend seemed to be feeling better now, and then told me how all of this came about. They said that over the previous summer something happened between them and another one of our friends of the same sex and that it confirmed the fact that they were gay, but the third party was not gay, and had never had any type of thoughts for individuals of the same sex. The incident to them was merely something that just happened, they could not explain it. Regardless of how either of them felt, the "thing" that happened between them continued and both of them developed feelings for each other, however my friend's feelings were much deeper than our hetero friend's feelings. My friend said that they had had a conversation similar to the one we had when they first came out to the other person, and that they too had reassured them that what they were feeling wasn't wrong, and my friend said that they then asked them, "well if this isn't wrong, why won't you be in a relationship with me?" The third party individual would always say, "I love you, but I'm not gay", which I would find very confusing if I were in the situation. How can you say you love some one of the same sex, and proceed to engage in sexual acts with them but say you are not gay? I kind of understand, but at the same time, it's just crazy. So my friend tells me that they had asked again recently as a joke and the other person came back with a remark that offended them, even though they were joking. So my friend asked if they really felt that way and they said no, then my friend asked, "then am I wasting my time pursuing you?" and our other friend responded "No, I mean I don't know, I don't think I'll ever be gay though". So my friend then says "I'm not asking you to be, I'm just asking you to want me the way I want you." Then they responded, "how can I if I'm not gay and I don't have the same interests? I mean I do want you, but it's wrong?" This last comment is what caught my friend off guard; "I do…but it's wrong". My friend wondered why it was that this person was the first one to tell them that the way they were feeling was not wrong, yet when it came to them personally, it was wrong and it prevented them from committing to a relationship. This too would make me wonder, if it were me, would I feel the same way? Would I tell myself all the things I had just told my friend? Then my friend actually asked me, would you feel the same way if you were in my position?

    I had to sit back and really think about this question. Would I be ok with being gay, knowing that it's a sin but believing everything that I had just said to my best friend? That's a question that would catch many people off guard, and a question I cannot say I have a sure answer for. I told my friend yes, even though I'm not completely positive I would.

More thoughts on paper

I've never really had a good relationship with my mother, at least not through my middle and high school years. We use to be close, or as close as a mother and daughter could be in elementary school. I went with my mother everywhere; church, choir rehearsal, to meetings, the store, and sometimes to work. I loved being with my mom because she made me feel important, always giving me little tasks to do. I never thought we would "grow apart" or that I would grow apart from her. She influenced me so much that I wanted to be just like her when I got older. But one day all that changed when I got what should have been the most heart-breaking news that I would ever get, yet I didn't quite understand it; my mother had cancer, Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, stage four. At the time I had no clue what cancer was, and I don't remember anyone really trying to explain it to me. Although I was a curious child, I didn't ask any questions, I just accepted it like I did most things. Once my mother started treatment things got worse very fast. Even though she survived this ordeal and her cancer went into remission that next summer, afterwards I felt like I'd lost my mother during her sickness.

My mother and I have had a very rough relationship ever since her battle with cancer. I'm not sure what happened but for a while I blamed myself. I thought maybe I wasn't there for her during her sickness enough. I felt like I should have sat by her side and talked to her, comforted her, tried to be her friend. But I have never been one to express my true emotions verbally, so while my mother was sick I kept my feelings bottled up inside and went about life regularly, as if nothing was wrong. People would always ask me how my mother was doing at school and wherever else I went and I would always say fine, as if I was trying to convince myself that she was fine. In my mind though she was fine, I had very strong faith when I was younger and I knew God would bring her through this ordeal, because there is no way he would take two mothers away from me. I tried to appear tough on the outside, but it really was eating me up on the inside, but I even tried to hide it from myself so when people asked how I was doing, I said "great" with a smile, as if I was trying to convince myself of that too.

When my mother was better and went back to work, things changed. She was no longer working at the high school and middle school she worked at before she was now working at the elementary school I graduated from that year. Everything seemed to have gone downhill. My mother no longer cooked dinner, we didn't talk as much anymore, she expected more from me, she and my father argued a lot more, amongst other things. I felt like I could no longer have a conversation with my mother about life, and I now had this hate towards the person she had become. I started trying to find the qualities she used to possess in the other women in my life like I was trying to replace her, though I realize now that's not what I really wanted to do. I wanted my old mother back, the one that used to hold me when I was scared, the one that comforted me at night and showed me sympathy when I made mistakes, my best friend. After a couple years of this new person, I guess I came to terms that she wasn't coming back and I accepted that.

When I got to high school and I realized I needed someone other than close friends to talk to, my relationship with my mother seemed to have gotten worse. It was like the more I needed her, the farther apart we grew. I needed guidance and I felt like she wasn't there to guide me, yet I witnessed her guiding her students at school as if she thought of them as her kids. My mother was always passionate about her work, but now this passion towards her students put jealousy in my heart, and I didn't even realize that until just now. It's funny what expressing your feelings through writing reveal to you. As things progressively got worse, I started blocking out the whole world until pretty soon nobody knew how I truly felt, not my closest friends, not even my sister. I kept all my feelings to myself and focused on pleasing everyone around me, especially my mother. I succeeded at pleasing my peers and most of my family, but I always felt as though I had to go the extra mile for my mother, and while I knew I was doing just about my best, she wanted more out of me. I tried to break my back to get her attention, and when I still didn't get it, I gave up; I gave up on life. Thoughts of suicide definitely ran through my mind and I tried to block them out, but they were quite persistent. Finally, I found an outlet in writing, something I hadn't done in a while. This seemed to help a little, at least admitting my feelings to myself helped me to realize that I had a problem, I just wasn't ready to solve it yet, and I still don't think I am.

Here are a couple of poems that came out of this constant battle I was having:

[Untilted as usual]
"You're welcome…"
"Oh no, its okay I don't need any help…"
"That's alright I know you didn't mean to…"
"I had a great day, thanks for asking…"

Sound familiar? That's because it shouldn't. That's because all the comments that usually proceed these, were never said
All the things left unsaid.
I bet they're locked up in your head. I bet they got trapped in your throat on the way out as you turned around to see who was in your presence, only to realize that it was just me

No, save those words for the people that matter.
Save them, keep them close to your heart.
Keep them so close that when you say them the receiver can hear the pain or glory from deep within your heart where they once dwelt.
Don't waste them on innocent bystanders. Don't bother practicing on someone who doesn't appreciate their true values; someone who won't hear the deep emotions behind them.

The occasional "thank you", or the "I'm sorry", maybe even the "how was your day?", or the "do you need any help?"
Shit, if you really want to go deeper then how about the "I love you" in place of "I love you too" because it means so much more when you say it first. That's the type of shit that makes your heart stop. Hell, traveling from the right mouth to the right ear could lead to some serious physical activity, but I'll save that for another poem cuz this aint about that.

Don't waste those words. Use them wisely. Don't go around using them loosely because those are some tight words; tighter than some fresh done braids. They're heavy too, even more than an eighteen wheeler or all the bricks in the world or some shit I don't know. They're heavier that the pain weighing down on my heart.

So don't waste those words on me because damn, I'm just your daughter.
I don't know shit forreal.

 

[again untilted]

Why do you keep wasting your time
I mean, everybody else left long ago, so tell me, why are you still here
Why do you still care. Even I don't and they're my damn problems
I put up the wall not you. I blocked out the world
What's the point of talking if there's nobody to listen
I just gave up. I got tired of trying. Can you blame me?
Really, can you blame me? I'm not going to waste my time trying to figure out something I already know.
You may not see it but I do.
Yeah sure you care, but how can you care about something you know nothing about?
How can you tell me you love me when you don't even know me?
You raised me but you weren't around. You provided for me but you didn't give me anything.
I have only learned what I've noticed, not what you've taught me. So no I don't want to talk. I'm on my way out, don't you think you're a little too late?
I don't want to fix any of these "problems" you keep talking about. And yeah I know what you're going to say, "one of these days you're going to need me", well let me tell you something; That day has come and gone and I'm still here.
That day came plenty of times and I'm still living, breathing, being.
That day dwells in the back of my mind, and I can't let it go but I'm not going to let it slow me down either.
That day was yesterday, today, and tomorrow, but you're too busy to notice that. So busy trying to find out what's going on with me instead of just ask me….It's me you want so come and get it! Don't ask my best friend's mother to talk to me because you're too afraid to. Don't ask your friends or anybody else to pry into my personal life because if you really cared I wouldn't have to tell you, you would already know because you would have been there every step of the way, telling me everything's going to be okay. Instead you were standing on the sideline, on the phone rather than paying attention to the game. Talking to your old friends in the crowd rather than cheering me on. Trying to figure what you want to do next instead of watching me…why weren't you watching me?
Now I'm just one of those kids you see wandering around the mall, not crying because this has happened so many times before that being lost in strange places doesn't even phase them anymore. Being alone in a big world doesn't scare them anymore. They no longer fear fear itself because it has become their friend. The darkness has become their habitat. The darkness is where they dwell.
It's a little too late for I'm sorry because in eight months I'll be gone, and I can't fill you in on what happened over the past seven years in eight short months. And, even if I could I don't think I'm willing to try.
So don't cry, don't feel bad, just move on because that's what I had to do. That's what I've always done, that's how I live my life. Never letting the big things that would normally break a person affect my swag. Just keeping the little things bottled up inside. Storing them like weapons so that when the day comes that you need me….I can pull them all out, throw them all away, and lend you a helping hand because throwing old shit in someone's face has never been my style, that's just not how I roll. Sorry to disappoint you. Sorry I'm not just like you. Sorry you can't control me, but hey, you can't domesticate a wild beast.

 

Ignore the grammar and spelling errors, we don't all think grammatically correct do we?