How to Know if Your Guy Loves you

In relationships the sweet essence of a blossoming bond is something that lasts often for months and the real climatic struggle can last the length of the relationship.

How to know if your guy loves you… Honestly, how does anyone know the quintessential meaning of the word love?

Words are just words, someone once to told me, for some reason it takes women a long time to understand that a man's true character is based on his actions and not his words. When I thought about that comment that came from a guy of course, I thought about the genuineness that lied within his effortless statement. This guy’s level of expression coupled with his need for me to truly believe this is what it is made me think.

How to know if your guy loves you…

Frankly there are many people who will try to convince you that a guy must give you the last piece of food, or open doors, and introduce you to his friends or family. Through it all yes, manners are important, and sharing your complete life goes unequivocally with loving a person, but the real important is what he does for and with you. His true character will shine through and convey ones true intent.

How to know if your guy loves you or when…

The taboo topic of trying to figure out that awkward time between when you know you’re in love and the point of actually saying the words. Who say’s it first or how do you know he loves you?

I say speak your mind, if you trust your instincts they’re probably feels the same way as you only fearful of your response. I like to think of it as breaking the love ice. Overcoming the chilly moment of not knowing; I always think it is better to know then not.

But who am I to know if your guy loves you…This is just my guy and I.

The Truth Behind the Truth

When you think that you are done with sorrow it finds away to rear its ugly head.

“Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.”(Gump) I was sitting on the couch with my guy flipping channels. I stopped on channel twenty-six because Forrest Gump was playing. I tuned in just in time for my favorite part. “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.”(Gump) We were sitting on the couch in lounge position; I was anticipating my trip back home. It was the first time in a year I would go back to San Diego. “Babe, so tell me why you must leave to go back to San Diego?” “It is two days, that’s it. Don’t worry, I’m coming back.” I was actually going back to San Diego to get a birth certificate and so my mom could meet with a realtor to sale our home. I was dreading the drive that my father insisted would take me five hours to complete.

I woke up at two fifty am; I knocked on my cousin Kerrie door, in took that Friday off and she invited herself to go with us. I began packing an overnight bag all while my mother is sleep. This was so unusual because she is always an early bird. With no alarm or anything, she will just awake magically at the time she needs to be up. We leave a little after four am and drive the four and half hours later I am in San Diego. It’s pouring raining my mother is complaining because she wanted to lie on the beach, my cousin is complaining because she is late for a hair appointment and I am complaining because I’m in the car with two complainers. That was the story of my life, as I head downtown to pick up my birth certificate the rain lighten, I called my guy to let him know I made it safely…

Later that day I was sitting on my grandmother couch. The couch was a 1960’s solid wood framed couch, with itchy mustard colored fabric. I laid down in attempt to take a nap only I was on the move again. Chauffeuring my mother around everywhere except to the realtor. I thought it amazing; I got my birth certificate my cousin got her hair done and my mother still procrastinating. I manage to make my way back to grandma’s couch only to have Kerrie and Artesia walk in. Artesia was Kerrie and I childhood friend. We have known her since kindergarten. She and I went to school together, every school in fact. We knew everything about each other. For example I knew she was dating a guy who cheats on her with his ex-girlfriend who he got pregnant within the four years they have been dating. I really love her because she is a great person, she just doesn’t in my opinion think she can find or maybe even deserves better. We know everything about each other, for instance my under lying reason for not wanting to hang out with her and my cousin.

As I lay on the couch talking to my guy telling him that I’m going some place before I head to the hotel, my uncle Malcolm interrupts my conversation to tell me about The Rock Church. He begins to tell me that The Rock is a new church in Point Loma across the street from old high school. “The church is beautiful Mercedes, the sound system is amazing. The church is huge with thousands of members. You have to see it.” I thought about the name, The Rock, The Rock. Artesia begins to tell me that she attends that church and the pastor delivers sermons on a jumbotron.

When you think that you are done with sorrow it finds away to rear its ugly head.

That night I found myself looking for a store to buy a beach ball. The hotel my mom booked was amazing; after we checked in I open the patio window and found the beach outside my door. My mother and I walked two inches past the patio, and then are feet hit the sand. It was the most amazing view the lights from the boats lit up the harbor. As I turn on to Nimitz Street I immediately recognize the area. I am in the same neighborhood as my old high school. I drive past my school and then I see a Vons Grocery store. I am wondering were The Rock Church is located. I am driving around these winding poorly lit streets trying to find this church. I finally see a directory on the corner; I stop dead in the middle of the road. I’m wondering if I should get out and look. It is pouring raining at this hour and I want to get out only I have no jacket. I decide to pull over up head on the other side of the street. I hop out of my car and dash down to the street, trying to read the directory. The rain was heavy and I couldn’t walk away. I was there already, I stood there as the rain seeped through my clothes and I found the corner where the rock church was located. I dashed over there desperate to see it.

When I got out front it was fully lit up with people coming and going. I parked on a side street and walked up to the front; I asked the people out front who seemed to be guarding it, “may I go inside?” The elderly man said, yes of course. I slowly walked in; I admired the art work which was made by the children of the church. I kept walking back; I walked all the way to the other side of the church out the double doors. This appeared to be the front. There was a large memorial outside the building, I only glanced at it, and I walked back inside and into the sermon room. There was a man who seem to be the pastor, delivering is sermon. I sat down in the very back pew and began sobbing. I didn’t truly know why I, I wasn’t listening to the man speak, I was just sitting there crying my eyes out…

Then I remembered what forest Gump said on that movie, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.”(Gump) Immediately my eyes began to dry up, I felt certain that either I had been there before or should have been. Nevertheless, something had drawn me to Nimitz Street, which led me to find my school that prompted me to stand in the rain looking for The Rock, all in which led me to tears in church pew at nine-thirty at night.

The Phases of Life

Walking
At night my guy and I would walk for blocks catching up on our days. He works 30 hours a week and is a full time student the same as I. We choose to walk away all of our troubles, communicating to one another, in ways that only walking can cure. Although we walk my guy hates it, he says, “I feel like I’m getting no where.” I often explain you’re getting somewhere with me. Once we walked in circles for blocks, our first date we walked, our second date we walked. Walking with us leads to talking and within those conversations great expression and growth comes. One late evening he and I set out on a random walk, his family was having a gathering and just to get away we set out on a journey. The skyline was orange and reddish, beautiful in unimaginable ways. On this particular walk there was very little conversation, he was holding my hand firmly, as I looked up to ask what was wrong, the flashing lights stop us in our tracks. It was a police car patrolling his neighborhood. That evening we never spoke one word, nothing of significance. That too was our last walk and now almost six months later we still do not walk, or talk they way we only could during our walks.

Eating
My nephew is 4 years old. When he was a baby I taught him how to walk and talk and eat. Over the course of his fours of living I taught him all the basics. My nephew Sir goes to preschool for a week and those children manage to undo four years of learning to eat, speak, and walk correctly. Its funny how children can learn to eat at home with manners then go to a different environment filled with peers and change there behavior entirely. “Sir, wipe your face.” “Sir Benjamin Carter, wipe your face!” In this instance my nephew is trying my patience and about to lose some of his privileges. He still does not wipe his face, which is covered in barbeque sauce from his chicken. I physically walk over to him and wipe his face for him. As I kneel down to explain the importance of table manners he turns to me and demonstrates wiping his face. At that moment I could do nothing but smile. He is after all my angel, the one I taught to talk, walk, and eat.

Talking
My best friend Mia, never spoken on the phone, she would text message and email but never call. One day I asked her why she didn’t like to speak on the phone. Mia’s response because my ear gets sweaty, we laughed until it hurt. I told her to try Bluetooth’s, it would allow you to talk for hours and not get a sweaty ear. The next day she picked me up and we walked into Verizon Wireless, she asked for a Bluetooth from one of the sales representatives. The guy who looked old enough to be her dad said, “Right this way pretty lady’s, come over here and let me show you mine.” We looked at one another in utter disgust trying not to laugh. After it was all said and done the Bluetooth Mia wanted was one hundred an twenty dollars. Mia said, “My ear can sweat a lifetime before I get a Bluetooth.” She and I walked down the mall, laugh, talking. We stopped at hotdog on a stick to see my cousin. She gave us our lemonade and cheese on a stick and we strolled some more. Mia and I walked, talked, and ate. We finally came full circle to the Verizon store and she walked in grabbed the Bluetooth, paid and walked out. I stood outside laughing and gesturing to her ear, asking if our walked cause her ear to sweat a lifetime.

How to write all about my love...

How can I take this blank canvas and turn it into me: You want to know all about me? I think deep thoughts; I dream beyond the horizon, I’m a one of a kind strong African American female.
I jump through hoops, run past dreams, into the arms of me.
I depend on air to help me breathe, I trust in god to provide that air for me.
You tell me I can’t and I show you I can.
How am I turning this blank canvas into me: I use colors, words, feelings, sounds, touches, and kisses?

When I sleep at night and my dreams turn from black and white to color, I know that the next day I will awake, because the dreams I have dreamt, is about the day I have yet to breathe. How can I take this blank canvas and turn it into me, ultimately I’m trying to find me, find were my love begins and ends.

“Love is a poem I’ll spend a life time writing.”

When those words were uttered to me, my life became different, my all about me changed. When you’re a child you feel that those first crushes will make or break you, I know I did. Everyone believes they know what love is. I know when I was young I thought I knew what love was, until those words

“LOVE IS A POEM I SPEND A LIFE TIME WRITING” until those words were uttered to me, and only then I new my lifetime was just beginning.

Now I know, Love is a poem I will spend life time writing... More so, all about me is a canvas, I'll spend a lifetime painting, creating and contemplating.

Giving vs Lacking

I’ve recently read “The Death of the Moth” by Virginia Woolf. This essay was very complicated for me to grasp. I’m not sure if it was the fact I was reading the essay at two am in the morning or I just did not grasp the total point or deeper purpose. To me it made no sense as to why she would simply over write about something as simple as a moth. Then I understood that is was different voices. Three different aspects to bring something with no purpose a life, I grasped that the power was in given something that lacked function three voices.

I began to right my blog on “The Death of the Moth” then I remembered the essay written by Bhanu Kapil Rider called “Three Voices”. This essay I could clearly see the different voices. The way her sentences were simple with no extra unneeded wording. I really enjoyed the simplicity of the essay. When I read the essay I felt the desire she lacked. I could feel her loneness. The blood orange stuck in her throat was stuck in mine. I really learned how to keep the reader on edge until the very last minute of the stories climax. The climax in her essay began very early and lasted until the very end when she told him as she felt.

Overall these essays taught me that little is more than enough. Virginia Wolf’s essay taught me that allowing the reader to intrepid instead of over explaining everything can be very useful. Giving just enough for the reader to pause and relate the story to themselves. Bhanu Kapil Rider showed me that lasting intrigue can be useful of something deep in interpretation. She also taught me that short sentences can add too a reader wanting too keep reading. Overall these essay’s are the best I have read in this book, at least the one’s that make me think the most.

Reminiscent of...

I.
The air conditioning blew my hair every which way. The boy who resembled a man stacked the boxes high. Boxes stacked as tall as the sky, never ending reminiscent of earth. The phones were ringing hysterically suggestive like his feelings. I typed slowly in order to achieve precision as I worked. Today I could not prevent the consciousness of eyes. It is five in the evening slowing time at our place of employment. The slowness as the sun crept down began to draw the patrons in.

II.
Then, the young beaten down by the eyes that hunt her stops in her tracks, tells the boy reminiscent of a man: “I will not let you burn a whole in me, your twenty years old and evocatively a boy at heart. I will not fret at the thought of your ogle within my soul. That’s it!” The boy reminiscent of a man is not dim. He ogles with care, careful not to be caught. He replies: “Why must I stop realizing splendor?”
The lady speaks next. There is deep sensation within my soul.

III.
I feel comfort in awkwardness. I feel comfort in the boy reminiscent of a man. He speaks slowly with care and calm. I type one letter at a time, only to have a page that makes not sense. My friend once told me to feel the stares of a man is to feel comfort in the soul. I soon appreciate the boy reminiscent of a man is actually the man reminiscent of me.

Love Hate, back to Love?

If my cell phone doesn’t ring all day I’m in the best mood. I have LG Voyager. I spent an obscene amount of money on it and I’m ashamed to say. I’m really just one of those people who change there cell phones like their shoes, every six months I want a new one. My mother believes that my obsession with cell phones is an expense habit I cannot afford. Nevertheless, I have gone through six Voyagers’ in a year and half period. I touch, listen, feel, and hear, all with this lifeless device. “I love my cell phone” and then I drop it and feel bad for it. “I hurt my cell phone.” When over charging your phone it never really charges correctly again. “I hate this stupid piece of sh**t!” My cell phone is more than my means to communicate with the world, it has become my right or in my case left handed companion. Is it love or hate? In this case, it can be love until the new one comes along.


The Fight

“Where is your cell phone?” “What….Why are you waking me up?” “Where is your cell phone?” “What….Why are you waking me up; you know we can do this all day dad?” “I called you six times and you didn’t answer the phone once.” “Okay, and what did you want that I can help you with now?” “Well nothing I had to walk from the truck because you didn’t answer and you were sleep.” “Oh, so back to my original thought, why are you waking me up?” I never answered my cell phone; it’s always on vibrating mode from when I’m at school or work. That cell phone has gotten me into more trouble than I can imagine, mostly from not picking it up. I can’t even imagine how many arguments have sparked in my household over someone not answering their phone. The best part about it is my mother and I have declared my father the cell phone police. Chief “if you don’t answer your phone I’m going to arrest you.” The worst part is, I’m no longer a kid who doesn’t pay there own cell phone bill and I can still get it taken away for not answering. My mom and I say, chief “if you don’t answer your phone I’m going to arrest you” can have them cause were running away. Oh Yeah!


Chains

As everyone knows chain letters are the worst part about text messaging on a cell phone. At the same time and in the exact same breathe they can be the greatest. Text messaging is another language in its self. Companies have even been profiting by using text messaging lingo in there commercials. “IDK, my BFF Jill,” has become standard language for; “I have not a single clue.” The amusing part about it is when you text message that to someone they know exactly what you mean. Text messaging, chain letters, email and Aim are all apart of standard phone usage for so many in my life. The idea that we; touch, drop, move, charge, point, flip, snap, and click with our cell phones says something about personal feeling. The very idea of a fully virtual world with no human contact is scary. Feeling is never apart of the equation. Snapping a picture and clicking buttons is how we now express ourselves. The “Chains” are actually changes. Changes within our senses; we no longer have to feel one another. Clicking a button can allow us to say what we mean and not do as we feel. I myself am guilty of allowing my cell phone to express my feelings of remorse and happiness. Picking up the phone seem so much harder to do, when clicking is simply at my finger tips. I could probably go days without talking and only because, I perceive the emotion I’m trying to express is being received the way I intended. “Chains” is more than change, it is a means in which a generation may become tied down too and bound by in order to freely express. My chains of technology include my cell phone, two laptops, two desktop computers, my Nintendo DS, Nintendo Wii and my MP3 player. I have eight, how many do you have? I’m so afraid that these chains of technology that we as a society hold on to will one day hold onto us. No longer will they be chains, but instead we will be slaves carrying the lifeless “chains” that cannot freely express.

From Weather to Thirty Minute Comedy Special

From Weather to Thirty Minute Comedy Special

Every Monday I wake up at 9:30 am like clock work, no matter what. I wake up feeling I dazed, sometimes not even realizing my surroundings. I have a shade in my room to keep it dark, my mom always says, “Mercedes your such a vampire” I personally think sunlight is annoying. The way sunlight blinds you, or wakes you up from a deep sleep and even the greatest dream. On Sunday night it was so hot I pulled my shade up, opened the window desperate for a night breeze and forgot to pull it back down so the sun was beaming into my room. I could see the rays of light bouncing off my bright yellow walls, irritating ever so much. After slowly calming down, next on my list is text message my boyfriend as usual. Type, type, type, and this action so routine I could do it in my sleep, on many occasions I do.

My Monday’s are the most mundane day of my week. This week after my long hot shower, I got dressed and my cousin asked me to take her to work. This still is nothing out of the ordinary, 2:30 every Monday I take her to work. Kerrie works for the Town of Buckeye’s after school program with elementary children. So, I’m taking her to work and we get in the car and it’s hot, I mean just insane hotness. If anyone thinks the light annoys me, that as nothing on how the heat infuriates me to no end. So, I’m in the car on one of my rants about the heat and how Arizona only has two seasons hot and cold. Then I go on, “No, Arizona doesn’t have any seasons, it’s just shiver, shiver, shiver and burn your motherfucking ass off, there is no in between.” Kerrie begins to laugh at me, now at this point I’m getting more upset because she is not being empathic to my problem. Then she says, “you know what cedes, that would make a good set.” Then I responded sarcastically, “Oh yes Kerrie, the life and times of a hot ass college student.” Kerrie got so excited, “Yeah, Yeah, you can have your own thirty minute comedy special on Comedy Central Presents!”

That was my Monday, my cousin and I thinking of insane things to do. I can remember when my house was full of people and Kelly, Kerrie’s sister thought we needed our own reality television show. Kelly insisted that we enter a sweepstakes to win our own reality show. Kelly debated the name and who would be the center of the show. Kelly thought of everything and didn’t even enter in the sweepstakes. Never the less that is my life, turning from a mundane Monday into a thirty minute comedy special, or in this case five minute beginning set.

It's More Than That...

In my house a lot of conversation is surrounded around one single object. The television is something that most people feel causes loss of conversation and exchange within families. In my house the use this item is almost a life line to start conversations that could not begin without another situation. Once my mother and I were watching “The Maury Show”, and it was about out of control children. On this show the children were using vulgar language with their parents and physically hurting them. My mother and I got into a great discussion about how, why, and where there behaviors stemmed from. Television is something that you turn on, off, and change the channel. In many peoples life television can represent more talk shows, reality TV, and game shows.

Television is the one item that has no life but gives so much life. Television is a non-living thing can provide culture and substance to many different things and in my house not only is it a focal point; it has become important in family bonding. I work thirty hours a week and go to school Tuesday Thursdays. Needless to say time is limited and relaxing while spending time with family can become complicated. Every Thursday I come home finish all my homework and then sit down with my mom and cousin to enjoy quality time.
Thursday is Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice, and Making the Band. We eight O’clock hits on the dot the TV is surrounded. With my family encircled awaiting the drama, controversy, and debates waiting to happen. If I ever thought of it, the poor television gets yelled, screamed and carried at. A lot of emotion happens and at times it is directed towards this lifeless, spiritless thing. In actuality the television consumes the anger or even desperation coming from our conversations instead of directing it toward each other. Through it all the television is our outlet for stressful days, and upsetting people.

My Essay's

Essay 1

The essay “The Measure of My Powers by M.F.K. Fisher” was detail. This essay showed me the significance of describing everything in detail. I learned that the shortest of moments can become the greatest in writing if everything is expressed. I chose this essay because it has not been an assigned reading yet. One day as I was searching for another essay the book opened to this one. “The measure of My Powers” is a short essay, yet the level of inspiration is not. The author takes something as simple as jam and how it taste and turns it to much more. Reading this essay it shows me how one simple love can become so much more with a little detail and clarity splashed across the page.

Essay 2

The second essay I chose to write about is the Susan Orlean essay, “The American Male at age 10”. This essay brought me into the light from the dark. I never thought much about what goes into making a biographical essay. This essay taught me that you can start off with a simple interview and make anything out of it. The way Susan Orlean was able to interject her perspective and or character into the essay astonished me. I didn’t know that making oneself a character in a biographical essay still held true to being biographical. If I ever stop to consider by doing so your just taking information that is already known and meshing it with words such as “ If I were” made it true. I really overall enjoyed this essay and have become a fan of her work.

Does His Art Ever Matter?

On Valentine’s Day my guy and I went to see, He’s just not that into you. This movie appears to be a normal romantic comedy, not to be given a second look. I just happen to love romantic movies and also movies with a lot of comedy. My guy thought it would be a great idea to give me the best of both worlds on Valentine’s Day. This is how he worked, give her what she wants and no problems. The only problem was I had no interest in a movie about why guys, rudely reject, stand up, and never return a phone call. Needless to say this has never been an experience of mine personally. Nonetheless, I sat through this movie, which gives all the elements of a normal girl likes boy, boy is disgusted by girl, and girl cries telling boy he is heartless. All the while boy realizes he is and boy goes after girl. That was the movie in part; this movie gave actual perspective and depth. There were so many different types of relationships all revolving around friendships. This movie was inspiring because not only did the typical love story happen, but the atypical relationship surprises and gives revelation in one.
The atypical relationships are the great ones where boy and girl date for years never to be married. Seven years pass, without a marriage proposal, all of your friends are married and your younger sister announces her engagement. The typical response is girl asks boy why she has yet to be asked when everyone around her has. Is there something wrong with girl’s relationship? Boy responses with, no I don’t believe in marriage and sooner than later boy and girl break up. Typical, the atypical, is for girl to realize that her friends husband cheats on her with Miss Yoga instructor and girl’s sister is pressuring her fiancée into a speedy union. All of which are dysfunctional and unhappy, but girl cannot see past her own selfish desires to know that, boy is actually the man of her dreams. Boy is the man who only wants her to realize that he will not propose on the basis of a timeline or because everyone else is doing it.

The art in this is somehow to know when something is for you, it is the man being allowed to be himself and propose marriage on his terms. Sometimes women don’t always no better, as I did not know that the movie I was taken to see would enthuse me. Art is the creation of beautiful or thought-provoking works. When we left the theater, I began to ask my guy did he like the movie, he responded with it was way better than the Sex in the City Movie. He was right, this movie was far better than that movie in which I dragged him to see with me because the show was all about women self empowerment. The question that I was left with after our conversation is has the feminist movement cost some women the art of male inspiration. Never to call oneself a feminist, however empowered enough to do for myself, after that movie I could not help but to look at my guy and wonder am I guilty of depriving myself of his art?

Miss Mia

My Boyfriend calls her my crazy friend, my mom calls her passionate friend, and my cousin calls her my hilarious friend. Nevertheless Mia is a character of my life, my friend, my secret teller and more so my partner and crime. Reality is I truly love her for every bit of who she is. In fact she is all of those things, funny, crazy, passionate and hilarious. Today was our spa day; she got me something I have been wanting for a while for Christmas and my birthday a one hour long massage. So I was driving to her house late afternoon after a full day of school. The first thing she said is “Oh I can’t wait for a massage, I’m so excited.” I knew exactly what she meant after all my class’s that was exactly what I needed.

So we drive over to Lifetime Fitness my gym and when we walk in were immediately greeted, checked in and offered water. “Mercedes I so wanted to have the massages together so we can talk shit, what else am I suppose to do? I thought they said we can have the massages together?” “You know what Mia I thought they did too.” The lady comes in and asks us to fill out this information front and back. I started to fill out the form and they ask everything from do you have contact lens on to what is the name and phone number of your physician. I started to mark on the paper what part of my body I was filling tension. Mia looks over and says “What you putting down, hell I will just copy any damn thing.” I began to laugh at her because they wanted the tension on her body and then I proceed to copy the places she put down as well. That was us, one in the same but, at the same time not.

After our massages were over we both came out of our rooms and sat in the Zen like waiting room. She immediately began to tell me about her massage, “Did you feel the hot rocks, what hot rocks, I didn’t feel any hot rocks, yeah girl she put some hot stones on me and then set it in my hand. Oh well I didn’t get any hot rocks just hot towels.” “I wish that was a man who gave me that massage, I would have asked him to keep going!” That was Mia, unedited in everyway, but I loved it and was thinking the same. “I told her now I see why men don’t want other men massaging there woman, yeah cause people like me would cheat, oh yeah Mercedes I would cheat on his ass.” All I could think was, yes I could see her doing such things after a great massage. Today was great day and truly just another day in life of Miss Mia, honest until it hurts.

See, she is My Difficult Events: Her Life Affected My World

Most of my childhood my sister and I were never close; it was more of a daughter mother relationship. She was seven years older than me and she thought I was her doll to be picked up and used as she pleased, put down and forgot about at will. Ever since she went off to college we seemed to have lost all friendship. My sister is the eldest grandchild and can honestly be the biggest failure out of the four of us. On my mother’s side there are four grandchildren who have been raised more like sisters, Mya the eldest, Kelly the eldest of her family, Kerrie the youngest of all, and I Mercedes the one who was expected to rise above it all. Mya went off to college after living a life unlike how we were raised. She was in a gang, in more fights than I could count and even more high schools. She was a leader, intelligent beyond her wildest dreams and with that said she was a dreamer. I like to refer to Mya as the dreamer with no follow through, yet I always wonder if her being sexually assaulted by a teacher in high school could have anything at all to do with it. I was nine years old and it was a rainy day, my mother, sister and I all went downtown to this office building where there were many people in suits walking around in stiff manner of sorts. I was too young at the time to understand what was happening, my mother never shielded me from anything and this, I can barely recall. This affected my sister I know it must have, these days she is diagnosed with manic bipolar disorder. Some days you could tell that she was going wild and others so depressed it could even hurt you. She did well after failing out of a four year institutions by going to local community colleges, but then something changed. She began to use her illness as a crutch, to expect little from herself; in a matter of appearance, confidence, intelligence and overall self worth. With that said, I lost my mother daughter figure forever.

The summer ending eighth grade my life changed for ever, more the life of my family was changed. My sister always talked about needing someone to love her unconditionally, how she always wanted a tattoo that said, “trust no one” but in actuality the sight of a needle would make her pass out cold. How’s that irony, she is so untrusting she can’t even get a tattoo expressing it. But, that was Mya, a woman who wanted to be loved unconditionally and trusted no one. Well she found someone who would or more so made someone. That summer my sister had my nephew July ninth two thousand and four. I know that he belongs to all the women in our family because he was born in July the same birth month of my mother and the ninth the same day as I. He was divine, is birth taught me love, responsibility and the true meaning of resentment. See, Mya could not afford a child neither could the guy she had him with, besides the fact they weren’t together. So Mya immediately went back to work, the only thing is she had no money for childcare either, so I was the one who spent my summer laying on my couch burping, feeding, bathing, and changing diapers. To add insult to injury when she got off of work she slept so hard at night she couldn’t wake up to feed her child. I was so tired my eyes would burn and be so bored when he slept I would sleep my days away. Yes, in ninth grade I had a baby, someone who I loved and cherished. I tried my hardest not to feel resentment towards him, after all he was a child, I was a child, and this was our life. He didn’t choose me and I didn’t choose him. Eventually he grew up and started to call me mommy that’s when she finally realized what she had done. She let a child raise a child, and I did well he is smart, kind and well mannered. Now that we live in Arizona and she finally moved out of my parent’s house, and I constantly worry about him, his safety, and influences. I wanted to keep him but I have no rights, but the day she slips he is mine again.


After moving from San Diego, California to Buckeye, Arizona life got a little depressing to say the least. The one thing I had was my driving license and the ability to explore. My parents had done well for themselves and my sister and I have reaped the benefits over the years. My mother had a 1999 Lincoln Navigator it was cherry red, with vanilla leather seats and sun roof that could make one hair on your head move at a time. I loved driving it every where, the only problem my sister hated it. She hated the fact that my mom would rather push it off a cliff then let her drive it. Giving my sister’s history with my moms cars; from impounding one, crashing another, burning out the engine on a truck and oh my personal favorite impounding another twice. My sister called me a spoiled brat who did whatever she wanted, which in part may have been true. I did do whatever I pleased, but with excellent behavior in one hand, graduating high school eleventh grade first semester, starting college in 10th grade and never having once gotten there cars impounded. I was a miss goody too shoes in her eyes and in my eyes I was so afraid to mess up and fail I loss all since of rebellion. One day I got sick, I had been in bed with Nyquil by my side. I got up long enough to get water and saw a bright light peering through the door, in walks Mya. She starts to pick a fight with me and I’m in such a haze I could careless, but she keeps going about something. I finally stop turn and look at her and say, “I’m sick would care to continue this when I can function, I’m going to blow up and your going to cry, so stop now.” She continued to argue with me about who do I think I am, why do I think I’m so special, I stop turned to her and yelled the most offensive, rude, and hateful words I could. I yelled about every flaw she had including her mental illness, to bad parenting skills. I through the book at her left her in tears and went to my room and slept. Only she can make this angry, because deep down inside, I raised her child from infancy because I loved her. I want the best for my sister and only I can see the potential in her to be great, she and everyone around us gives up or makes excuses. Not I, I will not except anything but the best from her, I can see who she dreams of being. This is difficult for me because I honestly stopped believing she could be that woman and now I realized you cannot help someone who does not want the help. I mean, did anyone realize that you honestly cannot help someone who does not want to be helped? I may not be able to help her but I will not acknowledge anything until I can.

The Man on Grandma’s Couch

Hazel is a mother of five whose home has became a refugee for not only her children but many of close family. The couch was an old 1950’s beige and dark brown seating for four. It was itchy and smelly, but everyone who sat there, found comfort and a sense of belonging. That couch has been slept on by many including me, every time I slept on it I would wake up feeling like I slept on rock in cold desolate desert. In elementary I walked home every day and after that journey I never knew who could be or even would be sitting on that couch. It was not to my surprise when one cold rainy day I walked home to grandma’s and found an extremely tall man sitting on my grandma’s couch. As I walked into the door because it was always open and stared at him because not only did he not speak, he didn’t smile. He was bundled up in a snow coat which I remember thinking was odd because we lived in San Diego, the saying was true it never rained in southern California or at least long enough to really get wet. He had dark blue jeans and a black beanie. His hands I couldn’t see while his all black boots which were wet and muddy. My grandmother was sitting in her favorite chair which sat immediately to the left of that couch and said “Come here; Let me introduce you to your uncle Bunkie, my eldest son.”

My mother had two brothers, my uncle Malcolm and Junie. This was confusing because I never knew he existed, I sat down next to him he said “Hi!” I sat three spaces away from to insure that I could turn all the way around and make sure to look him in the eye. He spoke fluently and with stature, confident in everything that was coming out of his mouth. He told me of saltwater fishing and the princess cruise line he worked for. I recall loving the way his stories were always adventurous and full of humor, not using typical adult language editing. This man was intriguing and full of intrepid heroic like stories. He showed me how to hold a fishing pole and even scared me with the bait. The bait was the worst part smelling of dead bugs mixed with a sour smell, the bait looked like worms from the ground that wiggled around and made the faintest of screaming noises. The time I spent with him made feel as though I traveled the world with him, in the 5 hrs I was there his stories made me feel like I visited five different countries.

His story began in Alaska where he had just been fishing he told me it was night most of the day and he stayed in a wonderful bed in breakfast which was a mom and pop business. The wife made their meals and her husband showed them around the lakes. He jumped from place to place telling the funniest story of being in an Indonesian supermarket and his entire head going through the false ceiling while the locals laughed hysterically at him. He recalled being in Jamaica where he suffered a mild heart attack when he was too married and took it as a sign not to do it. This man’s stories amazed me and I never knew that his stories would lead him to becoming one of my closes uncle and friend. Till this day I depend on his stories which are always filled with life stories to help me in my understanding of the world. Of all the moments had on grandma’s couch, and of all the people met on grandma’s couch that one moment, that one person has in actual fact change my life.

FATE

Destiny in my life is something I never put hand in hand, faith and God is something I’ve never deem necessary to compete. One early morning in February of two thousand and eight I was woken to recurring rings from a cell phone. Finally I brought myself to stand; I was in haze of some sort hearing words being spoken through a muffled ear receiver being listened to by my mother. As I walk through the dark hall feeling the wall to guide myself as though I haven’t lived in this place for years. My mother sitting on the couch in her night gown smelling of gardenia, her ever most favorite hand cream, she turns to me tears rolling from her face pouring through her eyes and says “Your uncle Freddie died.” At this point I am confused…what do I do with myself, what is my reaction, how will I cope in front of my mother? I turned walked into my cousin’s room and said “my uncle Freddie died” then lay quietly on her bed and cried.

Faith is defined as belief in, devotion to, or trust in somebody or something, especially without logical proof. (Encarta Dictionary) See, I believed in love, faith and consistency. Consistence is what I got, six months later my first love died in a swimming accident at the University of Oregon. To hear the news that the very first gentlemen who taught you or even allowed you or even gave you love perished by means in which you cannot even picture in motion. To die in motion and leave the one who loved emotionless. His death was about chances never ever to be gained, hope of love maybe being shared, cared, felt and or even smelt again stolen. When time is never to be had or gained, even if it could never be, faith or hope being stolen by swift life’s fate.

By every account, I must rationalize that their fate, the lost of their lives is my fate. I loved both those men beyond measure and too have those lives taken while having faith and believing in destiny I must know it was my fate… 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. (Alfred Lord Tennyson's) As is, better to have believed in faith, God and destiny even if it was never hand in hand and realize with each dawning moment that another’s fate can only be ordained by them. While knowing that your fate is allow your grief to be subdued by trusting in something or somebody without logical proof.