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.