“Excuse Me?”

“Like What Are You?”

These are the type of questions I get all the time. It all started when I entered a new school, outside of my region. I was mad but more upset that I was entering a school where I felt like I didn’t belong. It was still in Olney, but I knew no one. First day of second grade I came into the room, thinking “Why did my mother put me in here?” The feeling stuck with me for a while.

This girl named Sydney, came up to me and said, “What are you?” this was the first I ever heard this, I was shocked but more like disrespected. I just answered, “What?” she repeated the question over and over again, till I couldn’t take it anymore and I said “Rican!” She chose not to believe me and yet it didn’t bother me or affect me the way I thought it would. I mean I was mad that it concerned her that much what my nationally was, but it shouldn’t have mattered to her. She wasn’t me nor a friend at the time. She went and told all her friends about it, they ambushed me. It wasn’t a big deal. Her “friends” and I became real close while she chose to be difficult. It took one strike in fourth grade, when someone called me “FAKE”; I have never been called anything in my life.

Hearing that made me think that I didn’t have to prove myself to anyone, I am who I am and no one can tell me. I spoke Spanish to prove to them that I was a Puerto Rican, but not for their approval but more to prove to myself that nothing can affect me.

While I was walking to the Chinese Store around the corner from my house with one of my closest friends, some man stopped me as I was crossing the street “I don’t mean to be rude, but I noticed you walking and I have to know what you are?” I just stared at him, lost. Took me a while to think of what to respond to him. I just answered nicely, “Rican”. I was irritated and tired of it. I hate it when people and try and tell me who I am. Like you have the right to.

He just stared at me until he realized we were about to get hit by a car. As I was about to enter the Chinese Store, he said, “You can’t be, you’re to pale to be Rican, most have some color. So what are you really?” This is what made me tick, like how are you going to tell me what I am? I didn’t know what to say to him, I just stared at him.

I felt insulted but more disrespected. I walked away, felt like he didn’t even need an answer either way he was going to have an opinion about me and think what he wanted to. Through out the rest of the day, that’s what I was focused on. The way people speak to others is a shame; I know parents taught their kids manners.

Last year during the summer, I was heading to mothers job after my job. My headphones were on loud. I was in my own little world, paying attention to no one. I was a stop away from my mom’s job, as I was rising, this young lady stopped me and said, “Oh My God, you are very beautiful, skin and all. I don’t mean to be rude but what are you? Like your race.” This was the one and only time I did not feel any type of way.

I smiled and said, “Thank You, and I’m Rican.” She just looked at me, like she had something to say but just didn’t know what to say. “I can see it.” I was beyond shocked; it was like a miracle had occurred. She was the first person to ever say that and not start an argument. Right when I was getting ready to answer her, the bus had reached my stop. “Have a blessed day,” she said.

It amazed me how a stranger like herself, was able to keep a smile on my face all day. I was more thankful for the fact that she didn’t argue with me, but the fact that she believed me when I said, “I was Rican”. The compliments were just extra. I just felt the need to tell my mom, she didn’t seem to understand why I was so happy, but that wasn’t going to change my mood.

I think why is it that I’m the palest person in my household, and everyone else looks like they belong. Time passed and the questions continued and so did the people. I still get the question everywhere I go, but people start to believe and see that I am “Rican and NOT White”. I’ve grown to love myself for how I look and who I am.

Taylor Thomas Silver.

It felt like a few seconds of sleep until my eyes crusted open. I looked around not knowing what was going on. I couldn’t remember how I got to where I was or what happened. The anesthesia still hadn’t worn off. I looked down, and saw a big purple cast on my foot. I started to remember what was going on. This was the beginning of a long cycle of surgeries. This was only one of four.

I was in fifth grade. My foot started to hurt when I walked on it. I told my parents and they just told me that I probably hurt it in gymnastics somehow. After a couple weeks of it hurting, they finally took me to get it checked out. It turned out that I had an extra bone in my foot. The medical term for it is a calcium deposit. When I first found out I was scared, I didn’t know how to take this information. I knew that I should have been sad or upset, even scared, but for some reason I was almost excited. I mean, I never had anything major in my life before, it was exciting to know what it felt like to have the attention.

I missed out on three summers, and three months of a school year because of having surgeries. It always bummed me out because I couldn’t go swimming with my friends or even take a walk with them in the summer sun. I could only sit in the house and watch movies, because I didn’t have the energy to get up. I felt dizzy just walking from the couch to the bathroom. I needed help every step of the way.

I remember when I found out that I was going to have my second surgery. I was with my dad in the doctor’s office. He told us that I had the same thing happen to my left foot that happened to my right foot. I was kind of disappointed because it meant I would have to miss out on another summer. When I got home my mom asked me what the doctor said, so I told her. She started to cry because she didn’t want me to have to go through it again. I told her that I didn’t mind it that much. I was stupid for saying that, because the last two surgeries I had were just terrible.

My cousin Bridgid came down the shore with me about two days after my third surgery. I had so much fun just sitting in the room with her. It was nice just to have someone with me instead of being trapped in the house all day. When I was with her, she could push me around in my wheelchair at the boardwalk. She did a lot for me that week too. I am so grateful for her. She would get me a water or soup if I needed it. She even made sure that I was comfortable before I fell asleep.

I could never walk by someone who has a disability, and they look like they are struggling. When I see someone in a wheelchair, or on crutches I always ask if they need any help with anything, because I have been there. I know what its like to not be able to do anything for your self. I know what it’s like to not even be able to take a shower with out help, or get dressed by your self. I can honestly say that there were a few times in my life when I was completely helpless, besides when I was a baby. I have been in that position in a store, where I could either chose to walk on my crutches or sit in the disabled motor scooter. I am very thankful to my doctors, my parents, and my friends who have helped me through my difficult times. The reason I always want to help people who are in wheelchairs or on crutches, is because I have been there. I know what its like. It sucks and there is nothing you can do about it. The only thing you can hope for is a little bit of help. That’s what I try to give it. 

How many streetlights do you need on one street? I kept asking that myself during my brisk walk to the 69^th Street Terminal.  Small traces of the sun’s warmth seemed to catch my stride. I started to hear a faint but familiar tune. I wandered to the source of the sound to find that a man, just about my height, was playing Sir Duke on his saxophone. I let the music surround me for some time, tapping my feet to the rhythm. I tossed a $5 bill in his case and moved about my business after a while. I found a spot to relax and waited when a lady in a red white and green walked and stood in front of me.

Ever since childhood I’ve been known as a nice guy. Although some people might confuse it with gullibility, I just consider it hard to say no. If family, or a close friend, asks for money, I’d oblige to it without thinking. If I don’t have what they’re asking for, then I’ll ask them if what I have would suffice. I don’t know why, but I’m obsessed with seeing people happy. Now don’t get my wrong, I’m not feminine or mushy or any of that, but seeing people upset around me makes me not operate right.

“Wassup Nuri!”

“Watsup Na’im?”

I don’t even know why I asked this question. I knew what would come from my 19-year-old brother Na’im.

“Can I borrow $10 for gas?”

Of course I said to myself! Now I had no idea if that was what is was really going to, but I had just received my first paycheck so I was happy to give him some money. That was just how it went. It didn’t matter if they paid back, or if it was just a giveaway, I don’t let family go without. Friends on the other hand are just a little different. For them, their must be reason, and its not usually more than 5$ if its money.  I never pondered over them, but those have always been the rules I set on loans/gifts.

One time, my mom even questioned me on my kindness. We were in the kitchen cooking, about 5:30pm. I was pouring bacon bits in to a searing pan, careful of the grease trying to fight me. Out of the blue, she asks a puzzling question

“Why do you give away your hard earned money to people who’ll spend it on God knows what?”

I looked up from my flaming pan, gave her a big smile and said “Cause I’m a nice person.”

“Look out child, that’s going to hurt you when you get older”

That was one of the only sayings I pondered before. Half of me thought she was right, but the other half thought that there couldn’t be any consequences of being polite. I really disagreed with what she said since I haven’t been penalized or effected negatively by giving money.

The last time someone asked me for money was not too long ago. I was in my English class on a warm morning, sitting next to my “bro” Octavious. I was tapping a beat on the table when my teacher walked around selling notebooks needed especially for this class. He turned to me, face stricken with hope, and asked for 1$ dollar to purchase one. Seeing that it was for school, and he was one of my bro’s, of course I said yes. It wasn’t the first time he asked for a monetary supplement, but he always pays back so it’s was ok. That’s how it is for almost everyone, I never ask, but they always return.

I make sure that people understand that I’m not gullible. People may not see on the exterior, but there are rules to this money system. If people see that I give away money to my friends, some of my lesser friends/acquaintances start to ask. That’s when I firmly and adequately refuse. To me its not a bad habit, just me being nice. I’m not getting overpowered, and I know how to say no. That’s probably why for the first time in my life, a stranger in a red, white, and green Rita’s apron moving towards me rewarded my kindness with a gelati and a warm smile on a warm summer night.

9/15/11

                                              The Physical Attack From The TV And Dresser

I came home from of school. At that time I was in the third grade and I was tired of doing math problems, vocabulary words and other things so I felt the weekend fever. Sit back, relax and watch a movie was going through my brain. I decided to watch ANT’s, my favorite childhood movie. So I threw my book bag in the floor and sped up stairs to my room. I headed to my book case to go find my ANT’s movie. I groped desperately for the movie on the top shelf. Finally I found it. I quickly opened the case to the video and took the movie out of the box. My next step was to turn the TV on which was located at the top of my dresser. My TV was too high for me to reach but I attempted to try and turn the TV on.  I pulled the drawers open to try and make steps so that I could climb the dresser. I placed both of my feet on the first drawer and all hell broke loose.  

With all my weight being on the drawer, the dresser couldn’t hold me, so it tipped over. Everything came down on top of me. I woke up on the floor. My chest and my arms were aching. I couldn’t get up because my body was pinned to the ground by the massive TV and dresser. I  raised my left and right arm just to see if they weren’t broken. I noticed that on my right hand middle finger I had a broken nail. My finger was bleeding profusely because of the broken nail. Three minutes later after the accident my parents ran upstairs to see what happened. 

I couldn’t tell them what happened because I was shaken from everything that happened. Then finally I told them. “ I tried to watch ANT’s but I couldn’t reach the TV and the VCR so I decided to climb the drawers to the dresser to get to the TV and turn it on.” My mom screamed “Are you crazy!!!”  I felt so bad. My mom saw my bloody hand and she panicked. “ We are going to probably have to take you to the doctors so that you can get some treatment.” I agreed and we headed off. We finally reached our destination, the doctors office. A place where I did not want to be. Every time I went into a doctors office I always had to get a shot but I knew that this time I didn’t have to get a shot because I had a broken finger and a broken nail. “ Jalen Smith” the nurse yelled. “Come follow me”  We entered the examination room and my mother and I sat down waiting for a doctor. 

“Knock Knock Knock” the door slowly opened and it was Dr. White. “ Jalen what happened to you?” I had told him my story while he observed my broken finger and nail. Soon after he put medicine on my wound and he placed a splint on my finger Dr. White said “Next time you should ask mommy or daddy for help rather than doing it by your self because you can get hurt, ok”. “Take care Jalen”. You too doctor” I replied. When we got back home my family and I had cleaned up the mess and we made brownies. After the brownies were made everyone went into the living room and we watched ANT’s and ate our delicious brownies. Even though the end of the day was horrible because of the accident, the bonding with my family was very important and really memorable. I actually thank god for that day because there’s nothing better than family bonding.  

The one thing I learned from this experience was that it is good to ask for help whenever you need it. If you know you can’t do something you should always ask someone to help you. Sometimes when you try to do something on your own you may fail to do it and it could lead to something very bad, like a broken arm, damage to something thats not yours, or even being severely injured. So thats why its so important to ask for help.

“Are you doing this for a reason?” I turned my head to look at my mom from where I was sitting in the passenger seat. I could see our destination as we approached the hair salon.

“Excuse me?” is my immediate reaction

“Because,” she continues “you know we’ll support you no matter what.” Now I understood, but it didn’t make what she said any less wrong.

“Mom, I’m not a lesbian.” I clarified, feeling the situation getting very awkward, very fast. What she said got me to thinking…is that what people would automatically assume? I’m a girl getting a short haircut, so obviously it must mean something about my sexuality. I understood that’s what some people would think, people on the street perhaps, even a few of my friends had wondered when I told them about it, but I hadn’t expected my own mother to judge. I know people have certain standards and classification, and apparently girls with short hair fall under the category ‘Gay’.

My first encounter with this type of judgment was actually before I decided to cut my hair. Emma Watson had gotten her long, gorgeous hair cropped off. One of my friends had made a comment,

“She was so pretty, did she want to look like a boy?” The comment instantly had me getting defensive. One, because I like Emma Watson, two, because I don’t think people should be judged by their appearance.

“No. Maybe she just wanted some change, I think she looks great either way.” I didn’t really want to get into a fight about it, and my friend simply shrugged it off, but it kept bothering me. Obviously Emma’s intent wasn’t to look like a boy, she still dresses and looks like as much of a girl as she ever has. I thought about it, and found it to be quite empowering. It’s pretty much saying ‘look at me! I can be a beautiful female without the obvious sign of femininity!’ I was wondering what it would be like it I cut my own hair; it was getting a bit hard to take care of, after all.

“You look like a dude.” Lucia, my sister said as soon as I walked through the door. I brushed my newly cropped bangs away from my face to raise an eyebrow at her.

“No, I don’t.” I said simply, and promptly walked into my room to change out of my baggy jeans and jersey, and into my new white shorts and a pink shirt.  I felt bad; I had just gone against everything getting my haircut stood for. Admittedly, I was worried; I thought ‘if I don’t wear feminine clothing with this new haircut, people would think I’m a guy.’ Even the next day, when I didn’t wear particularly ‘girly’ clothing, considering it was field day, I still wore makeup, which I rarely ever did.

I began to wear sweatpants and t-shirts again, more out of laziness than anything else. Some people commented, but I didn’t really care. People had referred to me as ‘butch’ before I got my hair cut. That was mostly due to my tomboyish nature, and it didn’t bother me until people started using it to judge me by my appearance. I ‘looked butch’ not just the way that I acted. That’s when the confusion came back, people just assumed that I was something that I wasn’t based on how I dressed, and how I styled my hair. Their image of a female was obviously different from mine, their image of a lesbian was obviously different from mine. In some cases, yes, it’s true that you can guess someone’s sexuality by the way that they dress, but it doesn’t mean that you should go around deeming every girl with short hair a lesbian.

Victoria Yarbrough

September 14, 2011

English Essay

     “You should have told me before hand, I’m your friend, I wouldn’t do you like that.”

“I didn’t think you cared, and it just came up,” I said nonchalantly. I knew I was being silly but I shouldn’t have to tell him everything that’s going in my life. This argument was so stereotypical, He’s mad because I want to go to another friend’s birthday party instead of coming to his house and doing nothing. Sounds like a teen movie doesn’t it? It’s not like he wasn’t invited. Why do I have to be anti-social just because he is?

“If you’re my friend you’ll let me go, I’m not going to the moon and it’s not like you’re not invited.”

“ I don’t care how you try to put it, you’re wrong. Dead wrong, you said you were coming to my house and now you turn around and ditch me? Not cool Torre.” He’s screaming now and me, well I’m just rolling my eyes.

“Mike, we hang out all the time and for you to try and keep me captive isn’t cool. Now move aside.”

He was pissed but before he could say anything I bolted for the exit and began mentally preparing for the party. Which sucked. I felt a little dumb. But Mike didn’t need to know that, I figured that I’d just talk to him at lunch and all would be normal. Mike and I have been friends since 2^nd grade, and if he gets upset over something like this, then he’s crazy.

     Well apparently he’s crazy. He walked right past me the morning after the argument. I went to the restroom and looked in the mirror.

“Well that’s strange because I don’t look invisible.” I said with a questioning tone.

I head to the first class of day, science; I hated that class. The smell of bleach and dead frogs in jars was not how I liked to start my mornings. But at least I sat next to Mike; I could ask him why he ignored me. So I get there and I’m literally 45 seconds late, thanks to a previous bathroom trip.  My science teacher Mr. Ashworth starts freaking out and hands me one of those stupid hot pink tardy slips. I spot Mike and sit next to him and stare at him with the widest of eyes. It takes about 3 minutes before he turns around gives me the evilest of looks. And then out of nowhere he gets up and moves to the other side of the room. Ok, now I’m confused, I start sniffing my armpits. Do I offend? No, it isn’t that. And then I think about the day before, and I’m like “Ooohhh,” He’s still mad about that? Without thinking I blurt,

“Really, you’re still on that? Grow up and come off it.”

He just gives me that look again and I of course get in trouble for “calling out”. What am I seven? I guess this means Mike is truly mad and wants to play “cold shoulder”, but two can play that game. He’ll crack before I do.

    2 weeks passed, and Mike and I were still not speaking. I was beginning to question our friendship from the start. It’s sad because I was getting used to us not talking. I didn’t want it to be that way anymore, but I couldn’t find in me to apologize. I rarely apologize for anything. I had other friends but Mike was my “Homie”, I started to miss him. I waited for him at his locker the next day; I was ready to talk it out. And this time instead of avoiding me, he began walking toward me. I was anxious, and then I did something really stupid, I ran away. I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t even have anything to say, but I went to his locker. Maybe I was being stupid. And then the realization hit me like a brick to the face. I should have never ditched Mike, no matter how unimportant our plans were. However, I also realized that Mike was indeed being a little silly. All of this came to me on a Friday night, and I resolved to go to Mike’s house the next day and talk things over. And this time I wouldn’t run away.

     Saturday afternoon, I rode my bike to Mike’s house. I get there and knock on his door. Someone is always home at Mike’s house so this was odd that there was no answer. Surely not all of family was avoiding me. I’m still knocking when his neighbor peeps out of his door and says

“Who are you looking for?”

I say, “I’m looking for Michael Bernson.”

“I’m sorry but the Bernsons moved out yesterday.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, they moved out yesterday” He says with a nonchalant tone. And then goes back inside his house. I, on the other hand am trying to process what I’ve been told. They moved out? What does he mean they moved out?  And then came the water works. I rode my bike all they way over there to get my friend back, and he left. Not like a 3-day vacation left, he’s gone. And it hurt.  We’ve been friends for almost 7 years or have we? It was a horrible feeling, and I did cry, but I sucked it up and took it as a lesson: Putting your pride aside may be hard, but what if it’s for your best friend? Take it from me, you should always end thing on good note with the people you care about.

“Wow, That’s Interesting”

“Are you serious?”

“That is really cool!”

“What does that mean?”

These are all things that I have been hearing my whole life – and it’s always about my last name. People are fascinated, confused, or both when they hear or see it. The first thing they ask me is where does it come from and I always say that I don’t know or I’m not sure which both are complete lies. I know where it comes from but the story and history behind it is too long and I’ve said it so many times.

            So I guess now you’re wondering where it comes from? Well get ready for a long story! Originally it’s Greek, but eventually it made its way to Eastern Europe (Spain, and Portugal) and that’s where it got its numerous ways to spell it. My grandfather always told me that “no matter how you spell it, we are all related in some way or somehow”. And because of how uncommon it is I just always believed this to be true.

Some people say it in the craziest ways I have ever heard! I have heard everything from “ZIM-E-NICE” to “X-E-MIES”. The proper way to say it is “X-ZIM-A-KNEES” OR “ZIM-A-KNEES”. What frustrates me the most about this is the people that don’t even try to sound it out they just give up right away. I had to learn that it’s something that will always happen and I need to grow tolerance for it. This is the biggest lesson I learned from having these experiences.

            People find it comical whenever I get upset when people do it. My friends always joke and tell me to chill out. This upsets me because in my opinion a name is all we really have. I mean if you have a name like “John White” or “Mary Jones” you really cannot get where I’m coming from. I mean yes it is only a name, but it’s MY name.

            I will never forget this one time where this lady was arguing with me about my last name. She was very upset, she called my name “grammatically incorrect”. She spent about 5 minutes lecturing at me about how it should be spelled differently if I pronounced it x-zim-a-knees or how it should be pronounced differently since it’s spelled Ximines. I just sat there with a grin on my face as she screamed and yelled about it. After she was done I said to her in the sweetest voice possible, “Who died and made you grammar corrector of the year? Oh okay didn’t think so, so please go somewhere and stop disrespecting me”. It might sound like I was being rude but trust me, that woman deserved it.

            I also can never forget the time somebody told me that if I am this upset about my name to just change it. I paused for a minute after they said that and simply said “ Oh no way!” A name is much more then just a name. I just can’t wake up one day and change it. My last name has legacy to it. Great people before me have had this name, generations of great Ximines’s. Even when I get married I will keep my last name, to me it has power and history; things I just can’t simply just let go of.

            It’s amazing how somebody can see my last name and know everything about my family. I once had a substitute teacher who used to teach with my grandfather Robert Louis Ximines Sr. He was an educator and podiatrist someone who was well known. She sat down and she told me about my grandfather, a man I only knew for 6 years before he passed away. She told me how intelligent and caring he was. That conversation is something that has stuck with me until this day.

            My father once told me that “I’m an Ximines, which means that I am great.” I never really got what he was trying to say until now. My last name is way more then just a last name. It’s who I am, where I come from. I come from greatness.

The sun was still brushing out the mucus from his eyes as it was about to hit half time and the breeze felt so soothing when it hit my hot sweaty skin, the parts that shoulder pads, tight pants and a baggy shirt didn’t cover.

 It was our third game and the first two quarters weren’t going as well as I thought they would. We played like professionals that knew we were going to win. So we didn’t really put in a day after day, going home with ever muscle in our body aching and crying out “Please stop! No more. I can’t take any more”. With legs that wobbled at every step we took, we almost fell when we walked. We smelled like rotten chicken, mixed with rotten milk that settled in the sun for hours.

But we didn’t. So we got our wining plans shoved down our throats because every time we tried to run a play. They would stop us in our tracks with hits that hovered us in the air, and made us glide across the field. We had the taste of defeat and fake grass in our mouths it tasted awful. It almost looked as if they were on a mission to fracture rips, and knock off helmets. Every time we got hit mountains shifted. Once that last whistle was blown, we went home with grass stains on our faces, and with black, and blue bruises on our arms and legs. Some even went home with an arm wrapped in white tape. We had lost that game not only because we misread the other team, but also we all tried to fight for the M.V. P spotlight.

When we had our first game, our hands were sweaty, and we all had fear imprinted onto our eyelids. The funny thing about it was that we didn’t even get on the yellow school bus yet to get to our game. When we had finally got to our game and observed the new environment, we noticed that there weren’t any sunbeams, but we saw black clouds forming all around us. They began to cry tears from their soft and cozy looking eyes. Making it harder to catch the ball and making our hits more aggressive. Sometimes when we smacked against the other teams legs, they would get up and start walking with a limp.

Once we stepped foot onto the fake green grass field we knew that we weren’t going to let all our hard work and efforts at practice go to waste. So every time we did a play, we depended on the person right next to us or even right behind us to watch our backs. We depended on each other. The offensive linemen on my team would hold the defense in place, giving the quarter back a lot of time to rewind his arm and make a gold pass to the wide receivers. The wide receivers would move swiftly and smooth, making their route look as easy for a five-year-old kid could do with no problem. They had smoked who ever was sticking them. Our defense would penetrate through the line as if it was nothing, tackling their quarter back. So hard that every time he got hit he had to catch his breath before he got up. We were unstoppable. We had won that game of course.

The crazy thing was that the team we played in our third game reminded me of how my team was something like them.  For the first time I knew that it wasn’t just me on the field trying to put forth 100% of my effort into wining this game. It was all of us; we had worked like a unit. The deep understanding lesson that I had took away from this experience is that threw out life you can’t only depend on your self to get things done. Its good to have some help as you get through it.

     Suddenly, I see my coach call a time out. The only thing going through my head is This could be my break. I try to make out the words going between the coach and his son. I see the coach’s hand slowly rise above his head and he starts to wave me over. Excitement rushes through my veins. I start to jog over to the pitchers mound. I only get to throw five warm-up pitches, but I don’t mind because this is what I have been waiting for. All of that time waiting in the outfield is finally going to pay off. The umpire calls, “Batter Up”

I take a deep breath and throw the first pitch.

“Striiike”

I smiled inside. Second pitch.

“Striiike”

I breathe. Third pitch, the ball connects with the bat, my glove instinctually goes up and the ball is in the glove. 1 out.  I look over and see the coach heading towards me. I automatically think that he wants to tell me I’m doing a good job. Instead I hear the words

“You’re doing fine, but don’t get ahead of yourself”

 Huh? I think, Why are you treating me like this? I don’t get it. Instead, I calmly say

“Ok”

and he walks away.  Second batter comes to the plate. First pitch is fouled off. Strike 1.  The third baseman throws the ball back to me. As soon as I catch the ball I remember there is a runner on second base. I now make it my goal to exterminate him and pick him off.  I set myself and very quickly step off the mound, do a 180 turn to second base and fire it to second. I may be small and I may skinny, but I’m fast. They didn’t expect it, but I did it. The umpire yells,

“OUT”

Whoa, nobody has done THAT in this tournament. The third out is a quick pop up to center field. I walk off the mound to the dug out. I feel good. I feel proud and accomplished.  My teammates acknowledge me. The coach ignores me, but this is common behavior between the two of us.

    Our half of the inning at bat was uneventful. Next half of the inning I start to the mound, but I hear the coach calling me back. Once again my brain says Huh?

“You’re going to left field this inning.” He states.

I’m confused, perplexed, bewildered, and stunned. I go to left field but my heart is no longer in the game.

    I’m trying to think rationally, but only emotions are coming.  I can’t think of any reasons to not put me back in as pitcher. I play and replay the events leading up to and during my inning on the mound. If I pay attention to his actions over the years that I have known him, his behavior is right in line. It’s when I listen to his words that I get confused. A promise is just a bunch of words strewn together, and it only becomes real once it happens. Just because someone promises to do something, doesn’t mean they will do it. Obviously sometimes people favor people closer to them over someone they don’t know well or don’t want to try to get to know. The truth lies in the actions of people.

“Are you okay?” my brother, Josh, yelled.

“Ummmm,” I responded.

He then came running into the laundry room. He saw the broken glass of the back door. He looked at me, “What happened?”

“I was mad and slammed the door closed. Then the glass just broke.”

“You know you have to call mom, right?”

“I know. I’ll call her later.” I went upstairs to my room. I was still pissed.

All throughout my childhood I heard, “Think before you act.” I knew that I had to do this and I usually did, unless I was angry. If I was angry there was no stopping me. You couldn’t calm me down. I just had to find an outlet for my anger, and then be left alone. What’s worse is it’s easy to make me angry. So sometimes a little problem would set me off.

It isn’t always anger that makes me not think. One time when I was younger, my brothers and I were playing around. My twin Nick and I were trying to keep my older brother out of our room, I was having fun. My brother found a walking stick and put it in the space between the door and the doorframe. I should have stopped for a moment, to think it was a bad idea to close the door. I was having too much fun to think. So I pushed the door as hard as I could. The door snapped off of the hinges. Out of fear, we decided not to tell my father. He found out anyways and wasn’t too angry.

When I was 14 my brothers took a joke too far. This made me very angry. I walked out of the living room and into my laundry room. I didn’t know what to do, so I slammed my back door closed. The glass shattered. I ran upstairs to my room still very angry. I just had to be alone. Later I went down to clean up the glass. I told my mom later that day. She wasn’t mad; she just wished I had told her right away.

About two years ago I was wrestling with my younger cousins. They are both boys and were 9 and 7. They always liked wrestling with my brothers and me. We were having a lot of fun. I had the eight year old, Stephfon, pinned on the ground in a headlock. He called his brother for help. The older one, Jayfon, came over and hit me with his elbow in my lower back. I apparently have a weak spot in my lower back and it hurt, a lot. I stood up quickly. I didn’t really comprehend what I was doing. I picked him up and dropped him on his side to the ground. The ground was carpeted but it was still hard stone underneath. He screamed. He cried and ran to my grandmother. She asked what happened. I told her I got hurt and lost control. I couldn’t stop myself.

I have been able to stop myself when I’m angry more often lately. While at this summer camp I’ve been volunteering over the summer, we would take the kids to parks. One day we took the 6 through 9 year olds to the same place. They decided that they wanted me to chase some of them. Little by little more and more joined. It got to the point where there was 20-40 of them versus my twin Nick and me. They realized this shortly after I did, so the tables turned. They began chasing us, when they caught me they held my arms. One little girl hit me in my lower back as hard as she could. This made me angry, but instead of getting really mad I just told her to stop hitting me.

It took multiple times of being told “think before you act” before it finally stuck. I still don’t have full control when I’m angry. Most of the time my brother, Josh, holds me back until I shake loose and walk away. I am more understanding when the person I’m angry at is much younger than me. I now understand that even lessons that we learn as young children, aren’t always easy to follow.