The one person that comes to my mind when writing this is my grandmother. Her name was Joan. When trying to recall my first memory of meeting her, I can’t think of what that might have looked like. All I know is; in that moment we were friends. I can’t think of a time when I went without my grandmother; well, that was until her passing. While writing this, I’m thinking about how she was as a person; strong, courageous, untouched, such an amazing woman. One time she wrote me a letter on the back of her pictures when she was younger. She wrote about how she was so proud of me and how she loved me so much. I can’t remember word for word, but due to a roof leak at my parents’ house, the picture was destroyed. Before she passed, I asked her to write me another letter… I never got it.
In my early 20s, I remember living with my grandmother. I lived in a house directly across from where I grew up, on the water. I loved living at my grandmother’s despite all the negative feedback from my brothers and cousins saying I needed to move out of my grandmother’s house and get my own place. The thing was; I didn’t want to, and she didn’t want to. We were known to each other as “The Golden Girls.” On a day-to-day basis, we would hang out, shop, and talk about men. It was a really special relationship. This could have been my friend for a lifetime, and for a moment she was. My grandmother told me that she would trust me with all medical decisions at one point.
I felt that I was at risk of getting too close. I knew that I was growing older and, well, she was as well. I remember that I would work many hours, and she would tell me constantly, “You’re burning the candle at both ends.” And when I think of this saying today, that was our friendship. One side was burning more quickly than the other. I was in a race against time. Time, as we know it, is never on your side. So naturally, I thought it was best to separate myself; and I did. I took the advice of my family and went on to get my own place. I remember the first day I moved out; you wrote me this:
”To my “Golden Girl”. I love you and will miss you. I hope everything goes good for you because, you deserve it. Just be safe and don’t take any wooden nickels, always watch your back and remember we are always here for you. I wont be home tomorrow so take care and god speed”
Days before she died, I was sitting next to her watching the “Golden Girls” on the sofa. She asked me, “What are you going to do without me?” and in reply, I simply said… miss you every day. She passed away five days later. And I miss her every day.
I am getting married in two weeks, and it’s going to be a moment I am sure I will think of my grandmother. I am going to remember everything she taught me and live my life through her values. That’s the best that I can do: to not let her down and not accept any wooden nickels.
I bet every segment you read about the 90’s would be described as a technology wonder of magic that brought joy to anyone’s life who experienced it. Growing up, at first we seemed not to have much; however, as we grew, technology grew with us, almost like an invisible companion that evolved alongside our childhood adventures. Sony was working on a device that later debuted as the most advanced gaming system ever created, captivating the imaginations of millions and enabling us to embark on virtual quests right from our living rooms. The compact disc was able to copy files and burn your favorite mix tapes, transforming the music-sharing experience into a personal treasure hunt, where feelings and memories engraved in melodies could be shared with friends. If you were lucky, you were part of a family that could afford a computer, and you were even luckier if you had one of your own, opening up a world of endless possibilities for learning, creativity, and connection.
The 90’s were different than today; everything seemed genuine, untouched by the digital saturation we experience now. When we wanted to see a friend, we knocked on their door and said hello, a simple yet meaningful interaction that fostered genuine relationships. It was a random act of thought that genuinely allowed someone to feel important because that person thought to spend the day with you, steering clear of the distractions that come with modern technology. The 90’s were a time where you actually had to worry about someone if they ran twenty minutes late; it indicated that something might have gone wrong, igniting a sense of concern among friends. Technology was young and we were young with it, imbibing every innovation with a sense of wonder. The world was changing and evolving at a pace that felt exhilarating yet daunting. Just like the Industrial Revolution, we had our very own revolution, and it was technology, transforming every aspect of our daily lives.
The 90’s was so magical for us that we never cared about the hidden dangers of what technology could do; we were too enthralled by the promises it held. In the 90’s, I think a pivotal moment for us was when 9/11 happened, shaking the very foundation of our beliefs about safety and security; this event ushered in a world where we all learned that the wonders of technology didn’t even protect us from the hidden dangers from the outside. We witnessed a terrorist attack and we even witnessed a war following, connecting our joyful memories of technological advancement to somber realities we weren’t prepared to face. And even after, some of us went to fight in that war and later learned the truths behind it, confronting the discomfort of a duality that was hard to reconcile.
We seen many technologies grow and then become obsolete in a short period of time, as innovation raced ahead of us, often leaving cherished memories behind. Once we had the greatest and biggest thing, it was on to the next biggest and greatest thing, creating a relentless cycle of consumption and upgrade. It didn’t matter what it was; I feel like everyone has their picks on collections, whether it was action figures, video games, or CD collections, each representation of nostalgia interwoven with our social fabric.
We were amazed by the world around us that suddenly, amidst our boundless creativity and fascination, we started to be blurred by our own creations. We started to lose the connection piece of friendships, with the charm of spontaneous visits giving way to texts and online chats, pushing the boundaries of what it meant to connect in an age where technology promised to make things easier, yet in some ways made them feel emptier. The magic of the 90’s, with all its stirring moments and evolving technologies, now serves as a bittersweet reminder of the balance we must strive to find in our technologically driven lives. Humans are disconnected now more than ever, distracted by what started to be an evolution is now an enemy, a threat that binds to us that we can never get away from. Look around you I bet you can count more than three people holding a phone. It’s like now we depend on it or I feel at least I do.
In a tarot card reading, cards are used to predict the future. They are shuffled in a way and placed in a random fashion where only randomness predicts the future. Each card drawn represents different aspects of life, allowing for deep insights into personal circumstances, relationships, and potential outcomes that may not be immediately visible. The intuitive interpretation of these cards guides the reader, revealing connections between the past, present, and future while helping the querent reflect on their life’s journey and the choices before them. This ancient practice is steeped in symbolism and meanings that resonate with universal truths, offering clarity and guidance that can illuminate the path ahead. The tower upright is the card of sudden and unexpected change and a new beginning, embodying the potential for transformation and growth. In my life, I would learn that events would unfold that even “Ms. Cleo” would have not seen, as the twists and turns of fate often bring surprises that challenge our understanding and push us toward new horizons. Recognizing these shifts allows us to embrace the unpredictability of life, focusing on resilience and adaptability as we navigate through the complexities of existence.
The house that we lived in was a starting point of an exciting but yet downward spiral, a labyrinth of emotions and unspoken words. As an adult, my family enlightened me about the world around me as a young child, sharing stories that were both enlightening and troubling, revealing the hidden layers of life that I was blissfully unaware of. When I was young, I didn’t see the chaos around me because I was in my small world, a cocoon of innocence filled with laughter and play. Meanwhile, living in my small world, the grownups had their own story to tell, laden with secrets and struggles that often went unnoticed by children. From the cops knocking on the door looking for a certain someone to the infidelity that would shake the foundation of family, life unfolded in ways that were both curious and unsettling. I even remember late visits as I slept in the hallway, being touched, not knowing what was happening—only my body’s response to wetting the bed and me telling myself boys will be boys, inner narratives that were formed to ease the discomfort of confusion and fear. As an adult, it makes all sense to me why I was responding the way I was, piecing together the fragments of memories that were once blurred and complicated. Even some of these events as a child still haunt me today, resurfacing in quiet moments when I least expect them. Infidelity is the utmost betrayal, and I have seen it destroy families, including my own, leaving scars that time may heal, but never truly erase. It serves as a haunting reminder of the complexities of relationships and the fragility of trust, forever altering our perceptions of love and stability.
I was young and I was a mama’s boy, and I am still to this day. I love my mother very much, and I think a mix between the two of them—my mother and my grandmother—shaped who I am today. Their nurturing spirits instilled in me values of kindness, resilience, and the importance of family bonds. Combined with wisdom and life’s harsh lessons, wake-up calls, and close moments where life could tragically change, I grew tough skin over the years, learning to embrace challenges as opportunities for growth. Even so, no matter how tough you can be, even the past can bring you down on the sunniest days, reminding me that vulnerability is a part of the human experience and that it’s okay to feel deeply, even amidst strength.
Thinking back on those events in the townhome, I only remember certain pieces as this part of my life was supercharged, fast-forward, and short. I remember having company over to my house, strangers who came and went, bringing with them an air of uncertainty and excitement, like a whirlwind of unfamiliar faces and laughter that echoed through the halls. There was this one guy whose name I didn’t know; however, he always enjoyed tucking me into bed, rubbing his hands along my side in a way that was both comforting and unsettling. As I lay there, his presence stirred a mix of emotions within me. My own mother never tucked me into bed in such a way; I couldn’t help but wonder why this felt so different. The boundaries of innocence seemed crossed and blurred during those chaotic nights, and as I drifted off to sleep, the fear seemed to slip away as my eyes closed. Now I begin to think what he may have done while I was asleep.
I remember one time the police knocked on the door looking for my uncle, only for my brothers, who were teenagers at the time, to boldly question the police on the validity of the information and if they had a warrant to search our residence. The house became unhinged, filled with noise and chaos, and we were a bunch of kids running amok, taking advantage of the confusion and energy in the air. I even remember one Christmas being canceled because one of my brothers and his friend decided to break into someone’s home and take their Christmas gifts, opening them in the woods behind our house, where the trees stood tall and silent, witnesses to their foolish adventure. Later, the police knocked on the door explaining to my parents that they needed to pay for the stuff that was damaged, a heavy reality that settled over the house like a dark cloud. Christmas was canceled, and our stuff was returned to pay for their items, leaving us feeling the weight of disappointment and the loss of holiday cheer. I remember one night when one of my parents had a friend over, and stuff happened; well, the other parent in the house found out, and it inadvertently started the tipping point of divorce. It was the tower upright in that moment, a jarring revelation that would forever change the dynamics of our family. It was a dramatic needed change, a moment where chaos and despair set the stage for something bigger, as the foundations of our lives shifted, prompting growth and new directions amid the turmoil.
In this moment of life; there were some really crazy moments that shook the foundation of family in many ways. The purpose of this writing is to work through traumas and share my story. It’s not to cast a reflection on those involved in a negative way; however, to reflect on their stories as well and say that everything that has happened is not as crystal clear as it may seem. Still struggling with the answers in my head; I can’t hold anyone accountable here. However, I can talk about it because it’s my story and in the same respect theirs, as I don’t know what was happening in their mind. Each family member had their own challenges, emotions, and struggles that I can only imagine. In the end; my family was torn apart by actions that may never be explained and would never be forced to explain due to the utmost respect I have for my parents.
I remember the heavy silence that filled our home, a stark contrast to the laughter that once echoed within its walls. So please forgive me if I am beating around the bush in this writing piece; however, it’s only to protect my family. At this moment, my mother and father were getting a divorce, and us kids were left in my father’s care; a complete challenge for any single father with four boys. The endless bickering and the palpable tension made it difficult to find a moment of peace. The battle between mother and father started. Lowball name-calling to skipping weeks of visitation; the family was, in short, a complete mess. I often found myself caught in the middle, trying to navigate this turbulent sea of adult emotions, longing for a return to simpler times when everything felt safe and secure.
One day, while my father was working, he had an accident during routine maintenance on heavy machinery. He often worked close to deep manholes, which were a significant risk. On that day, a wrong move caused him to fall into a manhole, where he desperately grabbed the ladder to save himself.
My father sustained severe injuries from a fall and required emergency medical intervention to stabilize his condition. I remember I went over to my grandmother’s house where she was praying for my father as we sat on the floor in her living room, tears running down her face as she pled for God to have mercy on him and bring him back to health. We didn’t know what was going on in the moment; however, hours later we found my father was expected to survive, which brought us a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. My father had a long recovery process ahead; however, this also caused a financial burden that loomed over our family like a dark cloud. My father, being a single dad with four boys, had already faced numerous challenges, and now, with a newly purchased home that went through a divorce, his struggles were compounded. In the end, the house was foreclosed, and we were forced to move, leading to a new chapter in my life, one filled with uncertainty but also with the possibility of resilience and strength as we adapted to our new circumstances.
The Tower tarot card symbolizes sudden change and new beginnings, reflecting the potential for transformation and growth.
Summer vacation was here, and finally I didn’t have restrictions on watching the sun rise and enjoying the morning sun rays on my face. In my bedroom, I had a window outside, and every morning the sun would start to glare on my face; a hint of a new morning filled with promise and excitement. The summer mornings were my favorite because the air was warm but crisp enough to feel the uplift of its gentle touch that surrounded you, invigorating my spirit and awakening my senses. The birds chirped melodically as the day set forward with new beginnings, their songs blending harmoniously with the rustling leaves. I would often take a moment to gaze out the window, watching the world come alive, eagerly anticipating the adventures that awaited me each day. The summer days seemed short because we kids were so focused on having fun, jumping from one activity to another, creating memories that felt timeless and utterly joyous. Whether it was riding our bikes through the neighborhood or playing games in the park, every moment was charged with laughter and carefree abandon.
I remember my mother wanted to get two family pets to add to our family tree, believing that having them would bring us all closer together as a family. I remember my mother got two dachshunds, who instantly filled our home with joy and laughter. I can’t really remember their names; however, I remember one being a girl and one being a boy. I remember oftentimes going past my mom and dad’s rooms, peeking into the room only to see white teeth glowing in the dark as the light reflected. That was the boy dog—overly protective and would lay in the bed and growl softly if anyone approached too closely. His fierce loyalty made him feel like a guardian, always alert and ready to protect us. The female dachshund was a lot nicer and oftentimes would cuddle next to me in the hallway, offering comfort during long nights. I would oftentimes sleep in the hallway because I became scared of the dark, or I would wet the bed, so in efforts to try to find a dry spot, the hallway was the choice. It became a cozy refuge, and their warm presence made my fears feel smaller. The two dogs quickly became not just pets but cherished companions who brought a sense of security and love into our lives.
This particular night I slept in the hallway as usual, and the female dachshund would curl up next to me and sleep, her warm, soft body providing comfort in the dim light. The night was normal, and I was a heavy sleeper, drifting peacefully into dreams. I woke up the next morning finding the dachshund was missing, and to further my worry, I learned she had died, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. I went to the basement where she was in a pillowcase, and I remember touching and feeling her stiff body, each moment etching the reality into my heart. I knew there was no life here, and yet again death had visited, a heavy sadness blanketing the vibrant memories we had shared. I also learned the cause of her death was me sleeping heavily and rolling on top of her, an accident that filled me with deep regret and sorrow. I felt responsible, and seeing her in the pillowcase worsened those feelings, a painful reminder of the fragility of life. I love nature and everything that it gives us; how could I show so much betrayal? The bond we had was special, and losing her felt like losing a part of myself, leaving a void that echoed painfully in my heart.
I didn’t mean it….
I didn’t mean it…
I didn’t mean it….
That was the thought swirling in my mind as I grappled with the gravity of what transpired. As a child, I couldn’t fathom how I could commit such an act, even while asleep. The confusion and guilt washed over me like a relentless tide, leaving me stranded on a shore of despair. I started to blame myself, my young heart heavy with an inexplicable weight. It felt as though I were carrying a burden far too great for my fragile shoulders.
In those moments, I found myself questioning the very fabric of my reality. How could something so alarming and troubling have happened without my awareness? I wished more than anything to have been acutely aware of my surroundings. Perhaps if I had been more alert, more in tune with the world around me, I might have sensed something amiss. Maybe I would have stirred awake, pulled from the depths of slumber before things spiraled into this unfortunate situation.
As I struggled to process this traumatic event, my mind raced through a maze of uncertainty and fear. If this could happen while I was unaware, what else lurked in the shadows that I couldn’t see? The unsettling thought gnawed at me: if I was capable of such actions without knowing, who was I really? My young mind was fragile, trying to piece together this complex puzzle without the necessary tools or understanding. Each thought spiraled further into a dark abyss, leaving me anxious and scared, desperate for clarity in a reality that suddenly felt so foreign.
When I start to think of this segment of my life, the one thing that comes to mind is “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2” by Pink Floyd and the new school that I would attend: Chase Elementary. I didn’t understand why I had to switch schools, and it came down to zones that mapped where each child belonged. This made the transition confusing and daunting for me. I remember Trevon was in my class, which made the first day not as stressful, as I felt a sense of familiarity in the midst of change. Also, my brother Kennith attended the same school, just in a different grade, which provided an extra layer of comfort since I knew I’d have someone to lean on if I felt overwhelmed. Chase would become my school from this point on, shaping my early experiences and friendships. As any kid, I made my way through grade school, and I was a big fan of the rectangle pizza served in the cafeteria, a highlight that I always looked forward to during lunch hour. There was this school janitor named Mr. Fred, who had white hair and a kind smile, and he would often greet us with a joke or a compliment. He would also tell me I looked like Alfalfa from the movie “Little Rascals,” which made me laugh despite my initial embarrassment. I remember at one point I had a pimple on my nose, and kids would call me Red Nose, but those small moments of teasing barely bothered me, as I was surrounded by friends who encouraged me to embrace my quirks. Ultimately, those experiences at Chase Elementary laid the foundation for cherished memories that would last a lifetime.
I remember one day at school we had a fire drill. I thought it was exciting to see the fire doors close on their own, and as a unit, we all gathered outside and faced the building from a safe distance, chatting anxiously about what we would do if it were a real fire. I thought this was interesting because I guess if there was a fire, they would have us all watch the place burn, witnessing the memories of our childhood turn to ashes. I didn’t understand the reasoning behind this self-inflicted trauma, but can you imagine? Watching your school burn as the memories fade away in smoke and flames, the laughter of friends mingling with the crackling of fire, a surreal and heart-wrenching scene. I am sure there would be some kids happy, perhaps viewing it as something great; however, some would be traumatized, I’m sure, left with haunting visions of lost classrooms and childhood. Anyway, this particular day there was no fire, just a drill, thankfully. We returned back to our classrooms and finished out the day, discussing among ourselves what we would have done if it had been real. The school bell would ring, and we all headed to our school buses, relieved that everything had gone smoothly. Finally, the day was over and the school bus had finally made it to my stop. I noticed something different; Kennith was not on the bus, which struck me as odd. I ran inside to alert my family of Kennith being missing, only to find them in the house and my dad yelling at him, a puzzling scene that made me wonder just what had happened.
I remember learning that the fire drill that day wasn’t a drill at all but a different kind of emergency. The school was evacuated because of my brother, who had found himself in a precarious situation that no one, least of all my parents, had anticipated. This was the argument that my parents were having with my brother in the middle of it, voices raised in a mix of concern and frustration as they tried to understand his decisions. I didn’t understand the situation because I was young, my mind filled with confusion as I watched the adults around me react with urgency. However, my brother was no longer a classmate at my school, having moved on to a different chapter in his life, but the memories of that chaotic day still lingered in my mind.
The next day, things seemed normal and my days would continue as if they were part of a well-rehearsed play. Lost in the life of childhood, time was nonexistent, a mere illusion we danced with day after day. The days seemed short, and the years seemed shorter, as if the universe conspired to make them fly by in a whirlwind of laughter and joy. Being thirty-six, writing this now, it almost seems like it was yesterday when I think on this memory; the vivid colors of that time are etched in my mind like a beautiful painting. During the May Day parade, I was a skipper, someone who would skip around the pole, bedazzling those who watched with my carefree spirit and unbridled enthusiasm. I had classmates as friends, companions in exploration, and each day we waved goodbye as we would go home on our buses, eagerly sharing stories and secrets of our adventures with one another. And each day we would repeat the process as if we had all the time in the world, blissfully unaware of how quickly each moment was passing. The only thing that could help us remember that we were growing was the classes that we would progress to, each new grade a gentle reminder that childhood would eventually fade into adulthood. Birthdays didn’t matter because it was the same every year; they passed like gentle waves lapping at the shore of our lives. It wasn’t about the gifts and the cake and the experience; it was about going to the next day for that great adventure, where each sunrise held the promise of new memories waiting to be made and cherished.
Finally, I felt like a kid, and well, I had friends who truly understood me. I was learning from everyone around me, absorbing their kindness and laughter, and everyone seemed okay with me as a person; I don’t remember any complaints to taint those joyful memories. I only remember compliments about how nice I was and how cute I was as a kid, which filled me with a sense of belonging and happiness. As I progressed in grade school, I remember the 5th grade and the uncertainty of middle school looming ahead, a time that felt both exciting and daunting. Each year, I felt the sadness overcome me as I said goodbye to my friends, who had been such a significant part of my childhood since before I felt so lonely only connecting with nature. We can only hope to see each other next year, clinging to the dreams of reunions, and we even knew as kids that it’s not always the case, but there was a comforting relief in the bonds we had formed that would forever be a part of us, no matter where life took us.
Another school year is over and summer vacation has started. We wave goodbye to our friends, some crying, me being one of them; we looked forward to our future of classes together, reminiscing about the countless memories we created throughout the year. We shared a positive outlook and asked what schools we would attend next year, eagerly discussing the new adventures that awaited us. We would exchange phone numbers and write notes to each other, promising to stay connected despite the changes looming ahead.
We were so innocent then, unknowing of what lay ahead, blissfully unaware of the challenges and responsibilities that came with growing up. For now, it was summer vacation and it was time for unlimited playdates filled with laughter, ice cream, and carefree days spent under the sun. We didn’t know what the future held, but as kids, it didn’t really matter; our biggest worry was which park to visit first. We were safe and we had each other, forging bonds that felt unbreakable in that fleeting moment of childhood freedom, where every day felt like a new adventure waiting to unfold.
During my life, I found myself moving around a lot, experiencing the thrill and uncertainty that came with each new location. Often, I compared my life to that of a gypsy; always ready to move and packing light, I embraced a lifestyle that made transitions easier. The world was my playground, and each new place brought its own set of adventures and challenges. At some point, while living on the water, my parents informed the family that we were going to be moving into a three-floor townhome not far from our current home. This change excited me, as I envisioned the new friendships I might forge and the adventures that awaited us in our new neighborhood. The prospect of exploring a different environment ignited my curiosity, and I couldn’t wait to discover the hidden gems that would soon become a part of my everyday life.
The townhome that we were moving into had a full basement with three bedrooms, providing us ample space for both sleeping and playing. I remember the vibrant red carpet in the living room, which added a cozy warmth to the atmosphere, and even the red carpet leading upstairs, making it feel like we were stepping into a special place. My parents naturally took the master bedroom, which boasted a lovely view of the trees outback. My brothers and I were divided between the other two rooms; Ronny and Bobby were in one room while Kennith and I were in the other room. This was a really exciting moment for us because we moved into a bigger house that had many upgrades, allowing us to enjoy modern amenities that we had only dreamed of before. We had a beautiful fireplace in the living room, perfect for chilly evenings when we would gather as a family, and the overall space was much bigger than what we had before, making it easy for us to play games and spend time together without feeling cramped.
The neighborhood had many children of all ages and origins. I felt like our neighborhood was one of those that had a diverse group of kids. During this time, I made friends with several people in my community. I remember having multiple friends during this time and experiences that I would remember for a lifetime. This was also the time I tried seaweed crisps from my Korean friend who lived down the street. It seemed that this new place was full of excitement and new adventures. There was even a large empty reservoir that we kids would sled down in the winter months. We were an active neighborhood, and it was something that I had never experienced in my life.
Making friends was always hard, so I would find myself asking children, “Would you be my friend?” Having that social anxiety at a young age can be really hard, and walking into a new neighborhood trying to make friends is even harder, especially when everything feels so foreign and intimidating. A couple of houses down from where we lived, I made friends with three people, each bringing their own unique energy to our group. I remember this Korean girl that I was friends with; however, I can’t remember her name. We would share stories and laughter while trying new foods together, like those intriguing seaweed crisps that I initially found peculiar but grew to love, and those brown noodles that possessed a flavor I can never replicate as an adult, no matter how hard I try. My friend lived at the end of the block in the last house. Her mother and her daughter were extra special to me, inviting me in and providing friendship and motherly love that felt comforting amidst my uncertainties. We would bake cookies and play board games for hours, creating a safe haven filled with joy and laughter. Our friendship would fall short; her father passed away, and with that, she moved, leaving a void of friendship that lingered in my heart. I never saw her again, and the memories of those carefree days became bittersweet reminders of youth and innocence lost.
I made other friends in the neighborhood. I made friends with Luis and Rebecca, who lived two doors down, and Trevon, who lived around the corner in the back of the neighborhood. We often spent our afternoons exploring the various nooks and crannies of our neighborhood, discovering hidden treasures. I would often find myself enjoying tea parties on the green box with my friend Rebecca. We would just relax in the sun and play with our toys, ignoring everything around us as we created elaborate stories about the imaginary worlds we were in. I remember one time I was in their living room, and I put my legs behind my head as Rebecca pushed me, rolling me around on the floor joyfully, our laughter echoing off the walls. We even had campfires where we would roast marshmallows and tell campfire stories, trying to scare each other with tales of ghosts and mysteries that surrounded our neighborhood.
Whenever one friend wasn’t home, I would go to another friend’s house, always finding someone to share an adventure with. Trevon and I would hang out sometimes and play video games late into the night, our competitive spirits shining through as we battled on different worlds. He introduced me to a game called “Lemmings,” a strategy game where you have to guide these green-haired creatures to safety. A childhood video game that still exists today and remains a fun memory. I remember my friends and I would often leave pennies or quarters on the train tracks behind our house for the trains to run over. The anticipation of collecting them the next day was always fun because the coins would be flat and unrecognizable, transformed into something uniquely ours. Looking back, those moments filled with carefree laughter and imagination hold a special place in my heart, reminding me of a time when everything felt magical and limitless.
During this time in my life, I remember this new adventure that seemed really remarkable. It was a place where we could foster friendships and still be a family, surrounded by neighbors. We were in a new place that was bigger than our last, offering us the space to spread out and explore, both inside our home and in the vast backyard that invited laughter and play. A place that we called ours because the last place was a rental, and finally being able to call something our own filled us with pride and excitement.
Owning a home and having a nuclear family is the American Dream, and finally, we had it, feeling a sense of belonging that was both comforting and exhilarating. It seemed in this moment as a kid I was normal, living the life I had always envisioned. I had that normal life with friends who came over to play, sharing experiences and creating memories, along with life lessons from the environment around me that shaped who I would become. Each day was filled with adventures, discovering what it meant to be part of a community and cherishing the simple joys of childhood that would stay with me forever.
I wanted to take a moment for reflection. As I write, I am unpacking the very moments of my life that were tucked away, hidden in the corners of my memory, waiting for the right time to be explored. These types of traumas take time for reflection and also a moment of healing, like the delicate process of a flower slowly unfurling its petals. When I write this, what comes to mind is the tree of life, a powerful symbol of growth, resilience, and the continuous cycle of existence. And as I write this, just outside my window is a tree, and in my heart and mind, it represents the tree of life.
I watch the cycles of this tree from winter to spring, observing its transformation with a sense of wonder and appreciation. Looking bare and cold, almost dead-like in the winter, it stands as a reminder of the harshness of life. While the spring shows the opposite of things; the tree budding and life is taking place, bursting forth with vibrant greens and blossoms that signal renewal and hope. Oftentimes, reflecting, my grandma’s voice enters my heart and says, “look at God’s wonder,” a phrase that resonates deeply within me, urging me to find beauty even in the darkest times. I am not all that religious; however, I know what life and death truly are, the intricate dance we all partake in. Sometimes I feel my best friend is death; not because I want to or need to experience it, but because it has been a companion in my journey. It’s just the odds lead me to it, and I witnessed it at a very young age, shaping my understanding of existence in profound ways. Can you imagine? I escaped death twice; looking like this tree, I too was bare, stripped of the vibrancy and life force that once defined me. And as I write, I too begin to bud, and life takes shape, embracing the healing journey ahead. It’s healing; it’s the power of shaping who you are to be, allowing the experiences of the past to inform a brighter, more resilient future.
I often think that people in general have gifts. As I write this today, I want to open the door to anyone who is reading this, and I apologize if I might sound odd. Do you feel connected in the great circle of life? Let me explain and try to break this down the best that I can. I am sure I am not the only human on this earth who has trauma. However, for those like me, how you deal with those traumas makes you different. So, for example, take myself. I was alone for most of my life. I had that nuclear family, and I went to public school, so opportunity was there. It was just that I couldn’t connect, and because of that, I was alone. It was not anything anyone did at that time; it was just me and my own self. Because of this, I often found myself engaging in things that normal people wouldn’t engage in. And for me, it was nature. I carefully studied everything I could, from the mole holes in the ground to the butterflies that flew around mom’s garden. I had the world to explore, while the typical kids like my brothers would just ride their bikes and do what kids do. Me, however, I found peace in the world around me. Mother Nature became my friend, and the bees and the sunflowers were my sisters and my brothers. If I interacted with them, I felt they would interact with me, and often, with bees, even they can sting when they are mad; just like humans. During those solitary moments, I would sit for hours in the lush grass, watching the clouds drift by, lost in thoughts that seemed to echo in the gentle breeze. I became a silent observer of life, soaking in the intricate dances of insects and the rustle of leaves, learning lessons not from books or classrooms, but from the very rhythm of the earth. It was a profound realization that each creature, no matter how small, held its own unique significance within the tapestry of existence. This connection to nature shaped my understanding of belonging and resilience, teaching me that even in solitude, one can find companionship in the simplest of things—the rustle of the grass, the warmth of the sun, and the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
I remember when I lived in this apartment as an adult with my now fiancé. Before my grandmother passed away, she came over to check out my new apartment, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and love. For some reason, looking back on it now, it seems this was her mission, a final opportunity to impart her wisdom. She climbed the steps that, in her mind, were seemingly impossible to conquer, each step representing her determination. When she finally reached the top and looked around, the joy on her face was palpable. She took in our one-bedroom apartment, her gaze sweeping across the space, eventually landing on the breathtaking overview of the water, which cast its reflection of the sky above in a shimmering dance.
My grandmother looked around and said, “this will do,” her voice laced with a sense of approval and contentment. Not knowing what she meant then, I understand now the weight of her words; I needed that connection to what lay ahead in my life. Careless of the warnings that echoed in my mind, I was simply enchanted by my grandmother’s company and the stories she shared so effortlessly. I remember her looking out the windows, her finger pointing excitedly at a duck paddling gracefully as it swam in the cold waters below. She said, “You see that, Patrick?” I replied with a smile, “Yes, I do.” Grandma then added, “That’s God’s wonder right there.” Her words struck a chord within me, and I felt a warmth spread through my heart. I nodded and replied, “Well, of course it is.” It was impossible to disagree because she was undeniably right. That duck was doing things that us humans could not do—effortlessly gliding through the water, completely devoid of concern or care in the world. The message resonated deeply; this duck possessed a kind of freedom and power that seemed to transcend my human experience. Yes, I may have free thought and the capacity for reflection, but it became evident that this simple creature had an edge over me.
In just a matter of seconds, my grandmother had taught me a great life lesson, one that would linger in my mind long after her departure. And in that moment, I learned what my gift was, the ability to appreciate the simple wonders of life, and to carry forward the lessons imparted by those we love.
A majestic tree adorned in vibrant autumn colors, symbolizing growth and the beauty of life’s cycles.
Living on the water and watching the sunrises and sunsets was my favorite. I would only sleep in as a kid because I stayed up all night just to see the sunrise in the morning. While I waited, I didn’t mind the midnight commercials of Ms. Cleo. I wanted to call her so badly to tell my future. I wonder if I ever did, and I wonder if she promised a long-lasting life?
The water oftentimes brought me gifts. When the water would recede, it would expose the beach, often showing treasures like colorful stones, and railroad planks weathered by time. I remember going fishing on a boat where my grandpa would show me a sunken ship, and I would wonder what treasures were in there, imagining gold coins and ancient relics lying beneath the waters. My grandpa would oftentimes fish across the street from where he and grandma lived. This would form the iconic fishing spot known to our family, a place filled with laughter and stories shared over countless fishing days. It became our little haven, where every cast of the line held the promise of a big catch. Further down, there is a boat marina bustling with activity, where fishermen and families gather to enjoy the day. I would often find myself going to the soda machine there for a twenty-five-cent can of soda, enjoying the fizzy refreshment while watching the boats come and go, each carrying its own adventures and stories.
I remember trying to be friends with a girl. I don’t recall her name; however, she had a sister that my brother Kennith was really interested in. Anyway, one day the two girls and I were hanging out, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fresh air. As we were walking, there were several slips that had boats gently bobbing in the water. One of the girls told me she dropped money on the boat and she wanted me to go check, her eyes filled with excitement and a little mischief. Being that I was trying to impress kids, I wasted no time to jump on board this boat; a place I had no business being in, but the thrill of adventure was too tempting to resist. I looked at my so-called friends at the time, hoping for support, and said there was no money to be seen. As I turned to exit the boat to the pier, I felt a rush of adrenaline and anticipation. In a moment, time froze, and I began to fall, my heart racing as I realized what was happening. I hit the water with a splash… I didn’t know how to swim, and all I could think about was how I wished I had listened to my instincts instead of trying to impress others.
In this moment of time, it’s really hard to fit the memories together in my brain, like pieces of a puzzle that just won’t align. I didn’t know how to swim, and I have fallen into the water, panic gripping me tightly as I flailed my arms in an attempt to stay afloat. Thinking about this now, I can see the green of the water, murky and inviting yet treacherous, wrapping around me. The massive bubbles in front of me rise and pop as I try to breathe for air, each one a reminder of my fragile existence. I remember the splashing and the cries for help as water entered my mouth and forced its way inside me, each gulp feeling heavier as despair settled in. The feeling of no air, coupled with the reflex of my lungs forcing me to fight for survival, ignited an instinct deep within me. I distinctly remember the feeling of dying, that surreal moment of surrender, engulfed by the depths of the unknown. And then just like that, I saw the light.
What happens next is all a blur, a whirlwind of emotions and events that I can barely piece together. My grandma and grandpa told me the story of what they observed from the outside, how they witnessed the chaos unfold while feeling a mix of anxiety and concern for my safety. My father was extremely mad because I knew better in a sense; he had entrusted me with specific instructions, and he felt that I had disregarded them. Again, there was no reason why I was on that boat, a decision which, in hindsight, seemed reckless and impulsive.
The story that was shared with me was that a local man, someone I had never met before, courageously pulled me out of the water, when he noticed I was struggling, while my father ran to the scene, fear etched across his face. Frustrated, my father pulled me by my hand and made me walk from the pier to my house, his grip firm and unyielding, a mix of relief and anger in his expression. I don’t recall any of this, the details lost in the fog of my memory. The only memory I have is waking up on my living room couch surrounded by EMS personnel, their voices blending into a hum of reassurance, wrapped in my Barney blanket and sitting next to my grandpa, who held my hand tightly, his presence calming me amidst the panic. The paramedics said I didn’t need to go to the hospital by ambulance; however, I needed to go for a thorough check-up, just to be sure. I remember the doctor saying to me, with a gentle smile, “Let’s make sure there are no fish swimming in there,” as he stuck his stethoscope to my belly, his playful demeanor easing my anxiety. I was cleared to go home, the weight of the ordeal slowly lifting from my shoulders. My grandma and I went to a craft store and picked out something special for my hero who pulled me from the water, wanting to express our gratitude for his bravery. I don’t remember his name; however, we did honor him in our special way, crafting a heartfelt card that expressed our thanks, along with a little gift that symbolized our appreciation for his quick actions.
What a beautiful dream of watching the boats and finding treasures. That day, I learned that the water had another side, and that other side almost claimed my life.
A nuclear family, in general, is a family that consists of two parents and their children living together in one home, formulating the idea of the American Dream. This structure is often characterized by the parents sharing responsibilities for income and household management, creating a stable environment for their children. The two parents often find themselves going to work providing for the family, while the children go to school, where they learn important skills essential for their future. In this dynamic, the family works together to nurture their relationships, support each other’s aspirations, and build a foundation for a balanced life filled with shared experiences and lasting memories.
We were that typical family that everyone wanted, the kind that seemed to always have a smile on their faces. My father worked for a steel company, contributing his skills and dedication to support us, while my mother, at the time, was a security guard, ensuring safety and order in her workplace. We lived in a peaceful neighborhood, filled with friendly faces and children playing outside, creating an atmosphere of warmth and community. Every so often, up the street, there was a venue that would host large company picnics and crab feasts, which generated many visitors, bringing a buzz of excitement and laughter to our little corner of the world. Those gatherings were not just about good food; they were celebrations of togetherness, where families bonded, friendships blossomed, and memories were made, leaving a lasting imprint on many lives.
My grandfather had an idea at the time to park the vehicles in the field and charge five dollars per vehicle, a clever idea that turned a simple hobby into a small business. My brothers and I would eagerly go car to car and collect the money into our cans, feeling a sense of pride and responsibility while our grandfather expertly managed the parking spaces. The spaces were full, and the shift was over; time to count our money, a ritual that filled us with excitement and anticipation. I remember buying anything I wanted, from candy bars to toys, and please keep in mind my young mind and what that could look like—each purchase was a treasure. Later, as an adult, I would hear that we didn’t keep most of that money, that most of it was taken, which added a layer of complexity to those cherished memories. For the truth, I am not sure, as the details blurred with time. I can only go off my feelings at the time, and well, I had no complaints, remembering those days fondly as a time of innocence and adventure where the thrill of earning money with my family was the greatest reward of all.
As a child, I feel like I had a world with both parents and was spoiled to the core, surrounded by love and laughter that made every day feel like a grand adventure. We would have family gatherings where my distant family would join, filling our home with stories, laughter, and the delicious aroma of home-cooked meals that lingered in the air. Traveling through my memory like a time portal, I still remember the cookouts and the tire swing, where we would play for hours, our laughter echoing in the warm summer air. I remember the moments laying on the hammock, feeling the gentle breeze of the wind with my cousin lying next to me, as we shared secrets and dreams while watching the clouds drift by overhead. I remember when Grandma fell while playing softball, her laughter infectious even in the midst of her tumble, and the moment when I poured cherry Coke on her rose bush, only for her to mistakenly think it was a rabid dog causing the mischief. She even called to report it, and I just thought it was funny; who cares, right?
My grandma and my grandpa wanted the best for us grandkids, often spoiling everyone with their love and warmth. They filled our lives with laughter and joy, always encouraging us to chase our dreams. We had a drum set in the attic where we would practice or have jam sessions, which quickly became the highlight of our weekends. The sound of the drums echoed through the house, blending harmoniously with our laughter. At that age, I probably thought I was going to be some rockstar, imagining myself performing in front of large crowds under bright lights, with the excitement of the music pulsing through my veins.
Each day was even more enjoyable than the last! I was truly grateful for the vibrant atmosphere at my school and my home. Everything felt wonderfully perfect, and I felt incredibly fortunate for all that I had.
My first day of school I remember it like it was yesterday. A short drive from where we lived was a small community elementary school that still stands today, a cherished landmark filled with memories. Seneca Elementary is the school where my red and white shoes would hit the ground for the first time on my own, an exhilarating experience that felt like stepping into a new world.
We had a back-to-school night, a event where families gathered to meet teachers and explore the halls; yes, I saw my classroom filled with colorful decorations and inviting bookshelves; nothing prepared me for being on my own in this vast place filled with laughter and learning. I am happy we did have the back-to-school night because I wanted to be prepared and well I was, equipped with my new backpack and a heart full of excitement.
Stepping off the bus, the familiar hiss of the doors opening echoed in my ears, and I would wave goodbye to my bus driver in confidence at the start of my day, feeling brave and ready to face the challenges ahead. I looked left and right, seeing this massive building before me, its bricks warm in the morning sun, and I headed inside, my footsteps echoing in the hallway. I went directly where I was supposed to go, following the carefully mapped route I had studied the night before.
I remember that my favorite activity was the sandbox every time you entered the door, a magical spot where creativity flourished in the form of castles and creatures. I had a locker with a frog sticker, bright green, and on that frog sticker was my name, elegantly printed; I just knew that locker was just for me, a small space where I could keep my treasures. I opened it, got out what I needed, and headed into class, my heart racing with anticipation for the day ahead and the friendships waiting to be formed.
My memory is limited to all the activities that were done at Seneca Elementary simply because I didn’t stay long, and well, we will get to that later. Just know, in this time of my life and the memories, I don’t remember my classmates; however, I do recall that my teacher would read enchanting stories to us, bringing the pages to life with her expressive voice. While there was plenty of time for learning, every day we had playtime. In the sandbox, we could create whatever our hearts desired, since all the cool kids always had the larger blocks for their grand designs. I found comfort in the soft sand, which always seemed available and welcoming, a playground of endless possibilities for kids like myself.
We wanted to play with the blocks, to create towering castles and majestic fortresses, but more often than not, we ended up in the familiar confines of the sandbox, where our imaginations could run wild without the pressure of competition. One thing we all shared in common was our fondness for that sandbox, a safe haven from the chaos that surrounded us. I remember our group of kids that claimed the sandbox as our own; oftentimes, we would see the cool kids trying to execute daring feats with their big blocks, only to find themselves getting hurt in the process. We would watch from afar, giggling and exchanging knowing glances, feeling a mixture of sympathy and relief. We knew we were safe right where we were, crafting our little worlds in the sand, far from the risks associated with the larger toys and the unpredictable antics of our more adventurous peers.
I remember on my first day we had an assembly. We all went into the auditorium and sat down, the air filled with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. I think the one thing that stuck in my memory was the “criss cross apple sauce hands in your lap” thing, and I honestly don’t know why, but us kids loved it and embraced it wholeheartedly. If you don’t know, it simply means sit down, cross your legs, and put your hands in your lap. I have no idea where the saying came from; it was just a quirky tradition we adopted. Anyway… back to the assembly; I remember this little bus coming out almost like magic, wheeling across the stage in a way that made it seem alive. I think it might have been remote-controlled, but oh my gosh, the thrill in my eyes was undeniable. The adults who were presenting the mini yellow bus introduced him as Buster, and I felt an overwhelming bliss of joy wash over me as if I had just met a celebrity. The assembly was all about school bus safety, an essential topic for kids who were about to embark on their first school year, and the yellow bus was the creative tool the adults used to engage and intrigue us children. I fell for it hook, line, and sinker… I was that kid, completely enchanted by the vibrant presentation that felt like a magical adventure in a new world.
Taken seriously by Mr. Buster, it felt like the end of the day had come quickly. The day was an absolute adventure, filled with fun moments that stuck in my mind. When the final bell rang, it was time to rush to the bus with excitement. I ran to my bus, the bright colors and sounds mixing together, and got to the door in no time. There was my favorite bus driver who always made me smile. I reached the door and burst out, “Guess what I saw, Mr. Buster!” She looked at me with a warm smile, clearly interested. “Oh yeah? Tell me all about him,” she said. As I climbed onto the bus and found my seat, I shared stories of my day, using animated gestures while other kids got on, their laughter providing a cheerful backdrop to my storytelling.
The engine started and began to hum like the grand giant it was, filling the air with a deep, resonant sound that resonated through my chest. Mr. Buster, and our dedicated driver, made sure I paid attention to all the features of this magnificent machine. Whenever my bus driver would drop a student off, I would watch with fascination as the control panel would glow, illuminating the various actions being taken—like a dashboard of a spaceship. It was a vibrant yellow school bus. As my bus driver continued her route, I could feel the sheer power of the diesel engine rumble beneath me, creating a sense of excitement and adventure. Finally, it was my stop, and I glanced at my bus driver, sharing a moment of understanding before I went down those steps, exiting into the world outside. I hurried inside my home, eager to talk about my day and recount the experiences I had witnessed.
Outside, the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow, and the fireflies started to twinkle, their soft lights dancing in the dusky air. Another day was over, yet the memories of the journey lingered, filling my heart with the promise of new adventures to come.
Stand Strong: My Journey Back to Me 