Stories

In response to Good Form, by Tim O’Brien

“I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why the story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.” -Tim O’Brien

I write to remember.

I do it so I know it is real.

I include every single detail,

Each smell, taste, texture, sound, and thought.

People must see the images,

They must know what I felt.

I remember a time I visited a dear friend.

Her name was Rebecca.

She was 5’3 with slender, pale legs.

Her hair as black as an abyss and eyes as blue as the sky.

Her laugh lingered in your ears.

She always smelled like roses and though she loved tulips.

Now the story begins...

I have not seen her for eight years. The last time we saw each other she was crying. I could feel her tears seep through my shirt as she griped the back of it, embracing for what seemed like the last time. I was going under the Atlantic Ocean in a submarine; I had joined the Navy. While I was down, I often looked out the window. Each time a whale happened to pass by I lamented over the memories of our childhood and how she would dress up like a whale every Halloween. After my voyage was done I often moved around a lot, traveling from state to state. Eventually I settled in San Francisco and somehow she found me.

On the way to my room I saw a letter on the ground near the door. I knew the handwriting. In it, she wrote about how she missed me. I missed her too. She included her cell phone number for me to call. I ran to my phone but when I went to dial the numbers I froze. I have not heard her voice in years. What would I say? Eventually, I hit dial. Each ring sounded like a century had gone by.

“Hello?”

Her voice was the same but somehow disenchanted. It seemed lower, no longer full of life. I spoke to her and I could feel her enthusiasm though the phone. We decided to meet on a hill near the Golden Gate Bridge the next day. When I woke up that morning, all I could do was stare at the clock. I waited for what seemed like centuries. Tick tock. Tick tock. The clock enjoyed torturing me. Eventually 6:30 came along and I rushed out. I didn’t know whether she would be there or not. Then suddenly I saw hair blowing in the wind, the same color that blended in with the night. She was staring at the water. My mind went blank and my throat closed  up. She turned around and for a moment all we could do was stare at each other. Music played in my mind like it would in the movies. We ran to each other and when we touched, it was like lightning had struck our bodies. We talked about our lives then moved on to our childhood history. Our “castle” at the secret lake, our night adventures as teens, but that’s not what mattered. What was important is what happened next.

When we said our goodbyes I was the first to leave, she stayed behind. The next morning I turned on the television and saw her name in bold letters and a man being interviewed, talking about how he saw her body in the water. He said she was dead when he got to her. Her body was punctured, like she hit the rocks below. I dropped the remote. I fell to floor and hit the ground hard. I screamed, just screamed. I choked on my tears. She didn’t seem so sad. I couldn’t tell. How could I not tell? Then I remembered what she said.

“Don’t ever forget how much I love you. You mean the world to me. I’m leaving but I just wanted to say our final goodbye first. I’ll never forget about you.”

It confused why she said it but I ignored it. Why the hell did I ignore it?

This story is not fully true. I did have a friend named Rebecca and she did have eyes as blue as the sky, but she was more than that. We had been dating for three years. The night before I left we got into an argument. She hated me for leaving and told me she had been seeing other men since I told her I joined. The only person to shed tears that night was me. I never got a goodbye. Instead, I got a phone call from my mother. She was trying to keep her voice balanced when she told me that Rebecca had shot herself. No note, no explanation.

I tell the story truth,

Everyone believes it.

Some cry for Rebecca, some cry for me.

Most wish for a friendship like ours.

The story truth allows people to feel how I did,

Or at least something close to it.

Mistakes

Down With The Queen (#5)

In response to the Beat Generation

My goal was to create a personal narrative using a photograph from an artist in the Beat Generation. The narrative did not have to follow exactly what was happening in the photograph; I could create a different story. For instance, the photograph I chose was taken by Elliott Erwitt. It is an image of Grace Kelly after the announcement of her engagement. However, I am changing the meaning behind the photograph.

Well, there's no turning back now; everyone is staring at me.

I know the room is bright and wide, yet I am looking around and I see the walls closing in. A misty fog rises up, covering every person’s face.

I can hear their whispers, spoken as though I could not.

There is no uniqueness to their tones; they all sound alike.

Their faces hold looks of malice, followed along with sardonic smiles.

Why did I come? What am I trying to prove?

Stop. I can not keep thinking this way. I will not be affected. I will not show my sorrows, no matter how hard it may be.

Looking up, I can only view two faces. They are not covered by the fog, as though they were protected by a shield.

Oh dear. I told myself they would be here, but I did not expect them to be here together. Can they notice my hands shaking? Can they feel the tension in my jaw?

I start to walk pass them until a sudden urge overpowered me. I knew I could not ignore them. I turn to them and I can notice their mouths slightly moving. I can imagine their oppressive comments towards me. I knew what I had to do.

“Hello Will, hello Brian.”

I look into Will’s eyes and there is no emotion to them. I knew he had become disenchanted with me. I spoke once more.

“Will, I am truly sorry for the sin I committed. Brian, I am sorry for manipulating you. I never meant to cause tension between your friendship, though I am glad to see that you two are still talking. Will, I still love you. I need you to know I still think about you everyday. I never meant to engage physically with Brian and it is not his fault. We were fighting, I was sad, and Brian was there. I told him we were no longer together. I am aware of my actions and consequences, quite frankly, so is everyone else. I just wanted to apologize one last time.”

I am waiting for a response but nothing is said. I knew I should not have come. I turn and walk away, passed the people and the double doors. I could not feel sadness for myself, I only felt it for Will. After, it is supposed to be our wedding day.

I Can Picture It

I Can Picture It. (#4)

In Response To The Man I Killed, by Tim O’Brien

I can still picture his face,

His ears, his nose, and his skin scattered all over the place.

A single tooth left for us to trace,

I can still picture his ring.

A symbol of love and the life it would bring.

This was not a simple fling.

I can still picture his photo.

I imagine his children beginning to grow

His love, they will never know.

I can still picture the date.

An accidental encounter of his soul mate,

A night that changed their fate.

I can picture her face,

When she hears of the man she can not embrace,

News she wished she could erase.

I can picture her ring,

Reminiscing on the joy he used to bring,

Content with everything.

I can picture her photo.

A time where there was no sorrow,

For the now young widow.

Not So Minor

In response to: Sonny's Blues, by James Baldwin

James Baldwin tells the story of two brothers’ struggle through their life in the short story, Sonny’s Blues. The oldest brother, the nameless narrator, has survived life by assimilating into white society but “still feels the pain of institutional racism and the limits placed upon his opportunity1”. Unlike the narrator, Sonny has never cared to blend in and had to find his own outlet for his suffering. Without guidance, Sonny soon became addicted to heroin. The story explains the background and breakup of the brothers in an extended flashback, including the death of their parents and uncle. Over a year passes until the narrator recalls Sonny’s presence in the world, when Sonny was arrested for possession of heroin.

James Baldwin is an internationally recognized writer and civil rights activist. He has written numerous novels, essays, plays and speeches, such as Go Tell It On The Mountain and Nobody Knows My Name2. He was greatly influenced by the “situation of blacks in his country as well as his personal experience of poverty when he lived in Harlem”.  He had multiple themes, such as discrimination, loneliness, contemporary issues, and religion, that appeared in his works3. James Baldwin was different from most African American authors, which gave him a unique view. The three distinctive identities he had were being black, poor, and homosexual. This brought the central point of the other and deep criticism of white American society. For all of his marvelous works and deeds he has done, the “James Baldwin Scholar Program” was created to provide “scholarships to talented student from underserved communities4”. One of his most famous works, Sonny’s Blues, is a clear representation of what James Baldwin had, and what most unprivileged people in communities, such as Harlem, still face.

Sometimes, it is not the major characters that make the story. In literature, the plot for the main character leads them to comes across minor characters. In Sonny’s Blues, this includes Isabel, Sonny’s childhood friend, the brothers’ parents and uncle, Jazz musicians, and more. These wide range of characters each have some specific impact in each of the brothers’ lives. Though the story primarily focuses on the narrator and Sonny, the other characters are essential because they provide information for the plot. Each minor character helps the development of the story of two brothers and how they come to understand each other.

Sonny’s nameless friend is a reflection of all the people who struggle with a drug addiction, which opens a new on Sonny, and symbolizes a passageway into Sonny’s life5. In his one appearance in the story, he and the narrator discuss Sonny’s current conditions. The narrator is frustrated from his lack of understanding of his brother while the friend is concerned that Sonny’s addiction may have been his fault. He explains to the narrator that Sonny’s life will be very difficult for a long time and may never fully recover from his addiction. When they are finished, the friend asks for money but is ashamed of it. The conversation represents the narrator’s passageway into Sonny’s life.“I wanted to ask him-too many things. He could not have answered, or if he had, I could not have borne the answers,” he thinks as he becomes invested into the conversation6. He wants to learn more about his brother but can not obtain much information from the friend. The friend himself is a portrayal of multiple people suffering from addiction. He is raggedy and has an odd smell. He has no home, no job, and no money. Being nameless suggests that he has been forgotten from society. If Sonny’s addiction worsen, he could become the exact same person. Though the narrator may not realize it at first, the audience can infer that he knows this is possible.

Tragedies bring people closer together. Grace, the narrator's daughter, dies at a young age due to polio. Though it seems like a time of sorrow, her death possess the narrator to finally write to Sonny for the first time. After that, both of them keep in constant touch. The narrator even agrees to meet with him when he is released. When he meets Sonny, he was the “baby brother [he’d] never known looked out from the depths of his private life, like an animal waiting to be coaxed into the light7”. They talk for a bit then head back to the narrator’s house. There, Isabel and her kids welcome Sonny as though he had never left. As they talk, the narrator is watching Sonny, looking for signs of addiction and wanting to talk about where he went wrong. This leads him to a flashback of their childhood, when their parents were alive.

Their parents set the course on the type of people the narrator and Sonny become. Their mother always tried to “protect her family from the darkness of the world8”. She was kind and loving, a light in their world. Their father was not as compassionate, but he cared deeply for his family. He was always looking for “something a little better9”. The narrator had a good relationship with both his parents, unlike Sonny. Sonny and his father did not get along. This was because they were very much alike. Both their father and mother predicted the many dangers that Sonny would have to face. Each took a different path to deal with the dilemma. Their mother acted as a guide and warned the narrator to protect his brother while the father just fought with him. Both Sonny and his father kept their feelings private. Their father never cried infront of anyone, except his wife, and Sonny often spoke indirectly, as if he was too afraid to say what he wanted. As for the narrator, his mother unintentionally put a lot of pressure onto him. He was given the responsibility of protecting Sonny when his parents died. His mother told him the story of how his uncle was killed by drunk, white people when he was young. It was a warning about how the world had not changed. It also taught him how to support his brother. His mother mentioned how his father was deeply depressed and was never the same person since then, yet she was always there for him. After Sonny and the narrator parted ways, the narrator felt guilty that he never looked after his brother. He felt responsible for Sonny getting into trouble. James Baldwin used the parents as informative characters that gave the reader insight to why the narrator and Sonny are the way they are.

As the story progresses, Sonny and his brother continue to fight with one another. They fight because Sonny has been ditching school, ran away, and more. When they meet up with each other for the final time, the narrator accepts Sonny’s invitation to watch him play with jazz musicians. However, the narrator is skeptical about his decision. When they finally begin the show, the narrator sees a different side of Sonny. He realizes that Sonny had found a way to cope with his suffering through music. The narrator notices how truly passionate Sonny is about it. In the end, the narrator understands that Sonny is no longer a child. He was a man and surpassed his addiction on his own. The narrator fully understands his brother and realizes that he belongs to a world full of music.

Sonny’s Blues is a work of literature that gives each of it’s characters meaning, including the minor ones. Even though most are introduced once, each minor character contains vital information that helps develop the story and allows the reader to understand the brothers’ past. The story contains many themes; the main one being hope. James Baldwin incorporates this theme within each character. Not only do they bring hope to the characters, but they also bring hope to the readers. Each time there is a fight between the brothers, a minor character unintentionally finds a way for them to reunite with each other. Sometimes people forget that there is more to a story than just the main characters. All the other characters help develop the story. This does not only occur in literature. This also occurs in music. Most people tend to love the main singer in a band and forget the rest of the members. People do not realize the importance of each member. Sonny’s Blues teaches a very powerful lesson that can be used for any aspect. There is meaning to every aspect in life, including the minor things.

My Own Enemy

My Own Enemy (#3)

In Response to Faces of the Enemy

"Faces of the Enemy follows social psychologist Sam Keen as he unmasks how individuals and nations dehumanize their enemies to justify the inhumanity of war1".

What is the place? I’ve never felt this intense of heat before.

We are in a village. Everyone out here in the market are part of the enemy.

How do I know who to trust? There are hundreds of faces.

You do not trust anyone. You can’t even trust your “brothers”.

Why do they keep looking at me? Some are beginning to stare.

You are their next target. Everyone has joined up against us.

Should I run? I can easily make it back to the car.

No you coward, you’re a man. Everyone will see how weak you are.

What should I do? I can feel myself beginning to hyperventilate.

You attack first. Get out your gun and start shooting. Do it. Do it before they turn on you.

I feel a hand grab my shoulder. I grab my knife and quickly pull away. It’s only Jankins. He has a worried look on his face. “Are you feeling okay? Why don’t you go back to to the car and drink some water, we are almost done with the patrol anyways” he tells me. I begin to head back to the car.

What was I thinking? Was I really about to start shooting everyone?

You should’ve. Can’t you see through his facade? Now we have to stay on the defense. You idiot.

What? That isn’t true. I wasn’t in any danger.

You are always in danger. Did you forget that? No wonder why you're the target, you’re easily manipulated. Tonight, sleep with one eye open. They are going to get you at your most vulnerable moment and then you’ll question why you didn’t listen to me.

I feel a sudden splash of water hits my face. It’s Jankins again. “I’m going to help you to the car. I think the heat is getting to you. You haven’t moved for a while now. Come on, let’s go.” He wraps my arm around

him and starts walking to the car. I began to worry about myself. I confessed to him what was going through my head. How it was like I was having a conversation with another person. How they were telling

me that everyone was against me.

“Don’t worry about it,”he said. “It’s all just in your head.” He was right about one thing.

The enemy was in my head.

Storms Of Anger

Storms of Anger (#1)

In response to Racism during the Harlem Renaissance

Storms are born within ourselves

The hatred rages through our body like a tidal wave and

Our words are pushed through our mouth from a gust of wind

Our eyes fill with dark clouds and

We can hear sounds of thunder

The lava in our veins make us boil in density

Though we may think it’s the ground,

It is ourselves that are shaking from anger

We can feel our fingers

Slowly twisting, like a tornado, into fists

There is no way to stop the storm now

It attacks and the other face gets struck by a superstorm

Now comes the aftershock…

Our moment of realization…

We look at the other face

Their features dragging to the ground

Before we have a moment to speak, the weather changes

A rainstorm falls upon their cheeks

They are frozen in place like ice cycles

Their hands hide their face like a sheet of snow covering the ground

We want to reach out and touch their ocean

But they've been through enough

You can see it on their brown skin,

Burned from the flames of hate.