Dear Noah – (Letter number one) Hey, This feels weird. We’ve never met. And I don’t even know if you exist...but...I think I miss you. Up until recently, I’ve been fine. Completely unaffected and uninterested by romance or relationships. I’ve never had the desire to be with someone or to be intimate. I honestly thought there was something wrong with me. Everyone did. Everyone does. But recently, I feel You. I feel the warmth of your arms around me, randomly, and all of a sudden. I feel the shadow of your kisses on my back, or your fingers interlacing mine, and my heart stops a moment. I have never met you, but I think I miss you.
The Quiet Child
I am the quiet one. The one who is seen and never heard. The one who never gets to speak first and consistently gets cut off. I am the disregarded, overlooked, underestimated child. I may have been born first but I am always the last to be thought of.
The quiet little girl
When I was just a little girl, 12 yrs old, filled with wonder, braids in my hair that trailed down my bad, eyes wide open, strong enough to challenge the world, so I felt, Id wander off alone in my neighborhood, in a daydream like state of mind, believing I was the star of my movie. I had such a creative mind, in that world, I was a lone wolf, an adventurer, the hero, lol anyone I wanted to be. I lived in a broken neighborhood, where the foundations were built off survival, and tough love, but a love that made you feel like you were a part of a community nonetheless. The aromas of soul food and barbeques still leave a sense of nostalgia when I smell them today. the laughter of adults whom sat outside, filling their lives with small talks and entertainment as the kids played in the streets, racing feet patting against the pavement. the sound of police sirens and helicopters, that remind us why we stick together, and also of the deep brokenness no one was prepared within our community to speak of. As I ventured through this place we called home, through people that called me family, id wave and smile, but my voice was always quiet. I always held my voice, maybe I was too shy, or maybe I was afraid that the many thoughts I had in my head would come flowing out like the sea when it rushes in after a high tide. in my little body, I had so much emotion, so many thoughts, so much energy, and secretly lied a strength and braveness nobody knew. I continued thru the hello's and laughter, till id meet the gate of the community, and step out into what I called another world. I walked until I reach this wooded area of our neighborhood, that had trails and proceed through, I had a favorite little spot where id sit, where a tree had begun to slump over as if it was tired from always remaining strong. I'd lay across this tree smell the cedar and the mixture of freshly cut grass, noticing the caterpillars and birds and other life in these woods, mesmerized by the light casting through the trees, it always felt like I was in another world when I was there. despite the nearby streets, and people walking by. I learned how to shut out the noise and enjoy the silence, maybe I was good at that because I already knew what it felt like to be silent. I started to drift more into this world, and the peace and less into the other, closing my eyes, pretending I was far away from everything, yet still being so close in reality. I opened my eyes startled but the sound of my name being called. my stepdad had been looking for me, I arose silently, inhaled a deep breath of fresh air realizing I was leaving back to reality. I arrived home to the stern Voice of my mothers telling me about going off on my own, and the heavy worry in her voice with the hint of frustration and confusion, for always having to remind me, I stood there silent, wanted to scream my feelings, but not being able too, I felt so misunderstood, my eyes moving side to side as tears filled my eyes, and she continues to scold me till there was nothing left to say, she looked at me, possibly frustrated by my silence, she disliked that I was so quiet, she walked away and I retreated to my room, the only other place where I could be alone with my thoughts, I had some much I wanted to say yet I just couldn't find my voice, more tears came down my cheek, why was I like this, nonmatter the confrontation, or situation, I was just so quiet and reserved. how can someone be so fierce, brave, and not have a voice? I hated it sometimes, I felt prisoner to my mind, as I've watched other kids speak, and were popular and respected because of their outspokenness, whereas I was silent and always challenged. I saw it as their strength but my weakness, at least that's what I thought, I craved for a voice, like them, like my mother who never bit her tongue, maybe that's why I escaped from everyone so much because I was surrounded by people who had a voice while mine was imprisoned in my mind, in in the places I went there was only peace, and there I didn't have to have a voice, but amongst the community most did, and so to them I became known as the quiet girl. To Be Continued...
The mystery of the missing shoe.
The thunder and lightning raged above my aunt's house in Cape Girardeau, Missouri as I stepped out of the vehicle, looking scared out of my wits at my aunt's house down the driveway. My other three siblings and I were dropped off there, ready to spend a few days so my parents could attend a funeral.
I am angry. I am angry with myself. I could have and I should have had enough courage to tell someone. I should have been more brave. I should have better protected my siblings.
Old pants for new styles.
These are the confessions of a tomboy; a girl who enjoys activities and most especially clothes associated with boys. For several reasons such as comfortability, affordability, and did I mention, they’re comfortable?
The Christmas Cards
I was on fire that night. There wasn’t a thing I could do wrong, not a thing I could say that wouldn’t be exactly what she wanted to hear.
The Tales of a Flustering Valentina
Born on January 29th, in a small city in Mexico our heroine burst out from her mother’s womb, 6 hours into labor, ready to face the world. The nurse, overworked and tired, runs out “It’s a boy!” she shouts and returns to clean the baby as the family waiting outside erupts in shouts of joy. Exactly 10 minutes later the attending doctor walks out with a baby girl. With all the corruption in Mexico the family is skeptical and demands to know why they were told the baby was a boy but bring out a girl. The doctors are quick to reassure the family that there were no other babies born on the same day and upon further investigation they arrive to the conclusion that when they picked up the baby she had a bit of poo stuck to her bottom, not to mention she was a little hairy thing, and therefore the tired nurse got confused. Relieved and happy the family decide to name her Valentina, a name meaning bravery and strength, a name for a brave soldier. She has always felt this name was an oxymoron, and that it cursed her to be faced with many embarrassing tales.
Learning about yourself is one of the most rewarding parts of living. Finding that piece of information that helps you understand yourself more feels like finding a missing puzzle piece. It is the biggest breath of fresh air. I learned at a very young age that I could take things too far, but it would be years before I would come to understand what to do with that information. I just knew that I would always have to be careful when sharing my darkest moment.
A concatenation of circumstances
Many years later I would learn that the financial crisis of 2009 had already begun rearing its ugly head in the summer of 2007. But in 2007, the exuberant speculation in the housing market was drowning out the concerns of the few doomsaying bankers and economists. Wall Street was deluged in a rain of money. Some droplets from that downpour had also managed to percolate into the hands of my father, who, overjoyed by his fortuitous investments, had whisked us off to San Francisco for a family vacation.
It Was a 'W' Until It was an 'L'
Like lots of people, overthinking is a bane of my existence. Even before I knew there was a word for this condition it had being with me all along, a cruel, constant, companion.
I was a challenging kid. I was often withdrawn, played with my toys a lot, was moody and emotional, and I could throw a temper tantrum like no one else. I was sensitive and awkward and had learned whether through nature or nurture to avoid conflict. Sure, I was bullied at school, but I was in the middle rungs of the social ladder. I often found it easier to get along with my teachers than my peers and I had a good rapport with most of them.