humanity
Humanity begins at home.
Chameleon Father
My dad is my creational nemesis. As I have grown older, our creative souls seem to be at war; who can be the bigger philosopher, who can create the greatest work of art, who can be the biggest fuckwit to the world, who can draw the most tears out of eyes; who can be the better artist. I have always wanted to meet his level of imagination, dreamed about being half the God of aesthetic and creation that he is
By Alyssia Balbi5 years ago in Families
Valentina's Little Flower
“Calendula” her mother called from the kitchen, “last day of school my little flower, come have breakfast with Pappi and me”. Cal, as her friends called her, thinking to herself, I sure don’t feel little or like a flower, schlepped down the hall, also thinking but I’m glad school is over for this year.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
Shark Week 1991
I was an eight year old girl living in Alexandria Kentucky, a short hop over a bridge to Cincinnati, Ohio. A popular local news station was promoting the opening days of Shark Week in tandem with the opening of the tri-state areas first IMAX theatre. When the art contest was announced, my sister, three years my senior, my mother’s favorite daughter was upset because she was too old to enter. Mom encouraged me to submit an entry. Of course I would, I love creating new things. I wanted to draw a pretty shark with flowers in her hair.
By Cortney Kotzian5 years ago in Families
Piece of Me
It was still dark outside as the small boy stretched in his bed. He didn't want to open his eyes just yet as he curled into his blanket. It smelled of his abuela (grandmother); cigars, Maja soap, and a hint of a soft floral off- brand perfume. He smiled as a tiny tear rolled down his cheek. Today was Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) and he wanted to get an early start to make his abuela proud. 'Time to get up. Move your body, muevete (move), let's go,' he thought as he slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As his feet touched the floor he smelled fresh bread baking. He gave a quick stretch and headed towards the bathroom. He held back tears as he saw the bar of Maja soap but decided to use it to wash his face. "Macho! Are you awake? Come eat breakfast mijo (son)." He walked in the direction of his mother and she greeted him with a smile identical to his abuela's. He didn't know how he was going to make it through the day. His abuela passed away only months ago and this would be the first Dia de los Muertos that had a family member he actually knew. Abuela Yolanda was his favorite abuela. He loved his abuela Gloria but she was strict and chanclas (house slippers) were her weapon of choice when he misbehaved. Abuela Yolanda never got upset with him and was always patient with him. She made sure to get involved with all of his interests and even dressed as a luchadora (wrestler) one time when he was sad because he wasn't old enough to go to a Lucha Libre match (wrestling match). He stiffened his chin and hugged his mama as she handed him a plate of eggs and rice. His morning routine seemed to drag on forever. He did his chores and helped set up the ofrenda (remembrance altar) with marigolds, sweet bread, candy, candles and the offerings his mom entrusted him to handle. Lastly he set up his favorite photo of abuela Yolanda right next to the photo of abuelo (grandfather) Miguel. Once he was done helping his mother set everything up she allowed him to wander off into town for the celebrations. He always used to love the celebrations but today he only half-heartedly enjoyed seeing all of the spectacular parades and costumes. He sat down at the children's table and asked the face painter to add his abuela's favorite flower as she skillfully turned his face into a skull. "Aye hijo (child) you look so guapo (handsome)! You'll make your familia (family) so proud! Who will be visiting you tonight?" The face painter looked at him so lovingly while she awaited his answer. He shuffled his feet and looked down as he said, "Mi abuela Yolanda (my grandmother Yolanda). She loved the flower that you painted on my face. Do you really think she will visit me tonight?" Her smile reached her eyes as she assured him that she would. He thanked her as he walked toward another children's activity. Her words made him feel a little better and he enjoyed the rest of the festivities. The day was turning into evening as he decided to make his way home to join his mother for the night procession to the cemetery. "Mijo (son) are you ready? I have candles and marigolds, bread and water. Am I forgetting anything?" He shook his head no as he helped his mother carry her items. He didn't know if he was going to be able to keep his tears from falling as they walked through the town. The reality of her not being with him was hitting his heart like a fist to his chest. He tried not to think of her as they walked on. He watched his feet as he stepped on the marigold petals wondering if the dead were walking alongside them. They finally reached the cemetery and headed to their family plot. He helped his mother decorate all of their family's headstones and lit candles next to each of them. They saved Abuela Yolanda's headstone for last. "Mama, I miss you so much. Thank you for everything. Te quiero (I love you)." He listened as his mother silently wept. She started to set up the bread and cups of water near the headstones while he stayed at his abuela's. He dropped to his knees as the tears fell from his eyes. "Abuela, I miss you so much! Life is not the same without you. I can't do this without you! How am I going to do anything without you? I need you!" He pleaded with her to come back to him and pounded the ground in frustration. A single marigold floated down in front of him. He sniffled and wiped the snot from his nose as he picked it up. A breeze hit his face, filling his nostrils with the sweet smell of his abuela's perfume and cigar smoke. "Macho, no llores (do not cry). Javier, mi Machito (macho) you must not be sad. I am here with you, always." He heard her words but could not see her anywhere. Suddenly he felt her warm embrace as if she was in front of him hugging him. He closed his eyes as he cherished this moment. When he slowly opened his eyes he gasped in shock as he saw abuela Yolanda right in front of him. "Macho you look so handsome! I will always be by your side whether you can see me or not. Thank you for my ofrendas (offerings). The marigolds are so beautiful! You got the biggest ones I see! Look at the colors! So vibrant! You always had an eye for the best flowers. I love you so much Macho!" He smiled as his heart filled with so much love, "I love you too abuela. I am sad I don't have you here anymore. I'm going to miss your hugs and your laughter. Will you visit me every Dia de los Muertos?" She laughed, "Of course Machito. You don't have to worry about that. I will always come to visit you. I must go now but please do not be sad. Anytime you need me, I will be there. I promise mi amor (my love)." He watched as she slowly faded away as the breeze blew through her. "I love you abuela." He closed his eyes once more, replaying her words in his head. As he opened them he saw his mother walking towards him and he smiled at her. He had a new sense of calm as he met up with her, "Mama, I love you." She smiled down at him and wiped the tear from her cheek. "Let's go home mi amor." He nodded his head and hugged her. He took her hand as they headed home, "Mama you don't have to miss abuela. She said she will always be with us." She squeezed his hand as they walked silently the rest of the way home. He was finally at peace with his abuela's passing.
By H. L. Ridgeway5 years ago in Families
Stepping into the past to face the future
I click off the television with a disgusted growl. Why do I let the worst of the world, the wars, the disease, the suffering, and the stress parade around my living room?! I need a break from the news, a break from the images, a break from the voices droning on about the worst of the world's headlines. I need to find a moment in which to breathe, to just be still, to find my balance..
By Lori L Friesen5 years ago in Families
Marigolds and Magic
I am a first generation Mexican-American trying to fit in to a small Iowa town. Some places in Iowa have a growing Hispanic population, but not Goldenrod, Iowa. I am the only brown in a sea of white. We moved here two months ago, and I'm still sitting alone at lunch and recess. It's not like I can totally blame the kids I go to school with either. I just don't know how to talk to them. The way I talk is a little different. I feel like when I speak up to answer a question, people are laughing behind me, so I just don't talk anymore than I have to.
By Casandra Lynnette Lobberecht5 years ago in Families
Family and Friends
I don't know if I would call this a story. It's about a person that I know that has been through a great ordeal in the past while and in the recovery process is finding out who the true friends and family really are. They are known as the black sheep of the family, shunned by others for who they are or are not, they are there to help when needed but when you require help they are nowhere to be seen.
By K.C. Keats5 years ago in Families
Sadness Gains Courage
”Did you know?” “We had no idea, we could have stopped this evilness a long time ago. A wide smile, golden hair like the colour of the bright sun rising in the morning. Those hazel eyes just melted your soul. The sweetest little girl you ever could have known.
By Cathy Deslippe5 years ago in Families
The Compound
In 2019 my family moved into a place that we were really excited about, although I have to admit I was a bit embarrassed by how it looked on the outside. Four dingy looking buildings all facing each other, connected by a big piece of grass. Several families all essentially sharing a backyard? Imagine the drama that must come with this arrangement! It'll do for now, I thought. But the truth is, what it actually would end up doing, I could never have anticipated.
By Angel Perez5 years ago in Families
The Cross Dresser
Crossing on the ferry from Oban to Craignure I can see it, a swirling sea mist lifting from the lower fells, licking its way up the rugged, rose-pink granite face of Ben More mountain where it hangs like a shroud till noon. I grew up on the Isle of Mull, restricted in my youth, punished to live on one side of the island while the rest of human life lived on the other. Ours was the only farm on the western shoreline. On the east side, white cottages with chocolate box thatched roofs littered the fells inside a checker board of dry stone walls.
By harry hogg5 years ago in Families
