Share your pain, your sadness, your happiness. Share your ups and downs. Share! Share! Share!
If you would like to post a story send it to CSOS4E23@aim.com
Moving Beyond the Pain
By Piper
The girls gym locker room with a sign that said GIRLS ONLY was the beginning of my worst nightmare. In the gymnasium where we had school dances and assemblies, I recall not dancing, and having to sit next to people I would rather not. So often, I felt invisible that the only thing people noticed about me was my thick, dark, curly black hair, which earned me the moniker Chia Pet.
Inside, row after row of metallic blue lockers and long, hard brown benches was a source of great discomfort for me. With hardly anyone around, girls could watch each other undress; the temperature on the thermostat kept the room just warm enough to agitate my tormentors.
About once a day when I felt like crying, they found this sensitivity to be particularly bothersome. No one knew or cared about my situation with a sick mother at home, or my desperate need for friends. The lunchroom echoed sentiments of the cliques that began in the locker room. Pretty girls dressed together; I dressed alone. As I looked back at my yearbook, those girls were not that pretty, but had a sparkle of personal magnetism. The rough girls, who were not quite in touch with their feminine side, found pleasure in using rubber bands to make the fat around my developing thighs snap with the pop of the band.
While the girls continued to horseplay as the teachers sterling silver whistle tooted and puffed, I ran listlessly into the locker room to change before them. Most days, I sat on the bench, and put my pants on top of my gym shorts. Later on, I went back and tossed my shorts into my locker room basket right before making the dreaded bus-trek, full of having to stand up on the bus, and of not having anyone to sit next to.
Other days, I would usually dress facing my locker, and even sometimes, I would be late to my class just so the other girls would not see me unchanged. I did not want them to see my stuffed bra, or me yanking a maxi pad out of my
purse. One actual day, I became an easy target both outside and inside the locker room. Relay races were always a source of pain and heartache for me. Being an unpopular kid in school meant watching the entire class cheer for even the last girl, sometimes the only white girl in class.
My classmates accepted people of different races; no questions asked, but for me, they made an exception. Once, I was the subject of ridicule because I managed to finish the relay race last. We were outside, the other girls were racing together; I ran by myself. One boy even said to me, Ill give you a cookie if you hurry up! My face became naked expressions of hurt emotions; I began to cry. The gym teacher completely ignored the class laughter. I never suffered so much loneliness. I became unable to desire
the ability or confidence to talk to other people. I began to withdraw into myself.
That day, I scurried ahead of nearly all of my classmates into the locker room for the reason that I had a headache. I merely intended to dress and proceed to my next class as quickly as possible. It was mandatory to remember locker combinations from the beginning of the year, protected by the steel force of a hand-held combination lock. If we forgot, there was always Miss J, the girls gym locker room teacher. She does not attend class with us, but when she substituted for our English teacher, Mrs. B, she whacked our palms with the cold, metal side of an unbreakable, sharp-edged ruler if we read and did not pronounce our words with correct diction. A hard-living woman, she did not tolerate even asking for assistance, but I did not know this until my cheeks became bright red as she yelped that helping me was not possible.
Continuing to face my locker, I stared at the air vents that separated my clothing. The other girls came in, but fortunately, that day they disregarded me. Tears gradually rolled down my round cheeks, and whimpers of protest failed to escape from my lips. One blonde-haired girl whose name I cannot remember came over to me and said in a comforting voice not to cry. She was one of the popular girls who I did not think knew that I existed. Taken aback, I rolled over my combination on my lips:
36-07-28.
I studied Miss J scrutinizing us with her frizzy perm and pancake-applied makeup. She smoked a cigarette when it was nonetheless permissible to smoke inside. Her fingers limply held it; the stink floated from the other side of the locker room to pummel me in the nose. I stared down at my sneakers, and breathed a sigh of relief as my locker opened, no matter how late I would be for my next class. The blonde-haired girl did not seem neither to care that she was going to be late either nor that there was another class of girls coming in.
At that moment, I turned to say something to her, but she as quickly, went back to her bubble gum world of friends, fast-food hangouts and entertainment. Once again, the callous manner of social classes became part of my worst nightmare: That I would always be alone.
My heart beat erratically as the final bell echoed for the next period class to begin; I was tardy. Slowly I strolled to my next class, clutching the walls; assessing the hallways for any bullies that might try to force me into the bathroom to smack me around, but a pink flyer caught my eye: Middle School English Poetry Contest. My mother, lying up in a hospital bed with a brain tumor, who always wanted to be a writer. On one occasion, I sent off something written about my brother to a National Library of Poetry Contest. Years later, I found out that, it was a swindle, and I was remorseful that I had sent my only copy.
Winning that contest for a twelve-year-old was as insinuating as giving a homeless person a fake ticket to win the lottery, but I was still not a writer at this moment. I was someone who wanted to create a poem for my mother: I wanted to write for her, become the writer that she never became. She had resented herself not being able to go back to college to finish but I never discerned this as I watched her fuzzy-shaved head, the smell of collapse seeping through her pores, and the nurse hugging me for a few lengthened seconds. Excited about something from school though, I went homewards to tell my factory-worker father. Our kitchen was a bright, yellow joyful color. Since my mother was in poor health, and my brother was in elementary school, I was responsible for creating whatever I wanted, so for the ceremonial dinner that night, I made pancakes with chocolate syrup for my Dad, and myself and for my brother, ketchup and jelly sandwiches. The threatening smudges between my fleshy fingers from the flyer that I got on his favorite Coke bottle glass did nothing to him or my brother making dirt pies on the hallway floor.
I said, Daddy, I am going to enter a poetry contest. My fathers response, Chemotherapy. What is that? Does that have something to do with chemicals? Cause I learned about them in science.
She needs them to get better. Can I help Mommy? No. I decided to write about my mother. Wisps of hair cry/Free Falling. She was going through a rebirth, and not death. To an oblivion of nothingness/Endlessly dreaming. She had too much involvement now. Someone from this family was going to turn out to be a writer.
Furiously I wrote the poem that night. Entering the contest, and not prevailing flattened me, but I got back my mother in return for losing. Later I revised that poem into Contrapuntal: the Feeling, a poem published 15 years later.
However, this did nothing to stop my middle school nightmare. My poor mother had to come up there subsequent to three girls threatening to hammer me for a false rumor that I did not start.
She came up to my middle school with a yak-colored wig, big, black Jackie-O sunglasses, and a steel-covered walker. Each painful step toward my middle school was a painful remainder of how close my home life really was to my school life: I did not want the two to intertwine. I did not have a choice.
My fathers job did not merit vacation time during an icy November day, and his temper not patient enough to deal with a school that could careless that his hard-working tax dollars were going to treat his daughter as a rag doll.
Nonetheless, the journey toward my mother and me developing an understanding between each other awakened after her visit to my school. Dismissively, the secretary engaged in her own popularity contest by instructing my disabled mother to have a seat, while a well-liked students parent, a local celebrity of sorts, immediately accepts coffee, donuts, and a place in the schools hallowed hall of fame. Ten minutes later, the assistant principal, my mother, and I sat down for the beginning of a very frustrating conversation. My assistant principal, a mighty woman with aspirations of moving up, listened with indifference, more concerned about fixing everything into a little package that could be wrapped up for her boss and filed away under How to Solve a Problem in 30 Minutes or Less. I listened with the same rage of a homeless person, just having welcomed jail time for a passed off fake ticket.
The harassment began when a false rumor started that I had said something terrible about my tormentors, who decided that since the rest of the school already did not like me, they had enough of pretending. I started writing to define myself in a world where I was not accepted. I made-up stories where I was the pretty girl, the most popular, the one with boyfriends. If an ugly thought or memory of intimidation crossed my intellect, I wrote through my feelings and carved my tormentors out of my chronicles.
They moved away; I stayed. In my fairy-tale, my mother did not have a brain tumor; she was the beautiful woman I had known as a child with long, flowing hair, radiant makeup, and glamorous gowns. Not surprisingly, the
other girls mother presented a unified front when we went to meet; they deemed me the delinquent and I yearned to escape or fall down a flight of stairs.
While my assistant principal tried to appear unbiased, her child, one of the most popular students in the school did not face the obstacles that my mother and I did: trying to get me through eighth grade in one piece. Her solution: that my class schedule switched around so I would see all new faces.
My mother, despite her frail exterior, did not feel that this was good enough. My assistant principal in her best career educator pose gazed directly in my mothers face and said, Some kids are just pickable.
I could not believe it, and a small part of my faith in other people died that day never recovering. Unlike my mothers diagnosis, which she defeated, she swallowed this with severity. Her own struggle for self-definition beyond
that as a survivor was tough. I was angry with my mother for not fighting harder for my survival. Selfishly blaming her for being on a walker, for not having had died; maybe that would have garnered more sympathy.
My mother, a woman who to this day refuses to taste the intensity of bitterness, left defeated. I learned from my mother that I needed to turn that defeatism on my enemies. I decided to become a writer, and send that assistant principal a copy of my first book.
Written and Edited by: C. N. Young
Stanley and Lynnette Young gave birth to a unique baby girl on May 21, 1986. She was born two months earlier and the result she was born premature. She weighed 311½ lbs. She had to stay in the hospital for a month. Her mother had to come to the hospital everyday to feed her. She wasnt allowed to leave the hospital until she was 4 lbs and 8 oz. After that she was brought home to her loving family which it seemed
At the age of 2 she got Pneumonia and had to stay in the hospital for a week. While she was there she kept climbing out of the bed which had rails on it and she roamed around the hospital. The nurses had to keep putting her back in the bed. That little one seemed like a busy body.
Then when she was in the second or third grade she fell in the school play ground which was covered with ice. She was laughing at some stupid boy who always bothered her and her friends, and before she knew it she had fallen on the ice and hit her head. She laughed it off until she noticed she was bleeding then her head began to hurt and it wasnt so funny anymore. After that one of the older kids took her to the nurse and walked her little sister to her kindergarten class. The nurse called her mother to pick her up. She then was taken to the emergency room and she got stitches. They didnt hurt all that much it was more of a sting then anything is what she felt. She had to keep them in about two weeks and not let any water hit them.
An issued was raised about whether to sue the school or not. They had gotten legal advice and were told that it was hard to sue a school and that it would take too long to ever resolve the matter So the parents decided to drop it, let it go and move on.
Years went by and things seemed to be ok with the girl. Who would have known that church could have changed her life in ways that could scar her. It was going good for a while. She really liked it. She started treating her friends differently. She treated them like they were the enemy. She treated them that way because she thought it was right and that she shouldnt hang around sinners. It was simply because of what an adult told her to do and her mother sort of agreed to it; learning later it wasnt such a good idea and that it was wrong to ignore your friends at any cost. She also learned that she might have misinterpreted what the woman had said but anyhow she remained friends with her friends and they forgave her.
One day something happened to this young girl in church that changed her in a bad way. The pastor had bitten her on the neck. She thought that was very inappropriate and was very upset about it. She told her father, brother, sisters, and cousins. Her mother was the last to know and asked why she hadnt told her. The girl said she didnt know. Her mother talked to the pastor about it and he apologized to the girl. Did she forgive him maybe and maybe not?
As more years went by the girl began to change and grow. She saw things she didnt need to see or hear. Like seeing a teenage girl get hit by a car and gasping for air. Or hear the pastors daughter and a minor discussing when to get together to have sex again. Things that just wasnt right. The list could go on but that was life its full of unknown things and sudden surprises.
When Charlene was approaching her teen years she became less reluctant to go to church. She wanted to do what all the other kids were doing. She wanted to go the movies. Go to parties or school dances. Be in school dance programs. Just be a regular kid but instead she was limited to everything. Church became a prison to her. She was trapped and everything began rising to the surface. She began to notice the things that she was so oblivious to even though she seemed pretty alert. She noticed her constant loneliness, her pain that came from somewhere and that made her feel isolated. Every secret became a hidden secret. Everything was kept inside making her harder inside.
She learned that her family wasnt the happy family it appeared to be. How could she had missed it all those years? They didnt talk about personal things. When discussions came about there was always arguments. When she needed her parents they werent around. It hurt and the pain grew into something more. Her mother was so into the church it seemed she forgot about her family, abandoned them. Charlene hated to wear dresses all the time. She became sick of it. She wanted to wear pants again but wasnt allowed to and that angered her. Although what angered her the most was that her parents were never there when she needed them. It made her independent. It made her hardcore, a solid rock of armor.
August 3, 2000 was the day Id suffer for the rest of my life. On the way to church me, my mother, sister and my mothers friend, and her daughter got in a car accident. It was pretty bad but not as bad as most. We all got hurt except my mothers friend daughter because her mother shielded her. They all saw it was going to happen except for me. I was daydreaming I think, looking out the window thinking about God knows what. Although the accident is a blur it sort of always was. Things fell apart after that. I was forever changed that day.
June 6, 2001 was a day Id never forget. I was taking a final exam after school that day for one of my classes. After that I left to go home and when I got home I smelled something burning before I even approached the house good. When I came in I asked my older sister did she smelled that but she didnt. So my younger sister lit candles. We were outside with friends and laughing, until someone told us our house was on fire. We told the person that we put it out. He said that it was still on fire. I went to the side of the house was like Oh shit. I then ran to tell my sister, brother and cousin to get out. It all turned worse from there. First off it took the fire department forever to get there and put it out.
After that me and my two sisters went and stayed with my aunt and uncle which was a very unpleasant stay. That night the flames played over and over in my head as I knew that day would change our lives forever. That summer was too long and too depressing. We had lost our home and that pain never really goes a way. Although memories will always remain and time will always go forward.
I could go on and on about things that Ive experienced. I could even write a book. Those events changed me and made me the person I am today. Ive learned to be more independent. Ive learned that you cant wait around for other people. I had to learn to grew up quick and take life as it comes. It was very hard before because I felt that my parents should have did somethings for me in my life but hey thats life.
I became more driven to achieve my goals. I began to open up after so many years of being closed. I began to see things clearly and began to see my path more clearly. I began to find a peace that could eventually set me free. Most of all I began to slowly find myself and understand what I was destine to be. I had gained control over my life after letting sadness, anger, bitterness, and loneliness consume me.
Writing had saved my life, whether it was writing my feelings, a story, poetry or a novel. I learned from there to express how I was feeling and what I felt. I learned to come alive and join the living. It became a crutch holding me up, even guiding me. It guided me to a very positive future in writing. Who knew something couldve came from it? Who knew one day Id find my identity?
Written and Edited by: C. N. Young
How I came to Daylight/Twilight High School all started 4 years ago when I was evicted by fire. After the fire I moved with an aunt and uncle. I started attending Trenton Central High School in September of 2001. I attended Trenton Central High School about a little over two months. While attending there I was sick for two weeks before I got transferred to Nottingham High School. I was transferred because my family and I moved into our new house.
Not long after I got to Nottingham I began getting sick a lot. I started having seizures out of nowhere. I was hospitalized twice for having seizures. Not alone being sick from the flu, cold, and a stomach virus. I missed a lot of days and I wasnt doing so good in school. I was under a lot stress but still tried to keep going and not quit. It wasnt any easier with my guidance counsel and teachers reminding me of how many days I was missing. I guess they thought I could help it or I just wanted vacations often. Who knows?
The doctors ran test on me and the results was that I had seizure activity on the brain. They tested me again but the second and third test showed nothing. So one the doctors conclusion was that I was either fating or I was having suedo seizures which are caused by stress. I had seizures for a while after that still until they just went away. Although I still got sick from the flu, bad cold, etc. I was failing in school which made matters worse.
After that school year I was transferred out and I went to Daylight/Twilight High School I think around January of 2003. I went for maybe two weeks or less and got sick and I never went back. I tried to get my mother to take me back to register but she didnt. I guess she had more important things to do. I was out of school for well over a year maybe longer. While I was out of school all that time I did daycare. I wrote a lot, read and researched.
Then in March or April of 2005 I went back and registered for school. I attended for I think two days. The third day I missed my stop and ended up I dont know where. I got a bus transfer and I went home because I was already really late for school. The fourth day I had a migraine and could barely left my head off the pillow. So I didnt go to school. Seeing how I missed three days one; registering late, missing my stop and had a killer migraine, so I didnt go back.
Over the summer I made up my mind. I took a look at all the things in my life and analyzed them. I understood that what happened in my life was my fault. That I shouldnt have depended on my parents to help me when I needed it. Being of age now I had a responsibility to do the right thing. It was time to really be an adult and act like one. I wanted to better myself and get a decent paying job so I went back to Daylight/Twilight High School in September of this year.
I came back because I believe that I could achieve anything I put my mind to. Although the real reason was that I missed so many opportunities of accomplishing my goals. I want to be a writer and I want to be in the computer field, maybe even Psychology because I always had an interest in it. I need a diploma to even get started in any of these fields then move on to the necessary studies to be placed in either field. So you see this is how I came to Daylight/Twilight and to excel.
