I'm Not Wanted

 *The following is based on true events to the best of my capability. Trigger warnings: alcoholism, childhood trauma, emotional abuse

My alarm goes off, it’s time to get ready for another day at Blackhawk School (whose mascot at the time was a young 'Native American child' with a Warrior's headdress). I had already been going there since we lived with David. We now live with another white, racist man named Joey. He is part Italian. Joey’s apartment is a large lavender Victorian two-story home converted into two apartments. We live on the bottom. The only times the front doors open are when I’m journaling underneath the shade of the decorative overhang listening to both my stereo and the busy street. Our place sits on Highway 26. Joey’s daughter is occupying the second bedroom until she moves to college in a month or so. I envy her massive water bed. My mattress sits on the floor facing away from the bedrooms and towards the front doors. My right wall consists of Mom’s and my wooden horizontal dresser along with an old sheet she 'got' from work. My bedroom doesn’t have much privacy, only rounded doorways. Between their bedrooms and mine is an empty space I often mimic our cat in. (The same cat Joey later shoots because it gets 'trapped' in a sewer.) I go to gently wake Mom up so that she can help me get ready for school; she mentioned the night before that she wanted me to take a bath. “What time is it?” I answer her. “Wake me up in fifteen.” The problem is I struggle with reading clocks. I don’t understand how the numbers printed turn into increments of five; I see no fifteen. I take a guess at what time she meant and wake her up accordingly. She explodes with anger because not only is it passed the time she originally thought but school has started (or is close to starting). I usually don’t hear this much anger unless she’s intoxicated, so I presume she’s hungover. Her words hack me apart: “WHAT DON’T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?! HOW THE HELL DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO TELL TIME?! YOU'RE TOO OLD FOR THIS, SAMANTHA! DIDN'T THEY TEACH YOU THIS IN SCHOOL?!” Stomping to the kitchen where our clock hangs, she frustratingly explains how seconds work. “GOD DAMMIT, SAMANTHA! I TOLD YOU I WANTED YOU TO TAKE A BATH! FUCK!... GOD DAMIT! UGH, I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE EIGHTEEN AND MOVE OUT!” She rushes to get ready. She has torn me from head to toe; a wound she'll never be able to heal. I’m frozen once again, trying to hold in the tears because if she sees (or perhaps she did see) she’ll yell, “STOP CRYING!” We finally arrive at school and I’m escorted to class. It’s here I know I’m able to let go. It's here I know I'm heard, I'm safe. At some point, I’m taken into the hallway and my first-grade, pregnant teacher, Mrs. DeWall, asks what’s wrong. I repeat my Mother’s words with heartache, “...I can’t wait until you're eighteen and move out…” My teacher gives a sympathetic look, trying to comfort me she says, “Oh…I’m sure she didn’t mean it…”

I Don't See

 *The following is based on true events to the best of my capability. Trigger warnings: alcoholism, medical emergency, childhood trauma

My Sunday ritual is like many in my hometown. I get dressed in an outfit that pleases an older generation and am hustled to a church I don’t want to go to. Grandma is the only one in our family who consecutively goes to church. She had tried getting her children to stay, but once they were confirmed at Prince of Peace Lutheran Church they split. Lucky for me, she always seems to be in charge of getting coffee ready; thus, we have to be there even earlier than the first service. She waits for me in the parking lot behind our blocky U-shaped apartments. The night before I didn’t get much sleep due to Mom, (Bonnie?), Dolly (Bonnie’s adult daughter), and Dolly’s boyfriend partying. It was the first time in a long time that Mom was having fun, but it still involved liquor, weed, and cigarettes-the three things I’ve learned to have hostility towards. Yet, laughter was better than the fighting. Yells which I now heard from Dolly's bedroom instead of the living room where Mom has kept the mattress she and Bonnie once shared. It’s also way better than the cries of Dolly’s daughter, Wynter, who is a toddler also living with us. I walk from my bedroom at the end of the apartment to the bathroom across from me, then down the cold tiled hallway, and into our moderately sized kitchen. It’s here I see Dolly’s boyfriend, a short, big-eyed African-American man lying on the ground. He’s lying on top of our sink floor mat. He’s lying on his right side facing me. He isn’t sleeping. He is convulsing. He is having a seizure. A puddle of foamy saliva pours from the corner of his mouth as his eyes seem caged. I don’t know what to do! I’ve never seen anything like this! Do I try to talk to him?! Do I  try to touch him?! I remember this shaking uncertainty mixed with distress. I don’t scream. I don’t make a sound…for I’m afraid of the consequences. I’m a thirteen-year-old afraid of consequences. My Mother is snoring away behind the sheet separating the kitchen and living room where she traps the air conditioning. She’s always a pain to wake up. I could already imagine her big bugged, glossy, dead stare; looking but never comprehending. If I wake up Dolly I risk waking up Wynter, which risks waking up the whole apartment. But should everyone be awake? I feel the pull of needing to help, dragged down because I didn’t know how, and tied to this belief that somehow I would get in trouble with Mom. I couldn’t delay any longer because then Grandma would know…even if she is a retired nurse…if she came inside she would see the beer cans and smell the smells that Mom desperately tries to hide…Mom made me promise years ago to never tell Grandma what goes on at home…So what am I to do? I’m angry to again be put in a situation I feel like I shouldn’t be in. My solution is to just lay a towel down beside him hoping he’ll be ok. I wipe the developing tears in my eyes, walk head down the long sidewalk, and into Grandma’s white van. She says good morning. I greet her back. I mention nothing about what just happened (or is continuing to happen for all I know). I feel guilty thinking that maybe I had just let a man die. My fear of my Mother prevented me from once again helping. After service and Sunday School, I return home to find only Mom. She asks if I saw anything that morning. I tell her. She is solemn and without saying it, scared. Yet, she hints through her words and demeanor that what happened was his own fault.

Relatable Disciples

The more I read of Mark (and in conjunction with where I am in life mentally) the more I feel like the disciples didn't struggle with (just) not understanding Jesus' teachings but that they didn't understand His love.