The First Time I Used Truth in My Writing
I dug up this old essay from my college days. It was the first time I wrote about my childhood experiences. I re-read it now and am amazed at the last prophetic line. It is getting harder for me to recall the specifics, yet that damn sun still remains sharp in my mind.
Dig a Little Deeper Little Boy
The light was bright that morning.
What was it about today that allowed the sun to sneak inside the house that hid itself from the world? The carpet he was lying on was rugged and often made him itchy when he woke up, but it was a sacrifice that he made to avoid the discomfort of sleeping in an attic. His grandmother’s room was covered with the color pink. She had a fluffy comforter to cover her queen size bed that was submerged under pillows. It was the soul of the house, many tears were shed there. His grandmother always had a way of fixing his family. The sun beat the blinds heavy enough that they were gliding smoothly from side to side. Its ray’s landed on the four year old boy who lied there on his grandmother’s floor sound asleep.
Across the hall was the door to his uncle’s room, where the light never touched, except today. The room was surrounded with blue crystal. The little boy called it a story book, for it was like out of a fairy tale. On the shelf were wizards holding their staffs, dragons being slain by heroic knights, watch towers, and castles with alligator infested waters. The light peaked in through the window reflecting off a clear crystal ball which sent sun-rays across the room bringing it to life. As much of a fairy tale as his room was, his life did not resemble one. Recently his uncle started struggling with the truth of his identity.
Down the stairs on the blue living room rug surrounded by mirrored walls rest a false fire place. The little boy’s favorite ornament was hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room; it was a rain lamp that had the Virgin Mary in the middle and drops of oil falling down these thin invisible lines, creating the illusion of rain. This was the center of the house, connecting all other rooms.
An opening connected the living room to the kitchen. Red tiles covered the cold floor. Brown cabinets and a large brown table took up most of the space as well as a tall refrigerator with a small TV on top of it. His grandmother’s chair had a red pillow on it so she could feel comfortable as she sat and watched her soap operas every day. Steps in the far left corner of the kitchen led to the last room in the house. It was where the little boy’s mother and step-father slept.
A large room it was, filled with a huge day bed, an old fashioned television set, and shelves on the walls filled with his grandmother’s clowns, two tables at each end of the bed, and a carpeted floor with chocolate milk stains on it. The mother would sleep all day and be out all night. The little boy never really saw her only when she would pick him up from school. His step-father he considered his biological father because he was the one who took the responsibility of raising him. He worked every morning from nine to five all except Sundays. The little boy’s friends made fun of him because his father was never home and could never take him to the park like all the other fathers. The little boy knew that he was working and that supporting him meant more than playing catch at the park, but he still couldn’t help to be a victim of criticism.
The sun found its way into that room as well. It came in through the windows that were above the day bed. The rays landed themselves on the two sleeping bodies. Across the room a small hallway led to the back door of the house. Down this hall is where laundry was done and is also where the entrance to the garage.
The garage was always filled with broken air conditioners, radios, televisions, refrigerators, and any other electrical appliance known on the market in 1990. All of this was collected by the little boy’s Godfather who was his other uncle who recently moved out of the house to start his own life. The little boy received his name after this uncle and was liked a lot more than the one that was living with him right now. With all the junk inside the garage the sun had still found its way inside through the glass windows on the garage door,
What was it about the sun? Why did it have a heavy affect this morning? The house was quiet, everything stood still. It felt as if time had stopped. The little boy felt as if his life were on pause. Soon he was brought back to life and awoken by the crashing sound of his front door breaking in. The house was alive. Nobody knew what was going on. The little boy jumped on his grandmother’s bed and she held him tightly. He heard his uncle scream “COPS!” The boy could his uncle across the hall trying to climb out of his window onto his fire escape ladder. Police officers quickly ran up the stairs and pulled his uncle back into the room pointing their guns at his head. More of them made their way into his grandmother’s room and held their guns at the two holding each other for dear life. His grandmother knew what was happening, but the boy did not. He was so scared as the police officer led him downstairs into the living room so they could search the house.
His cousin was sleeping on the living couch, she didn’t go to school today because she had a mind grain all night. She was not suspecting a wake up call so early in the morning. She jumped at the crash of the door that was barricaded in. The boy stood there trying to understand what was happening to his home and his family. He could hear his uncle screaming in pain. His cousin was about 12 years old and she ran over to and hugged him.
The boy watched as bags of white powder were taken out of the kitchen cabinets by the police. The little boy’s body began to shake uncontrollably, tears streamed down his face like the juice streaming down a squeezed lemon. The sounds began eating at him; his ear drums were beating hard as if trying to escape captivity. The thunderous footsteps cracked the tiled floor. The ancient cabinets creaked and squeaked and the voices grew louder with frustration. There was anger and depression all around him. The little boy could feel the sweat and taste his tears as he began an anxiety attack. The boy took all of this in; his thought process was different from that of an adult. He was still learning and this would be an epic event in his life that he could never forget. He wanted answers. I wanted answers. As much as I’ve tried to hide it my whole life, I was that little boy. I watched as my uncle, mother, and father were forced out of the house in their pajamas in handcuffs. My mind raced. I knew that this was my life, this was the road ahead. My instincts told me that I was going to be involved with drugs and that I would die from them. I cried so much that day because I could not understand how a family could put their children in that much danger. I dug deep in myself trying to find an answer for what happened. I didn’t find what I was looking for. So from that day I made a promise to myself that I would lead a perfect life. I would not follow the foot steps of my family. I said “Dig a little deeper little boy, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
That day I began hating the person I was expected to become. I’ve taken up writing as an escape from my families habits. I turned all of my aspirations and fears into written metaphors and imagery. Every sentence I finish helps me put behind my obscure path. I write stories now just so that I could control what happens. My past is uncontrollable and I found that the only way to set it aside for good was to write about it. However, as much as it drifts from my memory the one thing that will never leave my mind was the beating of that sun, the symbol that there would be light in my future.
