What is and what could've been

Two poems today, both by Laura Haskins-Bookser.


Regrets

I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself

My mother is alone, asleep in her room

I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway

Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly

Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?

I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier

I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM

She screamed at me that day as well

You don't need help
You just want attention

So while she is
still yelling in the hallway

I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state

The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins

I think to myself
It's only Saturday

I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over

Sleep Deprived

I slept
slept like a baby
a normal baby, that is
who doesn't survive on
three-hour blocks of sleep

I slept
without one interruption
without one peep from your crib
without any noise at all
from you

I panicked
and jumped out of bed
raced to your crib
on the other side of the room

You are not breathing
I am sure of it
I cry out
call your name
pick you up
wake you up

Oh no

I slept
slept like a baby
and could have gone back to sleep
if only I hadn't woken you
from the deep sleep you were enjoying

You scream
and I laugh and I hug you
that's the baby I know
that's the baby I love

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Everything old can be new again - part 1

I'm going to start the tale of an exciting weekend with a story about a funeral. Aside from being a reality check, it completely threw my thought process upside down for the next two days. Last week I got a text from Marina saying that Mr. Foreman, our Tae Kwon Do teacher, died on Saturday of a heart attack. I didn't know how to reply so I just exited the inbox.

I quit Tae Kwon Do in 8th grade, I think. After being promoted to a red belt, something killed my motivation - I felt that was good enough, so I stopped going. My instructor, a black skinny man in his 50s with more energy than a teenager on redbull, always said he saw something special in me, so I didn't talk to him or say goodbye before leaving because I thought I'd feel too ashamed. Ashamed that after four years, I didn't really care about karate anymore.

This man was something else. I can honestly say I have never met anyone like him before in my life, and I'm sure I never will again. His stories, his insanely long, crazy stories made half of who he was. He never, ever stopped talking. As low-grade middle schoolers, Marina and I laughed and complained about how he never shuts up and takes 40 minutes just to tell his students goodbye for the day. But man, we'll never forget his stories. He'd tell them over and over and over again, forgetting he'd told them differently the other 17 times. They were stories about his childhood, whether motivational or just ridiculous, but I was amazed at how such a busy man had enough time to retain and retell these magnificent stories with millions of details.

It wasn't until the funeral and the funeral's speeches that I realized time was what he centered his life around. Time, the only thing in the world that we can't alter in any way, this sacred bittersweet concept that just runs and runs as we all live inside of it. His goal in life, at least one of them, must have been to spend as much time with people as possible before we run out of it. And, if he's lucky, in that time he could say or do something that would be a positive influence on someone's life.

And you know what? Every single person that went up to talk that afternoon - his wife, his son, his best friend, his jazz band members, the national Martial Arts instructors, his students, his fans, of absolutely all races and ages - all said he had changed their lives for good.

He was completely healthy. He could do every possible stretch and position karate required of you, and he'd always tell us to take our vitamins. "Don't forget to take your vitamins," he'd yell as we walked out the door drenched in sweat and maybe sporting a bruise or two. And then one day, his heart failed.

A stinky blog post is not enough to describe this man. Even if you ask me in person, I will not find words to describe this man. That Saturday afternoon, all I could think about was Why did this have to happen to him? He could have passed on his unique gift to so many more people. It wasn't his time yet. A very tall, black man with a gruff voice bawled like a baby as he stood at the open casket, telling us about Mr. Foreman's god-sent presence in his life. That's what got to me. I hate crying in public places, but this was brutal. It was too much; standing next to Marina, also sniffling, I felt more alone than I ever had.

And then they sang. A woman came up to the microphone and started an a capella version of The Staple Singers' "I'll Take You There", and Mr. Foreman's band members brought in the instruments. She asked all of us to join in as well. At first, everyone was either too shy or uncomfortable to belt out along with her, but after the chorus she had the whole room clapping to the beat and repeating the key line. If you don't know which song I'm talking about, check it out here. This is a few of the lyrics:

Oh . . . mmm
I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin'
Ain't nobody worried
Ain't no smilin' faces,
Mmm, no no
Lyin' to the races
Help me, come on, come on
Somebody, help me now
(I'll take you there)
Help me, ya'all
(I'll take you there)
Help me now
(I'll take you there)
Oh!
(I'll take you there)
Oh! Oh! Mercy!
(I'll take you there)
Oh, let me take you there
(I'll take you there)

She concluded by saying she believed this is where our teacher and friend is now, at this place. An aura of tension relief and hope was almost tangible as it spread out among the attendees. In a room full of strangers, I felt like something now connected me to each of them. Moreover, for that moment I felt connected to every person on this earth - because ultimately, we all want the same thing: happiness and the peace of mind that comes along with it.

We had to leave the funeral a bit early to make it to my mother's office on time, but I felt strangely redeemed. Someone like Mr. Foreman must be in a place like that, he deserves nothing less. It would be an understatement to say his time on earth has gone toward a great cause; we will always remember his lessons, and when the time comes, we'll pass them on to our children. Thank you for everything you have done, even to those who didn't appreciate it at the time.
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How I spent my Friday

Missing school on a Friday is awesome. You know what's even more awesome? Missing school because you're lying in bed with a temperature of 101.8 and a body-shaking, eye-watering, furniture-trembling cough. Add the fact that you can't swallow anything but warm liquid because your tonsils have swelled up so much it feels like you're gargling razor blades, and you've got a pretty good description of my Friday. TGIF, man!

Doctor says it's not strep throat, at least. Maybe bronchitis. Hopefully not mono. I'm taking this gift from God rather well, sleeping about 18 out of 24 hours with Foofie my huge white stuffed bear, watching some HBO. Okay, I was actually too weak to watch TV yesterday so I just wept silently into my pillow wheezing woe is me.

Then, at 3:25, a phone call woke me up. I didn't mind much since I've pretty much slept the entire day. The call was from Friend, who was apparently standing outside our apartments for the past hour trying to get inside his house. Apparently, he fell asleep at 11 at somebody's house and was later carried into the car and driven home; his mom, when he called her around 2 AM to open the door, didn't want to believe his story and continued sleeping. "Brrrrwwwrwrwrrr it's cooooooold," he stammered into the phone. I felt so bad for the guy, I offered to sneak him out a jacket and maybe a cup of hot tea, but he refused, saying I was too sick and he shouldn't have woken me up in the first place.

We hung up so that he could try calling his mom again. I couldn't help it; I peeked through my blinds at his sorry figure knocking on the door over and over again, with his thin Abercrombie hood barely covering his large head and disproportionally small ears. But they were cute ears. Ears that were now surely about to turn blue and fall off. After ten minutes, he called me again, but his phone died in the middle of a sentence. In a mad fit of rage, he banged on his mother's window. She must have said something, because he growled "I've been standing here for an hour" in response. The banging must have pissed her off because soon enough, the door opened and Friend disappeared behind it.

He called me a few minutes later after plugging in his phone. I'm not sure why; I could barely make out any words in his half-assed whispering, and after about 30 seconds he gave up and told me goodnight.

I couldn't fall asleep for about two hours after that. It was probably because I got way more sleep than my system needed, but I was thinking. And, in case you weren't aware, we can't fall asleep if we're consciously thinking, thinking and imagining scenarios and situations on new levels that our contemplation has taken us on. When you put it into perspective, I thought, my day wasn't so bad. I can't imagine living a life where I wouldn't even be able to come home on a Friday night in the afterhours because my mother doesn't want to open the door. Then again, Friend loves his life. Or does he? Being the total opposites that we are and having gotten a taste of each other's worlds, which one of us is truly happy?

That night, I had a strange dream where I came out with a cup of lemon tea and my large beige jacket, but Friend had already gone into the house. Disappointed at all my hard work of stealthily walking out the front door unnoticed, I was about to turn back - when I saw him with a pillow and blanket inside his mom's car (which, in my dream, had transformed itself into a convertible). "She made me sleep outside," he half-smiled. Although I should have been horrified, I was a bit glad my efforts didn't go to waste. And then I woke up.
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Irony's a bitchass ho

Saturday night was one of the worst nights I've ever experienced. Thanks to it, I didn't do any homework (well, this is actually thanks to my intense passion for procrastination), screwed up my job interview, disappointed people I really care about, developed bags under my eyes, and became ridiculously sick. Who wants to live my life again? Come on, anyone? Don't be shy now!

It started when I told my mother I'd be having a sleepover. Actually it started when I was stranded at Valley Fair for two and a half hours because Marina's seven pairs of size 0 jeans no longer fit her 18-year-old ass. I love her to death, but her we're-not-leaving-until-I-buy-jeans-and-OOH-that's-a-pretty-dress cost me my evening plans. Still, she wasn't the only stubborn one. I was determined to spend the night with Friend at Half Moon Bay, I was determined to get my mom's car, and I was dead set on doing this that night.

"I have a life too you know!!" was mother's response when I asked her for the keys. Really, my argument was flawless - drive up for a sleepover (really, mom, I'm sure you must be tired by this hour) and return home in the morning for my second Starbucks interview. In reality, I'd drive up to the beach and have one of those coveted second-semester-senior spontaneous absolutely crazy once-in-a-lifetime adventures.

Um, right. If anyone has lived on our lovely earth, they'd know that the only time things fall into place for that kind of night is in the cinema. For the first time in the nine years, my mother decided to go out. To the bar, to her boyfriend, to the club with her boyfriend - whatever. Why tonight? Beats the crap outta me. Point is, she drove me to my friend's house for the supposed sleepover around 9 and left to go party.

That's okay, the naive little saturday-night me still thinks. I'll have Friend pick me up and we could still make it happen. Except, of course, I'd have to deal with the fact that the house I was "sleeping" in was located up on a mountain in a different city in pitch-black darkness. I had trouble finding it even with the GPS. When Friend called, I explained the situation and gave up, saying I'd just have my mother pick me up on her way back from wherever. "No, wutchu talking about! Tell her you're sleeping over and I'll come get you!" Claiming he had a sober driver, a car, and a GPS inside that car, he convinced me to completely rely on him.

12 PM. Friend's phone goes straight to voice mail when called. Other friend, the one whose house I was in, was being very generous but increasingly sleepy, and her parents were starting to wonder when I was going to go home. Soon, soon, I kept telling them. I'm going to kill him, I decided.

1 PM. I suggested we go onto her bed since her eyes were closing. The guilt was eating me up inside. Friend finally called saying he found a charger for his "dead phone", and he was going to come get me if only I'd text him step-by-step directions on how to get to the house. But sweetie, I growled, what about the GPS? GPS, my ass. I had no other choice but to text him the street names. The girl's mom was making sure for the 6th time I didn't need her to drive me home herself.

Half an hour later, I was in the car with four people, two of whom were passed out in the back seat. Wonderful. We drove to a park near my house where we stupidly got out of the car and froze our butts off on the benches. That was even more fun than waiting to get picked up. And oh, how could I not mention the highlight of the night - when I sat behind the wheel because Friend decided he wanted Jack in the Box, and the original driver was making out with her boyfriend on the grass, the cops pulled up right behind us at the drive-through window. I still have a provisional license, see. My heart hadn't done that many leaps since season 3 of LOST came out on DVD.

I suppose the best, and the only good, part of the night was how Friend behaved himself. The first thing he asked when he picked me up is if I had a place to stay, and if not, he'd find me one. I lied and said I'd just crash at Marina's, but he made me call Marina on the spot to make sure. Woke up crabby Marina, arranged plans. Later, he took me on a walk, discussed childhood favorite Nickelodeon shows (Hey Arnold? Anyone?), pushed me out of the way of a 3 AM biker with an obvious death wish with the words "man, if that guy hit you, I woulda... freakin'... well, you know what I would do." He even offered to walk the 20 feet with me to Marina's house (which I politely refused) and texted a few minutes after I left to make sure everything was okay. In other words, he was the perfect friend.

Marina kicked me out at 6 AM saying she had to get up for work. I didn't complain. After making so many things difficult for so many people, I just wanted to get out. It didn't matter that I didn't have a place to go. I'd eat breakfast (and drink lots of coffee) in Starbucks, and tell my mother I was dropped off by the girl's parents when I'd come home around 9.

It didn't help that outside, it was raining out of a bucket. I pulled up my polyester hood and sloshed in my Keds around the parking lot. I wanted to cry. The rain took care of that, though. And, here it is, the big ironic moment of the story -

As I was rounding my house, I glanced at our parking space. My mother's car was not there. I suppose she stayed over at her boyfriend's house, and I could have been home all along.

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The reason I believe I screwed up my Starbucks interview later in the day is because I became ridiculously sick. I'm not sure if it was the rain, the lack of proper clothing under the rain, or the lack of sleep destroying my immune system. In any case, I welcomed the coughing and headache. I've been feeling so pathetic and disgusted at myself lately, I saw this as a way to physically release all my self-hatred. This sounds a lot more depressing than it actually is - I feel I got what I deserved, and balance in my self-concept (another shameless psych plug) is restored.

It has taken me almost one week to write this post. For some reason, I just didn't want to finish it. And I'm still sick.
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List of the Week

As stated in previous post, this is an excerpt from the book "11,002 things to be miserable about".

1. Death
2. Life
3. Hitler
4. Erectile dysfunction
5. Blind dates with ugly people
6. Monday mornings
7. Broken condoms
8. Dead puppies
9. Models
10. The orchestra that played as the Titanic went down
11. Michael Jackson's sexual proclivities
12. The Third World
13. Driver's license photos
14. Calculus
15. Butt acne
16. Gas station bathrooms
17. Asparagus
18. Having to hear about other people's babies
19. Memoirs by people who are boring
20. Memoirs by people who are more interesting than you
21. The Hilton sisters
22. Chlamydia
23. Oedipus
24. Men who pose for pictures with their cars
25. Standardized tests
26. The fall of Rome
27. Children decapitated by roller coaster malfunctions
28. Planned phone dates to catch up with friends
29. Fat camp
30. Armed rebels in Nigeria
31. The Vietcong
32. Bad kissers
33. Dogs that lick you after drinking out of the toilet
34. Morning sickness
35. Forgotten children wandering the aisles of grocery stores
36. Cell phone bills
37. Insults prefaced by "No offense, but"
38. Accidentally being touched somewhere inappropriate
39. Being touched somewhere inappropriate on purpose
40. Musicals about the Holocaust

This is definitely not the last time this book will make it onto the blog. The stuff's just too funny to pass up.
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