literature

I lead a quiet rebellion.

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When I was five years old, I wanted to be a taxicab driver in the streets of New York City. I dreamt of meeting people from all walks of life, and learning about them as we explored the urban jungle together, if only for a few minutes. Even as a small child, I knew I wanted to help others find their way in the world. Most people spend their entire adolescence figuring out what they want to do with their life, so I wore my decision like a politician's campaign button, and told my dream to anyone who would listen.

A few days later, my mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Instead of a doctor, or a lawyer, or even a fireman, I told her that I wanted to be a taxicab driver, proud of his shiny yellow cab and modest New York apartment. She merely frowned, shook her head, and told me, "No, you're not. Someone is going to get in the back of your cab and blow your brains out."

By the time I was eleven, I read all of the books in my parent's collection and spent my afternoons watching the news and discussing the world's problems with my father. Nothing worldly mattered to my mother, focusing on what to make for dinner and how to style her hair. Sometimes she would ask me about school, and I tried my hardest to tell her as little as possible; I didn't want these two worlds to touch.

School slowly helped me develop my sense of self, free of the scrutiny I faced when I confided in my mother. I made friends who learned they could relate to me, and I knew exactly what to say and how to say it. I decided then that I would become a therapist, helping those without the tools to help themselves.

During a discussion with my father about college and the future, I informed him of my newly established career goal. He told me that I would do great in whatever I eventually decided to do, and went back to scanning the paper between sips of coffee. My mother turned away from her dishes and simply asked, "How are you going to help others if you can't even help yourself?"

The following school year, I enrolled myself into a poetry writing elective. I've always had a fondness for books, and I thought that I could gain some insight into what it was like to be the one behind the stories I knew every word to. On the first day of school, I eagerly strolled into the poetry class, clutching my navy blue notebook with a faint smile on my face. The attendance sheet had only fourteen people, so we pushed our desks together and created a family alongside all of the orphaned seats.

After arriving home that day, my father asked me about my first day of seventh grade over dinner. I spoke of each class, lining up their teachers in a verbal firing squad like every first day before it. My mother smiled as she picked through her salad, sliding the onions to the side of the plate. It seemed all too fitting; my mother hated things that made her cry, even moreso than the days I wore dark colors and hung her so-called 'suggestions' back in the closet.

"I'm excited for Poetry tomorrow," I said, looking over the vegetables and the biscuits on the table.

The sound of scrapping metal against porcelain on my mother's plate suddenly stopped. With a few more onions out of place, her task wasn't complete, so I braced myself for the comment she was about to make. I mentally scanned through the things my father and I had said, but nothing seemed too inappropriate; nothing we said could've broken her mundane perception of our usual banter.

"Poetry," she stated dryly, "Is certainly unacceptable. Are you going to become one of those gays who write about their feelings?"

I wish I would've said something clever or witty, but instead I retreated to my hushed existence and quickly finished eating. Her bitter words were nothing new, and the constant disapproval was becoming a theme to my life. If my father ever objected to my mother's comments, I never knew about it. Things were easiest in our household if we kept our opinions to ourselves, or at least away from my mother.

The following day at school, we were in the middle of reading Edgar Allan Poe when Poetry class was interrupted by a phone call. I thought nothing of it, and continued skimming through The Raven. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see my teacher standing over me. She informed me that I had been switched out of the class and into a science elective, and wished me luck.

I was disappointed that I didn't get to stay in Poetry class, but I knew that I'd see my little 'family' in the hallways every once in a while, and that I could still continue reading the work that we started. When I entered the science classroom, I was surprised with the number of students. Nearly thirty pair of eyes watched me as I scanned through the crowd, looking for somewhere to sit. I knew then that something else was in play, as it didn't make sense to be switched into a bigger class from a smaller one. I didn't know what exactly had happened until I arrived home from school that day.

"So, how was Poetry today," my mother asked, with a smirk on her face. The kitchen's counters were covered in cookie dough, and my mother's hands in flour. I watched as she kneaded the dough into submission, and I felt a knot in my stomach form as I put the pieces together.

"I guess I was switched out of it today," I said as normally as possible. I could feel the color leaving my face, but I didn't want her to know the pain she brought me; I didn't want to give her that power.

"I see. How in the world could that have happened?"

I went to my room without a word, unpacking my backpack and searching for my Poetry notebook. I traced the spine with my fingers and began to flip through the pages; still completely blank. I hammered my feelings into the pages, without stopping, until everything I felt was out of my head and onto paper; I was at peace for the very first time.

My mother made the mistake of meddling with the world that brought me joy, and that gave me the strength to create a new world, a world where she was powerless. What I felt, how I thought, who I loved, it all didn't matter anymore; through the written word, I found my voice. Through the written word, I found power.

It was the beginning of a quiet rebellion, but it was much more than that; it was the beginning of the person I am today.

-

Mother, I know what I want to be when I grow up;

Happy.
:iconbased-on-a:

This is my entry for Based on a True Story's contest 'A Beginning'. I've wanted to enter this contest since I first saw the article, but for a while, I wasn't sure of what to write for it.

I think the concept of beginnings is an interesting one, because there are so many different beginnings that could be talked about. I chose to write about the moments that lead up to the time when I started to write poetry, because writing truly means a great deal to me. I thought that covering my past was essential to fully grasp who I am and why I write.

This piece was very personal to me, and I hope that you enjoy it.

(Do the particular moments of time build to the emotion of this piece well? Is there anything that should be changed to improve this piece?)

-


This was featured for a DLD here. (December 17th, 2010)

This was featured in January's issue of TeenInk!
© 2010 - 2024 Racketeered
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I have a small handful of friends that I consider the cream of the crop -- the ones I almost fully mesh with, the ones who are on the same mental wavelength, capable of enthusing with me over many of the same enjoyments, capable of following my train of thought no matter how bizarre a place it goes to or how odd the connections between elements.  With this group, and this group alone, I have never ended a conversation with them because we'd run out of things to say or ideas to share -- only, ever, because the outside world intervened and our communication was cut short.  I thoroughly value these friends.

And then, one day, I was discussing things with two of them, and asked what their favorite poem was.  And neither one of them had a favorite poem.  (Note: They're just about 20 years old.)

It floored me.  I consider them well read and cultured, able to appreciate the wide variety of the world around them, many other good qualities that so many people lack... and to have them not have delved deep enough into poetry to have a favorite poem -- even if they couldn't quote it from memory, like I can quote mine -- was, for a moment, utterly incomprehensible.  (I hope that at some point they'll each run into a poem that truly speaks to their heart.)

The people who look down on poetry, or consider it a lesser art form (let alone those who think that art itself is a lesser pursuit), they are incapable of appreciating more than a tiny corner of life.  They are to be pitied... and their opinions largely ignored.