Hue

I grew-up complete with the whims of mine instantly granted by my mother and father. I was the only child, which would justify my parents’ care for me, and mine to them. as I began to age, I was shielded from almost all the worldly hurt this lifetime could muster. I am aware of this, although dimly. I was closer to my mother than to my father, although I love them both, but I am more attached to my mother in a way words fail to explain. when I was 13, war broke out, and my father had to leave and enlist himself to the army. I was young – unadulterated of what was happening – all I could remember was the bold words uttered by my father after kissing my mother on the forehead, “im leaving on my own accord, if its not me and the other men, who’ll fight against those nazi bastards?” and then he forced to summon a cheeky grin upon his own lined face, “Molly, look at me” said my father as my mother choked back tears, “im sure everything will be alright. Donald told me two days ago that we’re on the winning side of this shit-hole.” after that, he straighten himself up walked slowly towards me and laid eyes upon me – our eyes met at that moment, brown against blue – and placed his right hand upon my straw-colored hair, gave it a ruffle to mess it up a bit, and then proceeded to leave the front door of our house, depart from my mother’s sincere affection , and forget everything about our home and everything it ever represented.

The pickle-in-the-middle

The pickle-in-the-middle; every nuclear family is diagnosed with this disease running through their bloodline. Although not considered fatal by many, a pickle-in-the-middle – or in layman’s term, the middle-child – sees this disposition as unfair and down-right bullshit.
Being placed in the middle, the pickle must endure the taunts and bullying of his hard-knock older brother, or if female; must hold out to his older sister’s “benign” I-care-for-you-little-brother attitude and I-understand-why-you-do-such-things-little-brother. In other words, older brothers/sisters sees you as their personal punching bag or scapegoat when time calls for it which – bad for you – is really often. The pickle must also understand that all those used possessions, once owned by your predecessor, will likely be given up to you instead of having to buy new ones; cost-cutting in the words of your mother. This system could have worked out, problem is; not one shirt really catches your liking, while some would not fit properly because your older brother would be 30 stones heavier than you. All the same, you are forced to wear these apparel when going to school. You ask your mother if you have a choice, she says yes; you could either go to school with those clothes on, or you could go to school without any clothes on. Perfect.
After coming back from school, with memories you plan to bury later at your backyard. You sense something wrong as you lay eyes on your Nintendo DS, and before you could react and initiate any kind of resistance, the aggressor attacks you; you are pinned to the ground, helpless and alone. Say hello to your little brother/sister; adorable and witty. This often makes your parents laugh because of his/her cuteness, while this makes you torn between tearing the little rascal into two or smacking your parents in disbelief and then tearing the little rascal into two. Going back; you see your DS in an awkward, nasty position and your little sister’s doggy eyes. You add two and two, and then resigns to the fact, you call out; Mom!
The whole family barges in; your mother, and then your father, followed suit by your older sibling; And even though you sense the deluge waiting, you smile. There’s no place you would be, more than where you are now. The Pickle-in-the-Middle.

Hand-in-hand

I was walking home the other day when i passed along my old school, granted that I was free for the whole afternoon – since it was a weekend – i tried to poke around the old alma mater and see what has changed since I left, within and without.
While inside, I was still able to recognize the place, although it was somewhat different years back, the old buildings have gone for refurbishment, and new ones are growing from the concrete soil. As I walked on, I began to take a journey through my old memory lane of middle-school; every step I took seems to pull me back further and further into my past. Students were walking down the hallway side-by-side; in twos, threes, and so on. Most of these kids were sporting the same brand of fashion – arm bracelets with those silver circular objects attached. These were some of the things I hated about middle-school, it was a big NO to walk along the hall alone, also, it was a taboo to not join the fashion trend that was setting for a particular moment – those apprehended for failing in doing such, was reserved for a spot in the middle school hall of shame.
I was still walking, seeing, and disbelieving all of this stupidity, when suddenly I saw this kid, a boy, talking animatedly to this girl while holding both her hands and pleading with his eyes. Without being able to contain my curiosity I approached the young couple:
‘Well give me a year or two, and I’ll mend my ways and see these mistakes and see the truth. Darling please trust me.’
I was taken aback by such words from this youngsters mouth, the girl-lady replied with a nod, and the lad with the good tounge pursued:
‘Thank you for believing in me now, because I do need it now.’
Yes, this concludes my trip down middle-school.

Nolita Fairytale

I am Nolita. My Mother told me that she wanted an Italian name for her first-born. If it was a girl; it would be Nolita and if a boy, it would be Benetto. My mother thinks it is a great name and would often tell father; father would scoff and worry on what we would eat after nightfall instead. Mother stays at home, taking care of me and the house. She once said that before I came, she would accept housework from people across town – and once finish – she would come down to see and wait for father at the fields. Father works in a sugar cane plantation together with our neighbors. He would wake up before day break and be ready for work. Going to the field, he brings his sickle and leaves Mother with a kiss on the cheek.
The year is 1899, we live in a town in Mississippi. It was the year of knowledge and mediocrity, a time of trailblazing innovations and strangling traditions; in other words it was a battle of changes and beliefs.
You see, our family has been branded as those “colored” people from the south, those coming from a second-class race. Others – those who feel we deserved a more ‘proper’ name, would call us “negro” or “nigger”. At that time, I did not know that it was such a befouling word if it is thrown at someone. Other children, those who tag themselves as ‘whites’ would usually call me such names, I did not wholly care because I was determined not to make any kind of connection. You see, I am quite jealous because they can afford and go to school. I, on the other hand has been self-taught by my mother since the day that I could hardly remember.
I grew anxious and weary because of what has been happening in-regards with those other children as time passed by. The other day, they tried to hurt our cow that we use to generate fresh milk, sometimes, they would mutilate and destroy my Mother’s garden and then run of laughing and howling insults. This has made my Mother really sad. Mother really loved that garden, she would tend to it everyday and see that the roses bloom perfectly. Most recently, they tried to break into our house, we did not know why, but my Father was very angry with those children and swore to teach them a lesson one of these days.
One blood red sunset, while I was headed home. I noticed that those children were tracking the same direction as I did. A bit apprehensive but still unconcerned, I still continued my way. Until I noticed that they were steadily gaining speed towards me, my heart began to race so I began to run. I ran away from the dirt road because of panic, I was not able to lose them because of my frail stature, compared to their well-built frame. Although I knew that odds were against me. I began to sprint. Suddenly, I felt a sudden lost of balance of my body, I feel face down upon the dirt, taste of blood and loam registering upon my tongue. I tried to get-up, but to only fall in vain. I hear the other children’s heavy footstep as they surround me. One of them hooked his foot upon my side and lifted me up, I was facing the ruby red sunset. Although I was not sure if it was; my vision was beginning to wane after blood started trickling from my forehead. I felt lightheaded, it was only a short while when I began to fall asleep, thoughts of Mother and Father as I await my emptied wake.