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"We don’t get to have the fairy tale love story that you see in the movies, but we do get to build each other up and remind each other that our ancestors have loved each other out of way worse. With over 400 years of oppression under our feet, we give each other wings and devote our lives to being more."
Jordaysia Brown, 2020
The Hallway
By: Jasmin Rangel
An anonymous quote that I believe most people should know is, “When one door closes, another door opens, but no one talks about the hallway in between.” Many people know that the doors symbolize our aspirations and opportunities in life. However, people do not usually talk about the hallways. The hallways where we spend most of our lifetime in. The hallway symbolizes the process of transition and the journey towards a goal. There are many different transitions that we go through in life. The transition into high school; college; adulthood; marriage; and retirement are just some situations in which many people are left walking through the hallway in life. The hallway that came after I closed the door on high school was college.
In high school, I had always been told that I was smart and a great student. Since I always had good grades, teachers and classmates assumed that I was always studying a lot. However, I rarely studied through my years in high school. Getting good grades on exams was never too hard. Sure, there were times in which I struggled a bit, but I always knew that I would be fine in the end. Which is why procrastination was my best friend in high school. High school had been a hallway in which I was in for so long. So, it was frightening to think that I was coming close on that high school graduation door.
College is known to be a difficult transition for many people. As a first-generation college student, this transition was even more difficult. I had no one in my family who had experienced the college journey before. Therefore, there was no one who I could depend on for help with the admission process, financial aid, or choosing classes. Instead of asking for help, I struggled my way through the whole process. I then learned that many other first generation college students were repeating the same methods. We would not ask college experienced people for help. Instead, we discussed and helped each other with our struggles. Why did we do this? For me the reason was that I have always done everything by myself. It could be embarrassing to admit that we didn’t know how college worked. The reason I got embarrassed is because I assumed that others believed that what I was struggling with was easy to understand. I did not want others to think that I was incompetent. Asking for help makes one vulnerable and being vulnerable is uncomfortable.
After I opened the college door the hallway had changed. Everything was new to me. I was no longer surrounded by the same people I encountered in my high school journey. There were two choices that many college students faced. One choice was to put ourselves out there and make new friends that could accompany us in our journey. The second choice was to avoid vulnerability and walk through the journey on our own. In the beginning of my college experience, I took part in the second choice. I soon learned that the high school hallway was not the same as the college hallway.
I would go to class to listen and learn, then leave. I didn’t feel compelled to interact with my classmates. Which led me to struggle on my own whenever I missed a class or was confused on an assignment. I just wanted to run through the hallway of college and get to the next door. Since I was so used to procrastinating in high school, I did the same in college. Procrastinating had never gotten me a bad grade before, so why would I stop? However, procrastination became an enemy in college. College assignments were not easy to accomplish so quickly. I started to lose hope in my procrastinating abilities. There were times when my procrastination stressed me out so much because I would barley meet deadlines.
It is not easy to get used to a new journey in life. It takes time, vulnerability, trial and error, and support from others. In order to get used to my new journey I had to be vulnerable. I had to accept when I needed help and ask someone for assistance. I had to become more social in order to have support in my journey. Now I am so close to the door of college graduation and the hallway that awaits.
Black Barbie
By: Glynnisha Young
“Out of the sea, wish I could be part of that world.” With the sound of Halle Baily’s voice
coming from my phone speaker, my eyes began to tear up. Being able to see a beautiful black girl as one of my favorite Disney princesses growing up, I would have never thought she would look as black and lovely as myself. Seeing her in that role was breathtaking and it immediately took me back down memory lane of my childhoodod. As I continued to rewatch the new live-action of The Little Mermaid movie trailer, I began to unlock another memory of my childhood and could help but to tear up more and more each time.
Growing up my favorite thing to play with were dolls. From Barbie to Bratz dolls, I had more than all toy stores combined. I love how pretty they were and being able to express myself by changing their outfits and shoes. One of my favorites was their beautiful long hair that was fun to comb and create hairstyles. There was one thing I’ve always noticed was how all of my barbie dolls were chocolate-like myself. I remember thinking how gorgeous they were and how I wish I could look and have long hair just like them. Barbie has a slogan that said “You can be anything” which shows why she had so many jobs.
My dad knew how much I loved dolls. He will always get me some for my birthday, Christmas, or even sometimes just for being good at school. He used to take me to a toy store called Toys R Us and tell me to pick out a doll. I used to be so excited just by going down the barbie doll aisle and just being able to look at all of them. As I’ve gotten older my dad told me that he never wanted me to have a white barbie doll, not because of the color but because he wanted to show that I can be anything just as well and that I’m just as beautiful as I am. Representation mattered to him, and little did I know that something so small was such a big impact on me. It helps me not to see color but people as whom their character was.
Barbie made little girls around the world feel that they can grow up and be anything they wanted to be. Growing up I did see many brown or black barbies in the commercials or ads, but I knew they were out there. I did quite understand why they did show them off as much as the white ones, but it never discourages me from my potential. So, I did as any other black girl would do, I made sure my barbies looked like me. Whenever I played Barbie’s website online and was able to dress her up or give her a makeover, I made her chocolate like myself. Or even if I had a coloring book, I was sure to make the princess or the doll, the same color as myself.
Barbie was my first love of dolls, but when Bratz came out it was a big changer. There were 4 original Bratz dolls. Sasha, Jade, Cloe, and Yasmine. Bratz was so unique looking and cute, and they had one for every race. 4 close friends who had a “Passion 4 Fashion”. Bratz became more popular in the black community because it was the first time, we had a black doll that was more accurate to our looks in doll form. From the rich melanin to the big juicy lips and seeing that we could have hair down to our hips was sensational. My Sasha dolls were my most prize possessions and the main doll I played with.
Growing up only having black dolls, I never saw myself as being better than other races. I felt more included and seen being able to hold a miniature lifeless toy that represented me. I have a little cousin who reminds me of myself when I was a little girl and her love for barbies. So, every single year for her birthday I give her or let her choose any barbie that she wants and buy it for her. She saw me one Sunday at church and she showed me her newest barbie doll that received and how much she loved her brown skin. She looked at me and said that I was pretty like her barbie and that I look like a Barbie too. It warmed my heart to the fullest and I quickly returned the compliment back to her. The way she smiled from ear to ear was the biggest I’ve
seen her smile. Now seeing how much barbie dolls have evolved. They don’t cater to just the little white or little black girl but to everyone. From their skin tone to their hair textures, from their body types to what makes them unique. I am thankful that my dad instilled in me at a young age how representation matters. Being able to carry on that mindset and passing it down to my little cousin felt good and in the near future if I have a daughter, I plan on doing the same for her. To show her that she just as beautiful, unique, and can be anything just anyone else.
Behind the Cameras
By: Angie Perez Gallardo
As we become part of this world, we all start gathering dislikes and likes about the universe. As we get older and start finding our true selves we create passions and hobbies that make us happy. Many of us find nature to be a peaceful place, or reading a book with a nice view outdoors is a passion because it is something we look forward to doing and feel we belong there.
Over the years of growing as an adult, I found a passion for cameras and photography. I notice about myself that time flies when I am behind a camera operating, and that is because I enjoy doing it. There's a saying that if you are doing something you love, time flies, and is true. I noticed time goes by fast when taking pictures of my clients or when operating cameras in my communication class. When I found out about my passion for cameras, I started my own photography business to hopefully open my studio one day. It is fun doing something you love that is considered work and getting paid for it. Seeing my skills improve is something that keeps me motivated in my journey as a photographer.
The reason why I started falling in love with cameras is that the story you can tell is just capturing a moment. I can share my talents with others based on an image, and it is something I find amazing. I love to be in front of the camera for pictures because I love seeing my confidence which is another boost of confidence and reminds me of the independent woman I am. It all started with my dad. I used to be my dad's assistant for his photography business and I helped him with his clients when it came to modeling. I had to look up poses for them so I could get inspiration and come up with modeling poses. I was able to see different angles and camera shots. I recommended to my dad that later on, I wanted to take control of the camera to capture a moment I had an idea of. Furthermore, dad lost his primary job and retired from photography to find a stable job. Years later I took over his business and changed names and started a social media account to promote my photography business. So far, I have gathered clients and shared my vision with others through digital media.
The way it impacted my life is that I am now an entrepreneur and became an independent businesswoman. I know I will become successful as a travel photographer in the future. I thank my dad for helping me become the woman I am today. My father provided me with the resources and information I need for my business to become successful. I am proud of myself to turn something I am passionate about into a business. Nothing is better than getting paid for something you love doing for fun.
My College Journey
By: Marlo Gates
In 2015 I was getting ready to apply for college. I had three colleges in mind: Prairie View A&M, Alabama State and possible Florida A&M. As I sit in the library applying for the schools I start thinking where I will be in four years from now. Will I be graduating with my bachelor’s degree in business? Engaged? Maybe I will be in Atlanta. My future is bright! A couple of months later I received an email from Prairie View admissions. I was afraid to open it. My heart raced, as I clicked the email and it was just a list of things I needed to turn in before they made a final decision. “What a relief” I said in my head.
A couple of months went by and I kept my eyes on my email. " You have not been accepted into Prairie View A&M University" my heart dropped. I started asking myself why? Is there something missing? while sitting in my last class of the day I can’t help but to think why i didn't get accepted, yea my SAT Score isn’t the but my ACT Score was pretty good, so what is missing? As soon as I got home from school, I emailed PV admission to see why I didn’t get accepted. As I waited for a response, I got ready for a Christmas party but, when I got that email, I really didn’t want to go I didn’t even enjoy it. I tried really hard to hide the fact I didn’t get in but, my mom knew something was wrong because I normally enjoy the Christmas party and it was my last one because I was almost 18. A couple of months later I received an email from admissions and they told me exactly what was missing, which were two little things: Transcript and My TSI.
It's now April and I haven’t heard anything back from any college I applied for, I start wondering will I go to college? Am I smart enough for college? I have a month until I graduate! What’s going to happen if I don’t go to college, as I was having these thoughts a notification pop-up on my phone from PVAMU, I tapped it and it said “Dear Marlo, you have been officially accepted into PVAMU” I was so happy and relieved I text my dad and my mom, I also told my counselor and band director who had so much faith in me when I didn’t have it in myself. Two weeks later I went to PVAMU to try-out for Twirling Thunder and when I got to that campus, I felt like I found my home for the next four years. I loved it. as I walked into the band hall my heart started pounding. I was really nervous about trying out but I did it and got selected, even the instructor said you have captain potential which probably offended the captain of the team.
August 9, 2016 was the first day of band camp. I was excited even though I knew it was going to be a lot of work especially in a HBCU band, it was quite intimidating. Band camp lasted for two week and it was a lot of work and long days. Being in a band is very exciting but it has their ups and downs. For example, traveling to different colleges was one of the best parts of being in band a PV as long as you tell your professor and don’t get behind, which was not the case with me. One of the lows about being in band at a HBCU is getting cut a day before the game which happened to me often, which is probably why I got on academic probation. Every time I got cut especially an away game had me all the way down, I didn’t go to class nor did any work, my GPA went from probably a 2.5 to a 1.5 which is a lot for a freshman which caused me to take a semester off and wasn’t able to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in 2017. When I went back to PV in 2018, I was bound to get off Academic Probation because I knew if I didn’t, I wasn’t going back. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it by two points so when fall semester of 2018 came around, I had to stay and decided to go community college. I wasn't giving up on my college career.
August 2018, I started at Cedar Valley Community College and I didn’t like it but, I did what I had to do to continue my college career. At Cedar Valley I did do anything except go to class then go to work. I also didn’t have friends really so I never actually went out, which helped me stay on track and eventually I came off Academic Probation. Although I was doing really good at Cedar Valley I just didn’t like it there. So, in fall 2019 I decided to transfer to Mountain View community college to get my associates degree.
June 2021 I got my associates degree I received my associate's degree in arts, that summer I already knew I was going to continue my college career and get my Bachelor's degree in communication and digital media I was going to go to Alabama State University because, I was originally my first choice in high school unfortunately I couldn't afford it so I had to settle for University of North Texas at Dallas, it was the most affordable. When I first got to the school All I wanted to do was go to class and work. Then I signed up for this retreat and by the time I came back for that retreat I was hooked and actually sort of fell in love with UNTD. I am now a part of a couple of things which are Jax Squad, Ignite Leadership, and New Student Orientation. With all that In mind I am having a great time at UNTD.
Lastly, all though i had my up and downs throughout my college career I had a few highlights, Like performing at the State Fair Classic, being a part of Honda Battle of Bands, and Probably the biggest highlight to me is going to the Ignite retreat, if I didn’t go there I probably wouldn’t be where I am today. The Last thing I want to say is, you might not be where you want to be,but where you are is probably where you need to be.
My Name Is…
By J'laya Minnitt
“Hi, what’s your name?” A name is something we all have and are given before we even understand what it is. I have always been big on names, and when I say big, I mean, how is the name pronounced, what does it mean, if it even has meaning, and more. A name is more than just a name, it is something that is supposed to be part of who we are, something that holds power and meaning in what we are and who will become. A name is a part of our identity. It is the most important part of our identity, because at one point in time people did not have names. Their names were stripped from them, they had no choice in the name(s) they were given and could not change them. No one should have to go through that.
There have been many times where I have felt bad about my name because of what other people think. I have received many pleasant compliments and many negative compliments that have all shaped why I care about names and the importance that they hold. No one should have to think about what is wrong with me and the name I have.
I do not know why my parents gave me the name, they named me, but they saw it fit for me and I should be okay with it, right? Yeah, I suppose. My parents named me “J’laya,” extra emphasis on the lowercase “L” after the apostrophe because my mom liked it that way and wanted to be different. After, learning how to spell my name, I make sure everywhere I go, everyone knows how to spell my name. The “L” should always be lowercased, never capitalized. I never had problems with my name or the way it was spelled, I had problems with whether other people would have a problem with my name. I remember as a child, asking my mom “What if my name sounds or looks weird to people when I get older?” to which she replied “That only matters if you care.”, and that is something that has sat with me for a long time because she was right, it was my name and if anyone had a problem with it, they could tell someone who cared because I sure did not.
“How do you say your name?” is a question I have always received, when people see my name. When people ask me how I pronounce my name, it frustrates me because to me my name is pronounced how it is spelled. I remember countless times breaking my name down to people or constantly correcting them because it was my name, it is a part of me, and it is who I am. I remember watching an interview and this woman said, “If these people can pronounce “Tchaikovsky” or “Michelangelo” with ease, they can pronounce your name too!” This resonated with me a lot because there are tons of people who have messed up my name and no matter how many times, I correct them they still mess it up. I have been with people who have told me, “It’s not a big deal,” “do not worry about it, you are not going to see them again,” but to me it was more than that. Dismissing my name was like dismissing me, I saw it as disrespectful, and I did not deserve it. It was one thing if you were trying to pronounce my name correctly, it is another if you did not try at all. All I wanted was an effort to be made.
After coming to terms that my name was my name and I liked it, and it was important to me I determined that it is up to me to decide whether I would be okay with what people could call me, if it is something other than my other name. Nicknames, just like a regular name, is something given to you, by us and other people, based on your actual name, how people view you, or you remind them of something or someone. I have been given tons of nicknames, some I care for and some I do not. It is particularly important to me that people respect some names I do not care for because I may not like them, I may not like the meaning of the name and/or nickname that they are giving me. This is important because all names are not good names, meaning the name is not seen from a positive point of view. I do not want to be viewed negatively, I do not want someone to hear or see my name or nickname and their thoughts are negative.
My fondest memory of my first nickname, from my dad, is being called “Pooh Bear,” my dad called me this because I love Winnie the Pooh. My grandmother used to call me “Princess” and I do not think there is an actual reason, besides, I was a spoiled little girl, but I loved it regardless. While these are nicknames and to some people will not mean a thing, they mean the world to me. They were given to me by people I cherish dearly and from the time they were given to me, they hold precious memories and moments. These nicknames, among many others, are important to me because they are the building blocks to who I was becoming and who I am.
From learning about my name, being given tons of nicknames, the pronunciation of my name, it is all particularly important. I know that I cannot control everyone’s thoughts and how they may, or may not feel about my name, but I can do my best to try to get them to understand why it is important to me. I care about my name and everything that is associated with it because my name is a part of me. My name is the beginning of building up my identity, who I was and who I am.
My Relationship with Food
By Lizbeth Nava
My personal food menu is very limited. I am ashamed of it and really do make an effort to try and enjoy more food. I blame half of my relationship with food issues to my parents. Growing up they wouldn't encourage me to eat new stuff. I would simply be told “you wont like it.” There is a long list of stuff I've never tried and claim I don't like, simply because that is what was engraved in my head at such a young age. My parents never forced me to eat my veggies. As a grown 22 year old I still refuse to eat broccoli. I find that insane and have tried to get myself to eat it but the anxiety I get and fear that I will not like it gets to me before I can take a bite. Summer 22 I decided that was going to change. I bought vegetables and was going to try them cooked in different ways to see which I found the most appetizing. The vegetables went to waste before I could ever bring up the courage to eat them.
I know this all sounds insane and you might be thinking I need to grow up. The anxiety I receive prior to taking a bite is indescribable. I begin to have rushing thoughts. One of the thoughts being, if the food was of good tasting or beneficial to me why would my mom not want me to try it? Is she stopping me from trying it for a reason or was my mom just a single mother working full time not wanting to struggle with a kid complaining? I begin to think, well i've never tried my mom's version of this, what if the restaurant version is not the best and it ruins my chances of ever liking it? Once all these thoughts hit I avoid my chances of taking a bite. Actually after all these rushing thoughts I am not even hungry. Fortunately, these poor eating habits never led me to developing an illness because I do eat. I just choose to eat the same things.
These poor eating habits have hurt me a lot aside from the anxiety. I have developed body dysmorphia. I don't like my body and spend a lot of free time thinking about how I would love myself if I had a better physique. I have a gym membership and work out in my free time but I know if I had a healthier diet I would see a better change. Or at least the change I am wanting to see. If I was eating veggies I could be full of healthy stuff vs. being full of fatty foods. But this is the never-ending cycle I've been living through that I am trying to break. I hate my body, I tell myself I'll begin to try new foods, but anxiety hits before the first bite, and I’m back to my short menu list.
The most stressful part of this that I have no control over, is the judgment. Growing up I was taught if I was offered food to never say no. Even if I wasn't hungry or liked what was being served, it is disrespectful to deny someone's offering. This causes me to put myself in a situation where I am inviting anxiety. Instead of denying a food offering, I take it and try to eat. I know if I deny the food I will get comments like, “you never want to eat!” or “oh she doesn’t like that she's picky.” These comments just add to my anxiety. Am I going to laugh off the hurtful comment or will I explain to them what I deal with? I always laugh off the comment. The times I have tried to explain myself the responses are even more hurtful. “You are just a brat!” or “you have just been spoiled your whole life.” These comments end up making my silly food debacle more intense instead of encouraging.
I know as a grown adult I can't continue to blame my parents for the reason I don't eat tomatoes. I think in the long run it has been helpful for me to blame them rather than take accountability for not letting myself grow out of what my parents created while being busy full-time working parents accommodating to a new country. Having dinner with my boyfriend is relieving. I like to call our dinner nights food therapy. I go over to his house and try whatever dish he decided to make that night. The best part of it is he doesn't expect me to eat it if I don't like it. It is simply a safe space for me to try new food. Most of the time I end up enjoying dinner and my mind is not running amuck.
Memory Loss
By Danae Vargas
Dear Dad,
It's been 10 years.
It has been 10 years since the accident when everything changed for us. You, falling at work and losing all the shared memories we had, it's all gone. It was like god pressed a reset button, and the person you used to be was no longer there. It feels like your soul was changed and you were brought back to life. You were given a second chance at life only with no memory of who we were. Your family. I was 12 years old and in middle school when the accident happened. That same day you left for work, you promised me that you would take us to six flags on Saturday. That never happened. I was told that you were okay, that you had only broken a leg, and that you would come back home soon. I cried myself to sleep every night, waiting for you to come back. I had this gut feeling that things weren't as good as they seemed, but I still hold on to that lie. Everything changed after that day. Mom had to work three jobs, and I became a mother to a three-year-old who I had to raise as my own. We both took care of you. We had to teach you everything again. When I used to look at you, your eyes would look lost and distant, and I wouldn't feel the same love I had for you. It was like a stranger was living at our home who just looked like you. Losing you that day has been hurting me for years, and even though I love you so much right now, there is still this little hole in my heart: of what if you had never fallen that day.
I was your little girl. The girl who you used to come home to and bring little gifts. Things you thought I would like candy, stickers, plush animals; it wouldn't matter what it was because I knew you were gifting them with so much love. Even though I can't change the past, it was a miracle that you survived. I still miss who you used to be. You always knew what to say to make me feel special and cared for. After your accident, a bunch of lawyers kept coming up to us, trying to gain something from this accident while we were suffering. Telling us that we should sue the company and that we could get money from this when all we wanted was you to be back with us.
We eventually caved in, and we sued the company, and even though we were blessed with being able to buy a beautiful home, I would change it for you to get your memories back in a heartbeat. Your personality has changed completely, and you are not who you used to be, but you are still that kind and hardworking father that I remember. Even though these past years I haven't appreciated you the way I should, it hasn't been easy trying to grow up without you. My father figure. Yes, you are here, and I'm grateful, but you weren't there when I needed you the most. It wasn't because you didn't want to. I know it was because you couldn't. I saw you struggle for years trying to remember your memories, the pain you suffered every night looking up at the ceiling trying to remember who you used to be. I could feel all that pain I saw in your face, not only yours but mom’s too. I grew up so fast in order to be there for mami when she needed me for legal documents, payments, and everything while dealing with school and good grades. I suffered, but no one seemed to realize how affected I was. I did become strong and determined but also weak on the inside.
You have no idea how much I miss you, Papi. You were and still are my everything. I started to heal myself from all the pain we have suffered through the years and have begun to appreciate that you are better now and can work and be independent again. As for your memories, I don't mind making new ones as long as you are here with us. You try your hardest for us, and I see it. I see how in love you are still with mom and bring her roses whenever you go to the store, and you become very honest sometimes to honest, but we still love you. I never thought that any of this would happen, but it did, and even though we had our tough times, things are getting better for us, and we are closer now because of this. I want to say goodbye to who you used to be and keep appreciating and loving the new person you are now. Thank you for everything you do for us, and I hope to make you proud.
Indecisiveness
By Jasmin Rangel
I am indecisive. Sounds pretty decisive of me to say that doesn’t it? However, I really am indecisive, and it is a character trait of mine that I wish I didn’t have. My indecisiveness creates unnecessary stress. Unnecessary stress that apparently, I am inviting in. Now imagine adding in a tad of procrastination. I’m screwed. It’s crazy to me that there are many people in this world who can easily make decisions, while I can barely decide what I want to eat. Although aren’t we all a bit indecisive when it comes to choosing what to eat?
Overthinking turns me into the tortoise, where this time slow and steady causes me to lose the race. Overthinking my choices makes me feel like I am wasting valuable time. Instead of deciding what I want to do, I could be finishing that activity instead. Is this indecisiveness or procrastination? Either way, I have to be 100 percent honest. I changed the topic of this essay three times. That’s how indecisive I am. Instead of deciding what to write about I could have spent that time actually writing this essay. Which is how I came about choosing to write about indecisiveness. So maybe it’s indecisiveness and procrastination?
The pressure of making the right choice and the fear of making the wrong choice is stressful. As a child I used to believe that I was just a cautious person who was just acting like a smart and responsible adult would act. Now as an adult I don’t feel smart and especially not responsible. Regardless of what I believed as a child, constantly overthinking, and imagining all the outcomes that one decision can cause is torment. There is no such thing as the perfect choice. Every choice has its pros and cons. I know this. So why am I still striving and stressing to make the perfect choice?
The most horrifying question that anyone can ask me is, “What plans do you have for the future?” The future? Are you kidding me? I don’t even know what my plans are for the weekend! Just thinking about the future gives me anxiety. You might be wondering, “how on earth were you able to pick a major?” Well, I didn’t. I mean yes, I do have a chosen major and even a minor, but I don’t even know what I want to do with them. Which leads me to feel like I don’t actually have a chosen major. Also, it’s important to note that I changed my major from education to communication and digital media two weeks before beginning my junior year of college. Making this choice was extremely stressful and difficult. However, I justify my overthinking in this situation. A college major leads to a career and careers are supposed to be lifelong. So, I had to pick the major that best fit my future career options. Since communication and digital media gives me a wider variety of interesting career options; I chose it. Yet, I still find myself drawn to the education field. I couldn’t even decide and stick to one major and I’m still not 100 percent sure about the one I chose. So how am I supposed to pick a career?
Being so indecisive makes me feel like I don’t even know who I am, what I like, or what I’m good at. I am the eldest daughter in an immigrant family. At a young age I have always been told that completing my education and getting a good job should be one of my main goals in life. My parents were never given the chance to go to school, so I feel like the least I can do is achieve that goal. I guess this is why I stress so much to find the perfect career, because my family expects me to. As for me, I just want to find a job that I would actually enjoy doing long term. I wouldn’t say that I’m exceptionally talented at anything. I love watching others make art, and sometimes I enjoy doodling or painting. Yet, the artwork I make is as good as a toddler’s work. So, what am I good at? I would say I am a decent writer, but then I remember that there are people who are much more creative; have interesting writing styles; and easily write what they want. Meanwhile, I struggle to be creative and strain to write a sentence. Still, I want to be a competent writer. Is it obvious that I am a complicated person?
The tortoise seems to be losing the race in the beginning, but wins at the end, right? So, I might still be in the beginning of my race. Maybe slow and steady does end up winning the race. Maybe indecisiveness won’t stop me from achieving my goals or becoming who I hope to be.
Anxiety
By Savannah Fluitt
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathing faster. I’m noticing my breathing. Why am I suddenly
noticing my breathing? My palms are so sweaty. I usually have cold hands. Why do I feel so
warm? My heart is racing. It’s beating out of my chest. I’m fearing for my life. Why am I fearing
for my life? The world is coming to an end. But it’s not coming to an end. Is this an anxiety
attack? No, it can’t be. Trembling hands. Racing thoughts. Pacing around the room. I’m not
having an anxiety attack. Breathing faster. Feeling restless. This isn’t anxiety. I’m just nervous.
This is a normal reaction. A reaction to what?
I walk into a store. It’s just a regular store. There are so many colors. There are too many
bright lights. Why can’t I see, but why can I also see too much? The lights are blinding. Why
can’t I hear, but the sounds are so loud and echoing through my bones? There’s a ringing in my
ears. So many sounds. So many noises and colors and lights and people. I can’t breathe. Why
can’t I breathe? I feel like I’m choking on my own senses. My breathing fastens. My palms are
so sweaty. What’s happening to me? I leave the store. The warm sun beating on my face. Feeling the wind blow through my hair. The Earth pulling me back down to my feet. I let out a breath. I can breathe now. I’m okay. That wasn’t an anxiety attack.
“Hey, come to my party,” a friend would say. My palms sweaty, my heart racing, the
pressure of going to a party that I was asked to go to, but I feel like they aren’t asking me. It’s
more like they are telling me. Do I have an option to even go? Will they hate me if I say no? This
friendship is probably over if I say no. But I don’t want to go. But I kind of do want to go. I want
to go to their party. I want to go to a party. I want to see what it’s like. What if I have fun? But
what if it goes wrong? What if something bad happens? It’s safer not to go. I’ll just stay home.
Make up some excuse. Pretend I’m busy doing something else when in reality I’m just so scared.
“Oh, I’m busy,” I would respond. I was never busy. I just don’t like people. Or crowds. Or bright
lights. Or loud sounds. Or leaving my home. That’s normal. I’m normal. I don’t have anxiety.
Finally leaves the house. I go to work. I talk to my boss and my coworkers. I’m breathing
hard the whole time. What if they fire me? I’m going to lose my job. My palms are sweaty. My
boss and coworkers will hate me. No one will ever hire me again. I can’t breathe. I run to the
bathroom, crying. I splash some water on my face, calming down. I look in the mirror. I breathe.
This is normal. I’m normal. I think I’m normal. I don’t have anxiety. I don’t want to have
anxiety.
Sits at my desk at home. Thoughts racing. Breathing hard. Palms sweaty. Feeling
frustrated. I’m not doing anything! Why do I feel like this? I lay in my bed. Crying. Just crying.
This is normal. I’m normal. What’s wrong with me?
A test is coming up. Just a test. I always get nervous when we have tests. Everyone gets
nervous about tests. But what if I fail? I won’t fail. I’m smart. But if I do? I breathe hard. Palms
sweaty. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? I start crying. My tears stream down my face,
choking me. My friend says, “You’re having an anxiety attack.” I look confused. I don’t have
anxiety. I’m normal. I get nervous like everybody. “Everybody gets an anxiety attack
sometimes,” I would say. I don’t have anxiety. I don’t think. My friend grabs my hands, tapping
my fingers. Tapping around my palms. Bringing me back to the chair I’m sitting in and out of
my head.
Everybody is like this. Everyone gets anxious sometimes. I’m normal. I’m just like
everybody else. Anxiety runs in my family, but I don’t have anxiety. I just get nervous like most
people. I know I have had anxiety attacks since I was a kid, but I’m normal. I’m normal. Let me
be normal. I want to be normal. Why am I not normal?
I’m not normal. I have anxiety attacks. I’ve accepted this now. I have definitely accepted
the fact that I have anxiety. But what if I don’t have anxiety? What if it’s something else? Am I
having anxiety about whether or not I have anxiety? That definitely sounds like somebody that
would have anxiety.
I’m not normal. But that’s normal. What is normal? I have no idea. Does anybody have
any idea what being normal even is? I have always just wanted to be normal. Most people have
always just wanted to be normal and fit in, but somehow none of us fit in. Anxiety makes me
feel not normal. Anxiety takes me out of my body, but also traps me in my body, stuck in my
own mind. It makes me feel like I’m choking. It makes me feel like my skin is burning. It makes
me feel like my ears are bleeding. It makes me feel like the world is ending and tomorrow won’t
happen.
People have anxiety. I am one of those people. It’s a normal human thing that people go
through and that will never go away for me. And I just wish people would understand. Listen to
people and pay attention to how they are feeling. Listen to people when they tell you they are
scared, uncomfortable, or just want to leave the room to cry. I can manage my anxiety enough,
but as soon as an anxiety attack returns, it would be nice to know the people around me will
support me through a frightening moment.
The Passionate Songbird
By Jessica Lozano
Music is one of those elements in life that can sometimes be described as a tool. It can fix you, but it can also take you apart. It is just one of those things that anyone can say they implement into their lifestyle, considering we are surrounded by music in everyday life anyway. It is something that speaks to the soul and sometimes helps you express your emotions when simple words in a conversation just will not do it. I like to think it is something that can even help “heal” a person’s internal wounds when needed. It is especially more powerful when you make the music. For me, music is what I always felt passionate about. More specifically, singing.
My earliest memories involve music. I remember the musicals I would watch on television such as “Annie” and “The Wizard of Oz.” I remember listening to music in the car with my parents. All the classic songs from the 80s to 90s that I would hear blaring through the speakers of my mom or dad’s car instantly became part of my musical vocabulary. There are many home videos of me around the age of one or two singing songs I either heard on the radio or in one of my favorite musical movies that I previously mentioned. Musicals have always been a love of mine and getting older, I grew to love more. I really was a character when it came to music. The strangest thing about that was that no one in my family was musically inclined or even passionate enough to be, except my grandfather. Yes, my family did love listening to music, but they never thought anything more of it. I come from a family who is more “logical” and “realistic,” I am more of the “creative,” “artsy,” “dreamer” type.
As I got older, my love for music grew stronger. I became an active CD collector of artists who I thoroughly enjoyed. This love was so strong that I started wanting to be more involved in music. Anything that involved music, I wanted to be a part of it. Making my own music, yes, that was the dream plan. My only fallback was that I was extremely shy and insecure. I hardly ever sung in front of others and if I did, I never wanted to sing alone. I always felt like I was not good enough and felt like there was always someone critiquing me, and that really scared me. However, that did not stop me from feeling passionate about it. Just like every young person may dream, I wanted to be a “famous popstar.” I wanted to be an inspiration and write music that people could relate to and enjoy. The idea of that made my heart and soul long for nothing but that. On the topic of writing, I dabbled in writing lyrics to songs and though some were never finished, that was really something special to me. Lyrics would just come to mind when I was feeling a certain type of emotion and I would try to write it as quickly as possible. To me, that was something I felt proud of and something I felt separated me from other people. I really liked that about myself. When I was at school, I did not have many friends, so I relied heavily on music. I would walk around the playground with a tune in my head and lyrics flowing from my lips as if it were my own personal type of foreign language that only I could understand. It was just so easy for me to do and just came so naturally to me.
Now, as far as my family’s thoughts on the topic went, they always saw it as more of a “hobby” rather than a career path for me. Nothing more and nothing less. When I graduated from high school, I really wanted to go to college for music. That did not sound so promising in their eyes. I always knew they just wanted the best for me and always wanted me to make “safe” and “successful” choices. I knew they did not really understand how I felt because they had never felt that way. I also know they just did not know how to encourage my choices when it came to wanting to pursue a career in music. However, it did sometimes sting to not have the support I wanted. I was always told to think more realistically and not live inside of my dreams because that is all they were, “dreams.” I also did not know how to make it all happen for myself. What I did know was that I had to do what was best and make some sacrifices, even if that included killing the dream.
Though I decided not to go along with a career in music, it did lead me to my next passion, which is writing. I enjoyed writing songs and creating stories. I also did very much enjoy writing in school, and it was always my strongest subject. I would also write lyrics in a journal that I kept. Sometimes passions are not always career paths and sometimes they help you develop new ones. I am still passionate about music and making music, but I am okay with where I am at. I know now that I can be happy without having it be my career. I do not have any regrets about the choices and sacrifices I have made. Of course, sometimes I still get sad at the fact that my music pursuing dreams did not come true, but I think that is normal. I believe in living in the now rather than the “what could've been.” I believe where I am in life as far as this topic is right where I am supposed to be. I do not know what the future holds, but that is fine with me. Music is and always will be my passion and that will never change.
Death Times Three
By Alexander Worley
It was a winter evening in 1996, my family and I lived in Fort Bragg North Carolina, I was one year old. My folks had decided to take the night off and left my older sister Tatiana and I with a babysitter. Tatiana was only two herself, and I think my parents wanted some alone time, away from two screaming infants. I can't recall our sitter's name, which seems odd considering what happened.
I don't quite recall it, being so young, but this was the night when I died for the first time. I have died no less than three times in my life and am likely to die again I'd imagine. In 1996, I hadn't been diagnosed yet, but I had a rare congenital heart defect. A coarctation of my aorta, which was ravaging my tiny body. If you haven't heard of the condition, I do not blame you. I believe only .06% of Americans have a coarctation, and even then, most just say they have a heart problem. However, I always proffered the correctness of knowing the problem I had, a coractation of my aorta, it sounded mysterious and intriguing. A coractation by the way, for the
many of you reading who do not suffer from it, is essentially a narrowing of a large blood vessel.
Most sufferers don't have a bad enough issue to notice until adulthood, which usually presents
itself as high blood pressure. I, unfortunately, did not have quite so mild a case. My parents had been away for some hours when my sitter noticed my rapidly elevating body temperature. She called my mother, who understandably believed that I was only beginning a fever. However, this was not the case, due to my condition I have what's called a left subclavian steal, which essentially means that my blood pressure tends to be significantly higher in only half of my body. This irregularity, like a the pressures of air creating a storm, caused my blood pressure t increase to a degree that I was about to have my first seizure.
My babysitter was still on the phone with my mother when I began spasming. She tried her best to lay me down and cool me off, but it couldn't be helped, my blood was rushing to quickly. I stopped spasming while my sitter was drawing an ice bath. My small body couldn't take the strain it seemed. While my mother was listening on the other line, my heart stopped for the first time.
Luckily, my babysitter was quick to act. She had training in CPR, being a military woman, and had begun chest compressions and mouth to mouth resuscitation. She couldn't recall how long I didn't have a heartbeat; she was just glad when it came back. As were my parents, I’m sure you can imagine. They thanked her profusely, and likely, gave her one hell of a tip. The second time I died followed only a few short years after that event. I had been through a gauntlet of tests and was poked and prodded until my body finally gave up the fact that I had an irregular heart. The most shocking bit of all, to my parents as I was still lacking in sapience, was that I had what I now fondly refer to as an “expiration date”. I was only meant to live into my mid-teens and would have a simply terrible time the whole way up to them. The only thing for it would be surgery.
And surgery I had! At the ripe old age of four, I had men in white coats and surgical masks cutting me open and correcting what organs I had that were choosing to not conform to what society has deemed “healthy”. These men cracked open my ribs like they were separating a
rotisserie chicken, and got to work sorting out my insides.
It was part way through this stage that I died the second time.
Fun fact: heart surgery requires that the heart not beat for the entire time it is going on. Wouldn’t want the little devil to twitch while it has the knife in it. For the main event of the surgical theatre to take place, my ticker needed to stop ticking. As such, I was medically killed...for a brief period. For roughly around two hours my blood was oxygenated and pushed through my system by a machine rather than my heart. I honestly wished they’d just throne that thing in me rather than just patch up my broken parts. I was like I got to test drive a new mustang then had to drive home in my 1994 Ford Fiesta.
That metaphor plays double duty, in the fact that both that crap car, and my crap heart, would only get me through my early twenties. My new expiration date was around 25, if I ate right and got lucky. Which, who wants to do that anyway. Of course, I knew nothing of it at the time. My parents had chosen to let me experience the bliss that comes with ignorance, which I was all to happy to enjoy. In my mind, I was fixed, and could act as normal again. It wasn’t until I was eleven that I learned that the issue hadn’t yet been resolved. I was told one day, out of the blue, that I would be heading for Washington DC in a week, for an emergency surgery. This was particularly jarring because we lived in Germany at the time. I’ll skip over the unnecessary details for fear of repeating myself, but safe to say that the whole experience was not to my liking. The plane ride was long, the operation and recovery painful. And, at one point, I died for a third time!
The whole experience was getting a bit tired. Honestly, how many times should a man expect to die in his lifetime?
My new expiration date is somewhere in my mid fifties, roughly around 55. I anticipate another heart surgery between now and then of course, and yet another time when my heart will stop it’s incessant beating. Honestly though, I don’t fear it.
Death comes for us all, in the end. I think of it as the great unifier, as one of the few things that is true for all of us. Memento Mori, is a favorite Latin phrase of mine, meaning “remember death”. It is a reminder that man is mortal, and that he should act as such. It’s other half, many of you will likely already know Carpe Diem, “Seize the Day”. I believe those two should be taken as a pair. That we should all remember that we will one day die, and should, there for, seize the day that we have right now. One day, you won’t be around, so while you’re here, make sure that you are here at your fullest. Don’t worry about what will happen when the light finally dies, just just enjoy it’s glow while it’s still on.
Incarcerated Love
By Jordaysia Brown
As I lay in my empty bed with liquor in my system and a million thoughts in my brain, I think about the person I’ve fallen in love with. The person who I believe to be my soulmate, but is over a million miles away, locked up, doing something to pass the time until he’s a “free” man, again. I acknowledge the fact that I can’t call, see, or hold my person whenever I want to and I wonder to myself, “Is this what I thought being in love would be like?” I close my eyes, surrender to the pain of my loneliness, and my mind instantly travels to a time when the both of us were sitting next to each other in our 7th grade science class. A time so innocent, blissful, and naïve, where we had no idea what this cruel world truly had in store for us. I also remember our walks around our neighborhood, our school bus rides, or me just sitting on his porch, talking with him for hours. A time I could touch him, but without any romantic connection or foresight into what was yet to come, I don’t know if I ever really felt him.
Our lives are completely different, now. It’s lived on two different parts of the map and filled with timed phone calls on recorded lines, the constant need to upload money on prison communication platforms such as Securus, and waiting around to receive letters and thirty second videos sent days prior on apps like JPay. My thoughts answer my own question. There’s
no way in hell that I would’ve ever thought that being in love was something like this. However, I can’t pretend like all of this is something new to me. I’m the same woman who was once a little girl who vividly remembers getting up one morning for school and her whole life changing. She watched FBI agents kick down her door, handcuffing her father while they searched their entire home for stolen property. As they drug him away, she remembers being forced to go to school as if anything was the same as the day before.
I open my eyes because the memories begin to swallow me whole and I don’t know if I can take the imagery behind my eyelids anymore. I take another sip of liquor and I pose a new question, “would we even be together if it wasn’t for our undeniable connection to incarceration?” My person wrote me once and told me that when he looks at me, he sees his 9- year-old daughter who he has been forced to leave behind to pay the 15-year consequence of his own decisions. He sees similarities in parts of my story that I’ve found solace in confiding with him with parts of his daughter’s story that she’s actively living. I think about how this correlation makes me feel and it saddens me deeply because it amplifies the systematic racism in the room: there are so many black people whose lives are intertwined within the prison system and who are extremely affected by long sentences, survival tactics, and broken homes.
However, I sadly understand what he means because when I look at him, I see my own father. A person who’s just trying to survive through hard times with bills piling up and a child at home. Trying to find themselves, but also trying to live up to all the stereotypes of what society continuously tells them a black man should be. I empathize for my person just as I grew older and began to empathize for my father.
I told him once that the world we both live in is designed to break us down and it is our job to use these breakdowns as metamorphosis. To take every stone as well as every solitary
confinement moment and gradually become better butterflies over time. We don’t get to have the fairy tale love story that you see in the movies, but we do get to build each other up and remind each other that our ancestors have loved each other out of way worse. With over 400 years of oppression under our feet, we give each other wings and devote our lives to being more. We vow to accept our flaws and mistakes and if by the grace of God, we come out on the other side, we will use our experiences to reshape our community and see it thrive. So, although our love is nothing like I could’ve imagined, I understand that what we’re building has the potential to be greater than ourselves. That’s something worth experiencing loneliness for.
Always Go To The Funeral
By Maria Quezada
Black is one of my favorite colors to wear but when I need to wear it the most I don’t want to and that is at a funeral. I have always tried to avoid funerals because the thought of someone close to me being gone forever scares me. The first time the concept of death hit me was when I was 9 years old and what really struck out to me was losing not one but three of the closest people I knew. A whole family, a mother and father and a son all gone, nothing but dark ashes left and burnt memories left for all of their family and
friends to see. They were the first funeral I was invited to assist in my life, I vividly remember my mom saying, “Tomorrow is their funeral, I know you’re the oldest and can understand more of what happened so if you want to come with me you can skip school.”
And what did I do? I said no, I remember being scared and too out of it, as I had been feeling fatigue and quiet since the news, to attend but also I knew I didn’t want to say goodbye forever. As someone young at the time, you don’t think about death because it
feels like you have to worry about it in another lifetime. As much as funerals may bring closure to loved ones, I see it as one the most uncomfortable painful yet the healing part of the grieving process. Because after about a decade later, deep inside I knew I wanted to go to that funeral and to this day I regret not going because part of me hasn’t healed completely.
Fast forward to present day, I’ve been to plenty of funerals and although certain deaths have not affected as much as the first ones there are some deaths that linger. This summer has had so many deaths around the world with the pandemic and the year overall was total nonsense that every month just kept surprising me. It was in June when we received the news that my grandfather in Mexico was sick and died within a short span of 5 days. Although I have rarely seen my grandfather in my lifetime, the lump in my throat was there as I tried to comfort my father. I knew my grandfather’s intentions and love for us, his family, and also his people from his small town in Mexico. He was getting ready to finalize his process for a visa to come see his son, my father, after almost 20 years and realizing my father and him will not be able to see each other physically ever again broke my heart for both of them. The whole process regarding his death and funeral with us being thousands of miles away was the moment it hit me and I never thought I’d say, “I want to be at the funeral.” The pandemic unfortunately did not allow travel for me to be there,especially in place for my dad as he couldn’t, but things don’t alway happen how you want them to work out and destined to happen.
It is human nature to feel for a loss, I have never been good with emotions but I have them. Sometimes acceptance is the hardest part but everyone is born to die; we all have to go someday. Grief sometimes makes us hold grudges with God and say, “Lord why them? Why?” To this day I don’t really know howto answer why, people come and go and it hurts. For experiencing someone so close to me dying and now they feel far away, but I always try to remind myself that they’ll always be with me close in my heart even if that means a heartbreak. Funerals can be unbearable and painful, but there are bittersweet and moments of closure, so as much as it may hurt me physically and mentally, I get ready and dress up in black when the time comes.
My Name is Margarita
By Margarita Rodriguez
As I grow older I realize more about how important names are in my culture and how it influences the way I not only see myself but others as well. All my life I have always been addressed by my birth name Margarita, primarily throughout school, while my friends and family would always call me Margo.
It wouldn’t be until my 3rd grade year when a teacher would address me by Margaret, that I would start to think about how important it was to me to be called what I wanted. I had been used to my name being said in a variety of ways, either with Spanish or English pronunciation, however with “Margaret”, the name sounded so foreign to me and I eventually developed a sort of hatred for that name. In my young mind it sounded fancy and old, and there was only one way to say it. It sounded like my name, but it lacked all the qualities I loved. For a long time I had thought that maybe that teacher had hated my actual name but as I look back on it today I realize that maybe she had her own fondness for that name she had given me. No matter what the reason actually was, it made me think further about how I saw myself through the eyes of others.
I have been called an array of nicknames aside from Margo, such as Marge, Mang, Maggie, Rita, but none of them have ever bothered me. I see now that it never bothered me because of who was saying it. Friends often make up names for me because they want to have their own personal way to greet me and I find it very endearing. It reminds me of my time spent in Mexico visiting family. Everyone there seems to have their name and a nickname that everyone close to them calls them by and it is never a name that they pick for themselves. Some names are a simple abbreviation for their birth name while others come with a sort of backstory to them. It is here where I find how this culture of naming is so important to me.
When visiting I am no different, however no one calls me by simply Margo here, instead the name I am known for most is “La Niña Ga-go”. A name that I have been lovingly teased for numerous times. When I was much younger I would often travel to Mexico with just my Abuela and while there I would try and introduce myself as Margo, however I pronounced it as well as any toddler could and it sounded much more like “Ga-go”. Although I do not remember anything of the sort, it is a story fondly told to me by older members of my family. It is a connection I have with only them and if anyone else tried to call me by that name it would not sit well with me.
In turn I also notice that I practice this similar trend of nicknaming friends and family. My best friends Brenda and Abigail will always hear me call them “Bren” and “Abo." My sister Simone is given the name “Chimo” that I say in a particular way that only I am allowed to call her. Names have an unspoken power that I can not help but notice in my everyday life and find it very comforting to be addressed a certain way by the people I love.
My Morning Coffee
By Nick Pagano
I’ve noticed that children tend to think in one of two ways: Either you want to grow up, or you don’t. Honestly, I wonder if they realize just how polarizing the topic is. Although, everything seems polarizing when you’re a kid. With everything that cartoons and other shows tell us about growing up and being an adult, it always struck a chord with me. I could never recall whether the thought of growing up horrified or excited me, but now that I’m 22 and already done “growing up,” at least physically. It definitely feels weird, but there’s now some sort of familiarity that comes with it, like you finally found out an answer that you’re ambivalent towards.
Being an adult is always hyped up when you’re a child. You get to drive anywhere you want, drink, and you don’t need to have your parents with you to buy M-rated video games or R-rated movies. It sounds amazing when you’re six years old. Of course, the definition of an “adult” seems to fluctuate. Sure, you legally become one at 18, but I’ve met few people who say they have being an adult figured out by then. For me, growing up didn’t feel like a grand ceremony. It felt like just another day. Of course, that’s the cynical way of looking at things, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit envious of people who got wasted on their 21st birthday or had a big bombastic 18th birthday. For me, adulthood was peppered with smaller things that I could call grown up. A big thing for me was becoming a coffee drinker. Anyone would tell you that giving a child a caffeinated beverage is just asking for trouble, so there was always an aura of mystique around coffee for me. When I was about 17 or so, I started drinking coffee. It was hot and sweet, so pretty much what I expected, but I never realized the way it impacted my transition into adulthood. It may seem small, but when you have to lock yourself in your house for 2 years thanks to a global pandemic, you get a lot of time for introspection. The day-to-day grind became more apparent, and my coffee habits were more notable, especially since university became part of my daily life. Despite this all, I still didn’t drive much, so I felt like I wasn’t “there” yet. It was a complicated feeling, since driving lets you go basically wherever you want. This was something I particularly struggled with, since I was usually afraid of driving, meaning I was missing a big part of being an adult…or at least, that’s what I was told. All the small things I did made me feel like I wasn’t a kid anymore. Things like drinking coffee, needing to file for financial aid, job hunting, and working on work on my own time felt exacerbated by the years of needing to hunker down and wear a mask. It was all symbolic, in a way, especially since coffee was the first step in realizing I was becoming an adult.
Honestly, I always felt a sense of dread that came with growing up. It wasn’t the bleak kind where you begin to hate life or think everything was hopeless (as easy as it is to feel that nowadays), but it was always a sense of not knowing what to do or say. Growing up, I was told I’d have to be entirely self-sufficient when you were an adult. Move out, have your own apartment, a job, college, and everything in-between. Of course, this was before COVID, before everyone realized that living on your own sucks if you can’t pay for anything. It was bizarrely comforting seeing people realize that living with family may not be as bad as it seems, especially since family was the thing keeping a lot of people sane while locked away for two years. People began viewing growing up differently in general, especially since the pandemic is a one-in-a-lifetime event for a lot of people my age. It could have been a trigger or could have radicalized people’s thinking more, but either way, it changed a lot of peoples’ perception of growing up, me included. When everyone’s locked up watching the world rot away, it’s easy to feel hopeless about the future, and it felt like a reminder to the feeling I always felt about being an adult, but I also hold on to hope, since things are bound to change soon.
After taking my first sip of coffee, I felt grown up. After my 100th, it calmed me down knowing I was gonna make it through the day. After my 1000th, it felt like an average morning. There’s no true “right” time to grow up, as it’s different for everyone, but small things like coffee, driving, staying with family, or going to college helps build the image on what an “adult” is in our minds. For me, a lot of the emotions I felt were just normal life things that everyone deals with at some point or another. Growing up is one of the many guarantees in life, so learning was something valuable I wish I learned sooner, that way I could’ve enjoyed my childhood more, and appreciate my morning coffee and a car a little more.