Pirates of Somalia
Adonai, God, and Allah
Oil rivers flow through Afghan veins,
Yet the globe’s indifferent as problems remain.
Janjaweed in West Sudan
America unite, “Yes we can”
Tibetan dreams on far away seas,
We care for Tech, but not refugees?
Serbian nights- spent cold and quivering,
Peace bracelets on wrists, yet the activism withering.
Bosnian nightmares played by the news,
But we stay quiet. As if we have something to lose?
Rape screams silent in the Congo
A whole world aware, that pretends to not know
Children mourn to diamonds of Sierra-Leone,
Yet the world refuses to face what can’t be dealt with at home.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Writing Assignment 3 Draft 1 - POEM.
Pirates of Somalia
Adonai, God, and Allah
Oil rivers flow through Afghan veins,
I pray that we come together.
Janjaweed in North Sudan
America unite, “Yes we can”
Tibetan dreams on far away seas,
I beg us to come together.
Rape screams silent in the Congo
A whole world aware, that pretends to not know
Children mourn to diamonds of Sierra-Leone,
We have no choice but to come together.
Adonai, God, and Allah
Oil rivers flow through Afghan veins,
I pray that we come together.
Janjaweed in North Sudan
America unite, “Yes we can”
Tibetan dreams on far away seas,
I beg us to come together.
Rape screams silent in the Congo
A whole world aware, that pretends to not know
Children mourn to diamonds of Sierra-Leone,
We have no choice but to come together.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Writing Assignment 2- Final Draft
The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, 9-year-old Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs up. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance, like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shined light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the walls did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. They would face the tent, turn profile to speak to each other, and face the tent again. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with the warm rice that his friends' mothers had prepared. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania because of it. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot (before smiting them for their stupidity.) The little dirty black who saw his little dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shined light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the walls did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. They would face the tent, turn profile to speak to each other, and face the tent again. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with the warm rice that his friends' mothers had prepared. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania because of it. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot (before smiting them for their stupidity.) The little dirty black who saw his little dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2
The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, 9-year-old Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs up. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with warm rice that his friends' mothers had made. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with warm rice that his friends' mothers had made. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Writing Assingment 2 Draft 1
The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs to their 9-year-old son. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. Muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer, his family being one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- their boots jingling like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. Muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer, his family being one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- their boots jingling like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Writing Assignment 1- Final Draft
When you hear death, you feel death. I know this because on that morning, the morning that plays through my head on a constant re-run, the air literally escaped my body. Tears refused to leave my eyes; noise refused to leave my mouth. My tongue was dry, yet my stomach made me feel as if I was about to vomit all across the hotel room. One of my four sisters had received the call and shut the hotel suite door in with my mom. I heard a shriek, and a noise I had never heard before-- but was later to understand. I cautiously opened the door that had just been shut. My pregnant sister, Erin was on the flowered carpet of the hotel: heaving, moaning. Michaela was squeaking, screwing up her face in all directions as she bawled in quick spurts. Lauren was eerily quiet, her face disoriented and lost. My mother kept telling us all to shut up, Amber was still in the shower.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. (No more smell of chewing tobacco.) We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker-- (a present that my mom was taking us to four days before Christmas. Four days before what was to be our "Best Christmas yet!" as we had taken to calling it.)
Soon upon entering the room, my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call her boyfriend Steve. Hearing the words leave her mouth is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless petrification, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out the man, who was far beyond closer to her than a brother, had died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. (No more country accent booming happily throughout the house.) I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother-- (No more prickly chin against my cheek in headlocks) --I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable, on the edge of being temporarily insane sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. (No more smell of chewing tobacco.) We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker-- (a present that my mom was taking us to four days before Christmas. Four days before what was to be our "Best Christmas yet!" as we had taken to calling it.)
Soon upon entering the room, my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call her boyfriend Steve. Hearing the words leave her mouth is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless petrification, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out the man, who was far beyond closer to her than a brother, had died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. (No more country accent booming happily throughout the house.) I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother-- (No more prickly chin against my cheek in headlocks) --I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable, on the edge of being temporarily insane sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Writing Assignment 1- Draft 2!
When you hear death, you feel death. I know this because on that morning, the morning that plays through my head on a constant re-run, the air literally escaped my body. Tears refused to leave my eyes; noise refused to leave my mouth. My tongue was dry, yet my stomach made me feel as if I was about to spew all across the hotel room. My sister had received the call and shut the hotel suite door in with my mom. I heard a shriek, and a noise I had never heard before-- but was later to understand. I cautiously opened the door that had just been shut. My pregnant sister, Erin was on the flowered carpet of the hotel: heaving, moaning. Michaela was squeaking, screwing up her face in all directions as she bawled in quick spurts. Lauren was eerily quiet, her face disoriented and lost. My mother kept telling us all to shut up, Amber was still in the shower.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. (No more smell of chewing tobacco.) We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker.
Soon upon enttering the room, my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call Steve. Hearing the words leave her mouth is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless petrification, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out her brother died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. (No more country accent booming happily throughout the house.) I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother-- (No more prickly chin against my cheek in headlocks) --I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable, on the edge of being temporarily insane sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. (No more smell of chewing tobacco.) We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker.
Soon upon enttering the room, my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call Steve. Hearing the words leave her mouth is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless petrification, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out her brother died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. (No more country accent booming happily throughout the house.) I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother-- (No more prickly chin against my cheek in headlocks) --I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable, on the edge of being temporarily insane sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Writing as Therapy- Emotional Release
For thirty seconds, the air literally escaped my body. Tears refused to leave my eyes; noise refused to leave my mouth. My tongue was dry, yet my stomach made me feel as if I was about to spew all across the hotel room. My sister had received the call and shut the hotel suite door in with my mom. I heard a shriek, and a noise I had never heard before but was later to understand. I opened the door that had just been shut. My pregnant sister, Erin was on the flowered carpet of the hotel, heaving, moaning. Michaela was squeaking, screwing up her face in all directions as she bawled in quick spurts. Lauren was eerily quiet, her face disoriented and lost. My mother kept telling us all to shut up, Amber was still in the shower.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker. Here is where my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call Steve. Upon hearing the words leave her mouth, that is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless shock, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out her brother died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. What kind of hotel lacks oxygen? My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother, I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable (on the edge of being temporarily insane) sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
No one had to tell me what was going on. It was exactly what I had always feared as a part of my inborn paranoia. He was dead. Not alive. No longer in physical existence. We had called Tim to go over to his house to check on him. He had not picked up our calls since last night, after we got out of the Nutcracker. Here is where my first stage of true, absolute, unquestioned shock set in. My mother pulled out her blackberry to call Steve. Upon hearing the words leave her mouth, that is when the air left me. “Richard is DEAD.” … “Don’t you dare make me say it again.” … “I have to get my girls home.” After the thirty seconds of breathless shock, I let out the same noise I had heard earlier. A moan- like an animal, a crazy person, a person who’s brain could not connect to her throat or any function in her body because she had just found out her brother died.
Erin went to the toilet and started to heave. Kayla began rocking next to her. My mother went into the adjoining room to tell Amber. To tell her that her husband was dead. I was not there to see her reaction, and was thankful. After my stunned phase, I had entered hyperventilation. There wasn’t enough air in the hotel room. What kind of hotel lacks oxygen? My sister opened the window and Amber came out of the other room in silence. Lifeless. Emotionless. She took out a cigarette and went to the window. Lauren yelled at me to stay with her. I thought my family thought she would fall out of the window, I thought she would kill herself. She swooned and fell a little, about to faint. We sat in silence except for my sharp, quick breaths. We could hear Erin from the toilet and Kayla’s shrieks. My mother and Lauren were throwing our luggage onto the cart like machines.
I remember the ride down the elevator. I remember our absolute disaster of a family stepping in, and a poor couple looking the most uncomfortable I have ever seen human-beings. I remember sitting in the lobby waiting for the van we had rented to come pull up. I remember that right upon hearing of the death of my brother, I spent the most terrible two hours in a van with my four, miserable (on the edge of being temporarily insane) sisters, one of whom the youngest widow I had ever known. And I remember my mother, having the courage and strength to put her children first and get us home safely while beginning the mourning of the death of her son.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Hujambo!
Hujambo wanafunzi na rafiki! Huyo ni blog yangu! Ninafika wewe kucheka katika blog yangu. Wao ni nzuri sana! Nikupenda wewe!
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