Non Fiction

“Goodbye to my Santa Monica dream

Fifteen kids in the backyard drinking wine

You tell me stories of the sea

And the ones you left behind”

Soft guitar echoes along the wood floors, barely audible from the open door of my bedroom as I sit on the couch at the front window. My sister stands by the road with her backpack and that awful plastic tiara on her head, the wind threatening to knock it off. It’s September 12, her 17th birthday, and she’s spending it standing outside of my dad’s house waiting for our mother to come pick her up.

I can’t really figure out what could possibly be going through her head. A week ago she was so set on moving in with Dad, but after our mom used her usual tactics of threatening suicide and promising money, she turned around completely.

I see her fidgeting with her hands as she waits, clearly chilly in the early autumn air. She’s tapping her foot and looks almost like she’s regretting her decision when our Mom’s beat up old Subaru pulls up next to the curb. I get a glance through the window and see how she looks horrifically and unabashedly excited, as if the knowledge that she “won” is more important to her than the obvious sadness and fear her child is facing. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

As my sister pulls herself into the car, I almost wish she would take off that stupid fucking tiara. It radiates this sort of wrongness that I can’t quite define. It only serves as a reminder of the party we should be having, with cake and happiness and singing “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. I know somewhere in the back of my mind that Mom is already planning to celebrate tonight, ignoring the stress of the day in favor of pretending that all is well. That’s always been her signature move. Pretend it’s okay and cry when someone points out that it’s not.

As the car drives away, I keep staring blankly at the spot where it’s just been. The silence of the house is deafening, even my music plays too quiet to break the palpable sadness that fills it. I already know that I’ll spend the next few days waiting for her to come back, for everything to be okay. But that moment never comes, and I’m left yet again trying to step around the shattered bits of hypothetical happiness.

The most stressful thing that a girl can ever go through is telling her friends about her boy crushes. Imagine sitting on the ground with all of your friends, pajamas on, at a slumber party, and have all of their eyes staring expectantly at you as you are trying to decide which man to have a crush on. This deciding process is very structured and methodical; blonde or brown haired, blue or brown eyes. It is a multi-step procedure in which one needs to go through the pros and cons of each man, and figure out which boy is the most likely agreed upon by the group as sexy. This brings us to our first step; read the room.

Different sets of friends will have different taste in men, so you always have to know what type of boy they like. Are they attracted to men who look similar to Gal Gadot, tall and lean and graceful? Or are they into men who are more similar to Viola Davis, strong and bright and brilliant? If they’re more into men similar to Ms. Gadot, then boys such as Chris Pine and Micheal B. Jordan would be acceptable answers. Men similar to Viola such as Jason Momoa and Chris Hemsworth would also be good candidates depending on the friend group that you are with. It is also a great idea to have a premade list of these men, because it is much easier to go off of a small list rather than to rack your brains for a male celebrity. However, this step is also multi layered. You have to remember the long or short hair discussion. Jason Momoa might not be a good option because of the length of his hair and how long hair is often associated with women, and you don’t want anyone assuming that you like feminine features. This is why if you are still rather unsure about your particular friend’s types, it is always good to go with the man with shorter hair.

Step Two may be even more important than Step One. You have to be able to talk about the man as if you were attracted to him. Make sure words such as “hot”, “chiseled”, and “sexy” are ingrained in your vocabulary when speaking about this particular topic. You have to make sure that you seem eager to talk about their defined triceps and sharp jawlines, and not focus too much on their pectorals. Gagging when looking at pictures of shirtless men is not an option, and you have to make sure that the blush on your face is believable, and is because of being flustered, not because you are feeling violently uncomfortable. Another important part of this step is to always remember to talk about features that are acceptable to talk about, like the veins on the back of their hands or the muscle definition in their abdomens. It is absolutely not acceptable to talk about how you want their hips to be soft and curved, or how you want their faces cleanly shaven and smooth rather than with stubble. Men are all sharp angles and hard lines, and you have to make sure your friends know that you are attracted to that.

Step Three is when everything mentioned above starts to come together, and you reach possibly the most essential part of the entire process; control your facial features and voice. This comes with lots and lots of mental preparation. Practice in front of your mirror is a great way to make sure that you are believable. Make sure that your voice and your body language convey that you are excited to show them who this man is, but also a little bit embarrassed. You have to play a little bit coy, in order to make sure that it looks genuine that you are into this man. Use the discomfort that you have felt throughout this entire experience and put it towards this moment, because it will only make you seem more believable. Your voice must not quake otherwise it’ll make you seem a little bit too nervous for the levity of the moment. Make sure you’re not sitting up too straight and still, but also make sure you’re not shifting around otherwise they’ll catch on that you’re feeling too nervous.

Now for Step Four, the reveal. You have gone through every part of the prior three steps, making sure that the man that you decide to have a crush on is the perfect candidate. His hair length, body type, and persona are the correct one for the group of people that you are with. Your vocabulary in regards to their bodies is in tip top shape, so good in fact that you can almost convince yourself that you’d like to kiss this man. Your voice is sure and steady, although your body language, facial expressions, and tone all convey a small bit of coy nervousness which is necessary for the situation. Have confidence in the decision you made, because that can only help you in the long run. When actually revealing the picture, hesitate the slightest to continue to accentuate the little bit of nervousness you have. Giggle a bit, agree with anything that your friends say, and then beg to watch a movie with him in it. Be ever confident and unflinching in your decision, because this will only make the choice more believable.

Step Five; the final step. It is absolutely essential that you remember which man you decided to have a crush on. If you slip up and accidentally say a man that you told another group of friends, or you say a completely different man all together, then all bets are off about your believability. Make sure you are completely positive about the man that you are speaking of belongs to that specific group and you are golden.

Although this process seems long and complex, after lots of practice it becomes second nature. Keep in mind that it can be used in many other situations, such as talking to your conservative grandmother or speaking with a random classmate. It is a versatile and effective method that can be used throughout your entire life if need be, in any situation that garners it. However, it is also not recommended to be used countless times during life. It is a system that represses emotion and suppresses growth. Although effective, the best part of this method is when you realize that you never have to use it again; a.k.a you come to terms with the fact that it was never someone that looked like Gal Gadot that you thought was attractive, but rather Wonder Woman herself.

What does it mean to be black in America? Well, it just means to be a living breathing human target. We get these talks from our parents and our grandparents at a young age. “ Don’t outshine your white peer, don’t date these white girls, don’t move too fast when an officer asks for your license and registration. Could you live a life where everything you do is being watched closely? Make one mistake and boom your life is on the line for the rest of your life. Being black in America means being prey to every other animal out there when you are no threat. Being a sheep when you are really a wolf. Can’t be too soft or your own race will disown you but can’t be too aggressive or else everyone sees a monster. Being black means being made fun of whenever the lights turn out and the only thing anyone can see is those beautiful white teeth and glistening eyes. Black men, athletic, courageous, respectful, loving, protectors. Black women, strong-willed, determined, never giving up. Black men, thugs, dead beat dads, drug dealers, jailbirds. Black women, angry, ratchet, drug abusers. No matter how we see ourselves selves the skin tone will forever hold its own judgment in whoever does not share the same minds. I am a black man that just got his license. Whenever I step out of my house I assume myself a target. I think I have superpowers sometimes cause I grew up being able to see a cop from a mile away and know what to do. I am always innocent yet when I drive my car and I see that badge on the side of a car I need to turn right. My heart races I slow down and I make another right I park I get out of my car and I start to walk. I’ve seen my father, cousin, auntie all dragged out of the car by an officer. I’ve heard their last words before being put in the back not to be seen for another 4 years. That’s only part of what it means to be black in America.

Being black in America means going up against your own race because of what color you rep on your clothes. Bloods, Parkhill running the parks, Crips, Eastside running the streets. It was never about killing. I was all about respect, about how much you was willing to prove you ride for your family. Crips and bloods in all had one common theme back then, no matter if you shared blood, you got my back I got your back, you reppin I’m reppin. Now I see kids my age owning guns pointing them at they screens talking about what “real thugs” do. I can’t go to certain places, not cause I’m affiliated no but because I’m related to someone they don’t like. I look like that one dude, just another reason to put a bullet in somebody. Being black means you are automatically affiliated there is no choice. “ But you can make it out. You can get away from that life.” Being black means you know once you “made it out” that’s a bigger bounty for your head. “Making it out” is another way of sayin I got this money that I got to send back to my hood because my family lives down there. And they ”family” needs some money too. Being black in America means not knowing when you gon see your son or daughter or mother or father or brother or sister again after you say I love you. Being black means going out into the streets day by day night by night and getting money sacrificing yourself in the process.

You want to know what it’s like to be black in America got to take a walk down to any black-owned business. They gon have endless stories. Ask your Black friend that has grandparents what being black means in America. You know what ask them what it means to black in America today. The stories you hear will not give you what it really is to be black in America, you will not feel that pain that stress, or that happiness we feel but you will have a 5% understanding of WHAT IT MEANS TO BE BLACK IN AMERICA.

I always found it strange how someone can go from being an expectant mother figure to embodying characteristics of a stereotypical Cinderella stepmother. Yes at first I didn't really give her a chance but since I had no choice ultimately, I became willing because although she was the opposite of my mother she was great in a way and I still longed for love, the kind that had so mercilessly been taken away from me, but I think being a parent is more than just a unification of a family through marriage and it is definitely more than having the experience of childbirth. Being a mother is to accept, love and welcome a child or in her case children. After the wedding the kids were not the priority, and our new mother didn’t act in the way we expected or hoped. It was like watching a promising and exciting trailer only to be disappointed by the lack of excitement and promise in the actual movie.

My story starts in a rather cramped hospital room in an unimportant town, with my mom screaming at the top of her lungs willing me to pop my little head out. My mother was very young, and probably not ready to have a child. I mean really, she didn’t have a place of her own, had dropped out of high school, and was attempting to live off of a minimum wage job. Not to mention, the becoming of my existence was a big fat accident that stemmed from what was supposed to be a one night stand.

During the midst of the bloody labor, my father had disappeared to a bar after standing in the corner of the hospital room and abruptly blurting out, “this sh*t looks like an exorcism”. So, when I came into the world 12 days after I was supposed to, he was not there.

His cycle of absence continued throughout the entirety of my childhood, leaving me in a constant blurred state of confusion and loneliness. I was too young and too innocent to really understand the harsh realities of the world I grew up in. He would stick around for a few months at a time, spreading his laughter and friendly personality...and then completely disappear for two weeks. I had been told by my mom and everyone around me that he just “worked a lot” or that he was on a “special trip”. Nobody ever told me where he went, but nobody ever really knew either. In fact, a blue sticky note titled ‘Numbers to Call when Steve is Missing’ that lived stuck to the fridge held the phone numbers of five different people to call when he fell off the face of the Earth. The numbers were used frequently.

My father was a drug addict, to put it simply. He was unreliable, irresponsible, unstable, and still acted like a careless 17-year-old kid well into his 30s. Really, most of my family, including myself, should have hated his guts. It would have made things a lot easier. The painful part was that although he fell victim to his addictions over and over again, he was an undoubtedly incredible person. He had the kindest heart, brightest smile and everyone considered him as one of their best friends.

Maybe it was the sparkle in his blue eyes or the way he laughed, or maybe the way that he always managed to make any person feel a million times better, no matter how terrible of a mood they were in. His charming personality was enough to make any woman fall head over heels for him, despite his flaws. Like a magnet, people were instinctively attracted to him, and his playful soul seemed to cast a spell on you that forced you to love him unconditionally no matter what. I know I did.

See, every time that he would come back around into my life, I would be too overwhelmed with happiness to ever be angry at his previous absence. I loved the man too goddamn much to understand that he would never change and never be around as much as I wanted him to. But the moment he wrapped me up in his arms and said, “I love you, princess”,

it was over. All the anger and feelings of neglect and abandonment dissipated into thin air at the mere sight of his goofy and loving smile.

My mother did her best to keep the ugly parts of him out of my life but still allow all the good parts in. It was tough, and it meant moving three hours away from him when things got really bad. The very last straw was when she found him doing lines in the kitchen when my 2-year-old self was sitting alone on the flowered couch watching The Princess and the Frog for the 14th time that week.

Because I lived in a mostly blissful state of innocence, the majority of the ways I remember my father were decidedly good, because of the fact that he and my mother hid the bright red flags he waved exceedingly well. I’m more than thankful that the way I thought of him wasn’t tarnished with the truth that in a lot of ways he wasn’t a good father or a good person. I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to believe that he was the best dad in the world and my very own Prince Charming, which made my recollections of the time we spent together untroubled and filled with fun. He took me along on many adventures, some of which I remember more vividly than others. For instance, the time we went to the rundown carnival that he had somehow convinced me was Disneyland is a memory I’ll never forget.

I remember the smell of the cotton candy and kettle corn on that warm Saturday evening. After months of not seeing him, my dad had finally come back into my life, with a big dopey grin, a squeezy hug, and a bag of skittles from a gas station. I wrapped my little arms around him, overflowing with pure glee and excitement. He boosted me into the front seat of his truck and off we flew on our little adventure, driving through mountain passes and stopping every 45 minutes when I had to pee. We sang the whole way there, a mix of my Taylor Swift CDs, the alternative rock station, and the punk rock mixtape he and his buddies put together. My dad, being a die-hard punk rocker and the lead singer of his own band, didn’t seem to be the biggest fan of my terrible taste in elementary school pop music but he played it for me nonetheless.

Three long hours in the car passed by, and at last, the big wheels pulled into the driveway of his tiny condo in Glenwood Springs.

“You’ll be staying the whole weekend with me kiddo”, he explained as he plopped my heavy pink backpack onto the floor.

“What are we gonna do?”

He chuckled and shot me one of his infamous winks, “it’s a surprise”.

I wandered off into the cramped kitchen, seeing the piles of old dishes overflowing the sink, two empty pizza boxes, and a stack of mismatched CDs. The fridge was empty except for a case of beer and a moldy sandwich, The overwhelming stench of mildew and cigarettes filled my nostrils. Does he really not have anything edible in here? Like, does he even eat any food? Can someone really live in a disgusting state like this?

He catches me peering into the fridge and quietly chuckles.

“I’m sorry the food selection isn’t the best here pumpkin, I’ll buy you any treat you want later.”

I grin and give him another big hug, stepping over a trash can that had been tipped over.

I didn’t care about the mess my father lived in, I was honestly just overjoyed to be there with him.

At last, we get back into the truck and drive off to my ‘grand surprise’. When we arrive at the brightly lit up carnival, an overwhelming sense of happiness and excitement rushes through my veins and I book it to the ticket booth, leaving my dad to chase after me. Pulling cash out of his pocket and winking at the lady running the stand, he buys me 20 tickets so I can ride all the things I wanted to. Part of me knew that he couldn’t afford it, but the other part was too excited to say no. I grab his hand and drag him into the crowd, frantically looking for the ride that spun you so hard you thought you landed in a different dimension.

We stayed at the carnival for hours, riding every single ride there twice and devouring our body weight in cheddar popcorn and funnel cake. I can still remember the feeling of his worn-down but gentle hand holding mine as I screamed on the rollercoasters and the way he smiled at me when I had powdered sugar dusted all over my face. I remember the sweet artificial taste of the pink cotton candy we shared and the way it melted in my mouth and got my hands all sticky.

I ran and danced with the other kids there and shyly waved hello to the big man who introduced himself as Joe. This guy reeks of booze and regret, I think to myself. He put his sweaty palms on my cheek and proudly called himself “my dad’s friend”, talking about how I was the cutest little girl and how I had my father's eyes. He also went on about how he and my dad, “Stevo”, had the best and craziest memories together.

Being young and still holding onto my blissful innocence in regards to my father's ugly past, I thought those memories were things like snowboarding, performing shows with the band, and eating pizza while watching comedy movies in someone's shitty apartment. I didn’t know that those “crazy” memories involved 5-day meth bingers and getting arrested on multiple occasions.

Eventually, I came down from my sugar high, letting sleep take hold of my tired eyes. I fell asleep in my dad’s arms as he carried me away from the noisy fair, gently placing me into the passenger seat. I slept the whole way back to his condo, drooling on the leather jacket that he had placed by my head as a pillow. He carried me inside, laying me down on the air mattress he had set up for me in the living room, covering me with my favorite fuzzy plaid blanket, kissing me on the forehead and telling me goodnight.

When I woke up, he was gone. I searched the whole house frantically and started to cry, my salty tears running down my cheeks. I paced in circles and bit the jagged remains of my nails off waiting for him to show up, feeling scared and abandoned. He finally showed up three hours later at noon, with a chocolate milkshake and a bouquet of carefully arranged apologies. When I fell into his warm embrace, I wasn’t angry or upset, I was just happy to have him back. I noticed he was shaky and his movements were strange, but I didn’t think too much about it and decided to forget anything happened and enjoy the rest of the day with him before he drove me back home, because I didn’t know when the next time he would come around would be.

I found out later that he had disappeared to a friend’s that morning, where they had all shot up heroin and he seemingly forgot that he had a kid all alone back at home.

After that weekend, I didn’t see him for almost 6 months. His long and gory battle with his addictions continued as he went on and off the grid. My mom explained the idea of drug addiction to me as a little monster living inside his head that forced him to do things he shouldn’t. The stubborn warrior in me wanted to strangle that wretched “monster” with my bare hands and cease its existence. Really, I think that I wanted to kill it more than he did.

Eventually, the addiction monster was the one who valiantly won the hard-fought war.

I remember waking up that morning in my favorite plaid pajamas. My mom walked into the room and sat on the edge of my bed, her eyes red and puffy.

“I never thought I would have to tell you this.”

“Tell me what mom?” My heart began to sink and my palms got all sweaty.

“Your father, he...he passed away last night. I’m so sorry baby.”

The walls in the room crumbled and my breathing stopped. No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I couldn’t talk. It felt like I had been thrown underwater with pockets full of stones. My mom’s voice was drowned out and I was left falling in a state of nothingness.

The world was black at first, leaving me feeling numb and helpless and unable to really comprehend what had just happened. Then there was red, a bright and burning anger that filled my soul and made me hate myself and everyone around me for not doing enough to save him, and anger at him for not fighting harder. Next came a deep blue, where for months I fell into a deep hole of depression and hopelessness where every movement felt too difficult and I allowed the layers of blankets covering my bed to wrap me up and hold me hostage.

My mom tried to get me out of bed and force various foods down my throat but it took a few weeks for me to come back out of my hole. Then a few months before I felt somewhat better. I began laughing and smiling again, letting the sun soak into my skin as I played outside with friends.

A few years later and I longed for his presence a little less and found a little more strength in myself. I can’t say that I grew much height-wise, but mentally, I grew up enough to be at the same level as a 30 year old. Broken to say the least, but also strong; like a worn down pair of shoes that are deeply cracked but somehow are still holding together after years of walking.

There are days where I miss him more than others, in the darkest part of the night or the early morning sunrises that were always his favorite. I miss the smell of cigarettes, paint, and campfire on his winter coat and the endless big bear hugs. The feeling of his roughed up hands holding mine and the way his unshaven stubble scratched my cheek when he kissed my forehead. The joyful sound of his voice and the adventurous sparkle in his ocean blue eyes. It scares the hell out of me that one day I’ll forget those little things. I try my best to hold onto my father, piecing together different memories of him like a thousand fragments of colorful stained glass.