LOST INSIDE
Max M. Power
Published by: Max M. Power at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Max M. Power
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This is a work of fiction and non fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Writing With Power
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For Veronica and Gabrielle.
Thank you for believing I could become a writer.
I would like to say a special thank you to all women in the world. You have a stronger influence in the world, more than you will ever know. Even if we do not show it at times, men would be lost without the women in our lives.
I have had the good fortune to have been influenced by very strong women. From my grandmother who taught me that a lack of funds did not mean I could not live a rich and fulfilling life, to my many aunts who would slap me around, reminding me how good I had it while their own children did not.
From my mother who always rode my ass, remaining tough and strict, despite her feelings of wanting to give in, making sure I walked a path of light instead of slipping into an abyss of darkness forever, to my sisters who would pick fights with me for no other reason than they could because they are my sisters and it's their job to torment me as such. To my dying day I know one of my sisters will still make me scream in frustration and smile, that's what siblings do.
From the many teachers who put up with the headache that was me as a student, desperately trying to teach me something to the one teacher who planted the seed that grew into my path that is writing. Thank you Mrs. Williams.
From my wife who gave me the greatest gift of all, our daughter, another strong woman that will drive me crazy because that is her role as a daughter. Everything I do I do for my family, to provide a better life than I have.
From my many friends who read what I write and demand I give them more, to those that threaten I would regret it if I ever stopped writing.
To Tyra Banks, whom I have never met, but with one single general question to the world, unlocked the flood gates that allows me to write so freely.
To the many future women I will meet in my life and in one way, shape, or form will inspire me to write something.
Even the bible acknowledges women as a great army. They certainly are the backbone of my life and for that I wish to say, "THANK YOU!!!"
I would like to thank the members of my fan club. For pushing me to be a better writer than I thought I could be. For always demanding more of me and never accepting NO for answer, this book is for you. As always:
"Submitted for your approval"
Introduction
The following are things I have written when I have hit rock bottom. These things remind me that I come from a bad place in my past and I escaped it. I survived. These stories and poems remind me of where I have been and where I need to go. While I may visit these bad memories I do not let them consume me. I hope by sharing my pain you will be inspired to share your pain with others. I hope to have touched your life as you have touched mine. Though we may have never met, your pain is my pain. We are bonded together forever by our will to survive.
I would like to know what you think of this book. If you wish to send a copy of this book to someone free of charge let me know. All comments are welcomed. It's cool if you don't respond but please pass this on to others. Don't let the chain end with you!
Author's Note
This book is dedicated to those poor souls who feel lost inside themselves. Depression is a powerful enemy to overcome. It is something that attacks without remorse and pounds on our very being until we succumb to its will. At times we may feel helpless in our fight against depression but I am here to say that our battle is not without victory.
Some bouts with depression are brought on by a sad event in our lives. The loss of a loved one, a bad break-up, hurtful words thrown our way. Then there are times when depression attacks without reason. No matter what the cause, each of us will deal with depression in different ways.
There are those who may be able to brush away depression as easily as brushing away cob webs from their face. For those select few I say, consider yourselves fortunate. There are those who suffer greatly.
Their pain is so great that they feel alone in the world. Inside a large crowd they are the only ones around for miles. They are saddened by this great void which causes them to become invisible. While many may feel this way I can say with the utmost certainty that you are not alone. There are those who have felt your pain.
While this pain, this hurt, this ultimate suffering, continues to grow it needs an outlet of escape. Some turn to drinking to numb the pain, in hopes it will go away. Others turn to drugs, attempting to destroy the very vessel that depression inhabits. There are those who eat, disgusted by the monster they feel consuming them. Still others cut themselves, hoping the pain will escape through their open wounds.
But there is another avenue of escape that has crossed the minds of millions around the world. Suicide. Death is the ultimate escape, promising that you will feel no more pain. It calls to us, beckoning us to a peaceful being. It seems like a logical escape but nothing could be further from the truth.
While you may feel alone and that no one cares about you I say again you are wrong. You have touched lives in ways you may never know but once your flame has burned out there will be those that will mourn your passing. Depression will have won and started its vicious cycle over again.
By the mere fact that you are reading these words is proof that someone cares. I care. I care enough to share my feelings with you. As you read this book there is no one else in the world but you and I. As you finish you will begin to see others who care about you also.
If someone has given you this book then there is another person who cares about you. If you care about someone else please pass this book on to them. Together we can build a chain of love one person at a time. Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, teachers and students, perfect strangers. We all have one thing in common: The Human Spirit, which is unbreakable if we allow others to care for us. Together we can defeat depression. Together we can survive.
Max M. Power
A True Hero
Heroes are everywhere. We have Super Heroes that we read about in books or comic books. We can even watch them in movies and TV shows. There are sport heroes who some would claim are Gods to be able to do what they do. Then there are those real life heroes like Firemen, Police, and EMS workers. Granted they save lives daily but there is another hero that is seldom heard about.
Looking at these individuals, most would not give them a second glance. On the outside they may appear to be weak or fragile but their strength is beyond belief. Their courage is matched by no other. They are amazing considering their lack of experience in the world.
Who are these unsung heroes? They are the ones who are bullied. A bully is a mean and vicious person who preys on the weak and attacks without mercy. Their target? Those who are different.
It takes a strong person to be able to survive a bully. A bully's words remain long after they are spoken; their actions felt years after they are performed, and their very being can haunt their victims until the day they die. Bullies, however, will not think of their victims ever again.
For these courageous Heroes DEATH is someone they wish to meet often. All of their pain and suffering will end, the torment they feel will be no more, if only DEATH would come knocking on their door.
For those younger Heroes, the ones who have no knowledge of death, their strength is unstoppable. They request not to return to the arena where their bullies reside. They are forced to go because they can not miss out on school. So they go once more to take the abuse for another day. They are terrified, yet they face that fear head on. They bury that hurt, that fear, that sense of powerlessness deep down inside. Alone is the only time they cry for they are doing what a Hero does best, protecting those they love.
They hide the pain, the anger, the hurt. These things are Kryptonite to our Heroes. If not kept in check these emotions can destroy our Heroes inside and out. While some Heroes may fall, exposing who they truly were to the world, many more grow up to live their secret identities.
These heroes are out there, day in and day out. They desperately try to live new lives while not talking about their past. But the Hero inside of them will not stay hidden for long. They will see a young Hero who is in need of guidance but will not ask for it. They will see what no one else can see because they share the same pain.
What ever it is that makes these Heroes different from the rest of the world does not matter to them. It's the similarities that draw them closer together. For the younger Heroes, it is the knowledge that they are not alone in the world. This is a fact that the young Hero will rejoice in.
Loneliness is a cold hearted acquaintance that our Heroes know all too well. This acquaintance never leaves their side, even when others are around, he remains, lurking in the shadows. Love is the only thing that can drive this enemy away.
But our Heroes know nothing of love outside of their parents. Those they would seek affection and attention from will turn on them with deadly venom. Again, our Heroes fight hard to keep the poison from destroying their very soul.
These courageous men and women, boys and girls, are True Heroes. They are MY Heroes. To be able to get up daily, to face the attacks that you know will NEVER stop, and face them head on. That is courage. THAT IS HEROIC.
End
The Gladiator
Here I am again at the footsteps of the arena, fighting for my life. I hate to fight but I have no choice. If I do not fight, I die. This is my life and I am a slave to it.
Someday soon I will win my freedom. I will leave this place and make something of myself. I will be worth more than I am now.
Why am I made to fight? Simple, to entertain the masses. A mob, a crowd, a large mass, they all want the same thing: blood. My blood.
Little by little they want more. Blow by blow, the fighting gets worse. The more they try to fight me, the harder I am forced to fight. Soon they will want me dead.
I can feel Death's cold presence. He is breathing on the back of my neck, causing me to be more alert. I am too young to die. I refuse to die. I WILL survive yet again.
The first time I was forced into this arena was very different. I knew not how to fight. Neither did my opponent. The fight was a fair one. But as time passed I learned new skills.
Make no mistake, it takes skill to be able to fight day after day and come out alive. I may not always win my battles but I survive to live another day. That is the way of things. The way of THIS life.
As time passes the fighting becomes more intense. The fighting is no longer fair. More fighters entered the arena at the same time, all trying to defeat me. Soon weapons are brought into the fight.
This causes the fighting to become more intense for I am not allowed a weapon. More unfair fighting. Each time I am forced to fight I must worry about where, if any, the weapon will come from.
This crowd would love a long hard fight, but in an unfair fight, time is of the essence. Speed is my ally. Strength and skill keep me alive. I must end my fights as quickly as possible.
Once, I was thrown into the arena unprepared. I had not known of the fight. Quickly I spotted my opponents, my attackers. Seeing the blade in one hand I knew the fight would not last long.
I attacked fast and hard, striking both opponents. In a matter of seconds they were down and I kept walking away, the victor. That is when I received the name of Gladiator.
I do not care for nor do I want this name. It makes my life more difficult. Now everyone wants to defeat the Gladiator. I did not choose this life, it was thrust upon me. Now I must enter this arena daily.
So as I walk the halls of my high school I look for danger everywhere. The crowd will appear out of nowhere and I will be forced to fight yet again. Soon I will escape this slave's life. My senior year is almost over.
END
Courage Under Fire
Pregnant and all alone
But you plan to see it through.
Afraid no one will help in any way,
You continue on, knowing this baby will need you.
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
Getting up each morning,
Dreading to face the new day.
There is a bully who makes your life hell
But you face him, never knowing what you are going to say.
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
You kept a secret,
One that will tear your family apart.
Now you've decided to come out of the closet
And be true to your heart.
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
You see things daily,
Things no person should see.
You bury the images deep inside
As a dying man cries, "Nurse, Don't leave me!"
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
You loved your job,
When you first became a cop.
Now you do it cause others need you
Knowing and dreading that someday a bullet in your head may pop.
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
There are things in life
That scares you to the core.
Then you look deep down inside yourself
Finding strength to carry on and live life just a little more.
THAT is Courage Under Fire.
Used
Used and abused
Beaten and bruised.
Yelled at, scream at
Being called ugly, good for nothing, and fat.
Stepped on, picked on
Wishing I was dead and gone.
I've been hurt badly and I feel so ashamed.
I've known nothing but heartache and pain.
All the time I'm being lied to
But still I trust you.
This is my life as you can plainly see
Dear Lord please send someone to help me.
Faith
You walk around with a heavy heart
You have a lot on your mind.
But this burden you don't have to bear alone
A friend in me you will find.
Faith, Hope, and Love
The LORD has given to us.
If you look deep inside you will see
You have friends you can trust.
Let me help you
Carry this HEAVY cross.
Jesus has sent me to you
In this time of your loss.
Trust in the LORD
Strength and faith you will find a new.
Day by day
You are with friends that love you.
So I Cry
As the rain falls upon my head
I'm reminded of you.
I can see your face
I can smell your hair.
There's nothing I can do about it and so I cry.
I can't move
Letting the rain hide my tears.
Why did you leave?
Why did you go?
I know I can never have you back and so I cry.
The rain is so cold
But it does not help to numb the pain.
I stand here soak and wet
The rain stays, it won't go away.
You loved the rain, and so I cry.
Another year has gone by.
I return back to this place.
I lay down your flowers
I kiss your headstone and turn to leave.
"I miss you my love," and so I cry.
Going Crazy
I'm weak, I'm dying
I can't stop crying.
Death and his demons are real
His coldness I can feel.
Cold and empty I feel inside
I know I'm drifting to the dark side.
The pain is growing stronger everyday
I just want it to go away.
I don't want to go crazy
But the meds make me lazy.
I don't know what to do
Do I give in and live life blue?
The Dark Side
The Dark Side is coming,
Coming for me.
I know its close
Its Demons I can see.
The Dark Side knows
How I truly feel.
Inside I'm slowly dying
The Dark Side is real.
Once it's here
There is no turning back.
It steals your very soul
Your heart it turns black.
There is no escape
You will be caught.
You will surrender
No matter how hard you fought.
The Dark Side is huge
Evil lives in this place.
It feeds off of the fears
That you can not face.
The Dark Side is here
I can feel it in my head.
The Dark Side has won
I AM DEAD!
Demons
You see them all around you,
They follow you everywhere you go.
The Demons inside
Claim they want your soul.
You look to God
But they tell you He's not there.
All you want is happiness,
The Demons show you life's not fair.
You try to ignore them
So they back off a bit.
They lurk in the shadows,
Striking hard when you least expect it.
You cry for help,
Thousands of people around but no one hears your call.
The Demons have you,
You no longer stand proud or tall.
The Demons taunt you,
They keep calling your name.
In your head they are laughing,
Knowing they are driving you insane.
You can't stand your life anymore,
You feel you have to perform this great sin.
Death is your only chance for peace
So your life you take, you end.
I hope you find what you were looking for
But there is one thing about me where you were wrong.
I dearly loved you my friend,
And I wish you peace, safe, now that your Demons are gone.
They Are Coming
The Demons are coming,
They're in my head.
They only want one thing,
For me to be dead.
I can hear them,
Everywhere I go.
They are poisoning my heart,
Killing me real slow.
They tell me I'm no good
That no one wants me around.
All I cause is pain
I belong in the ground.
The Demons beat me
Day and night.
They keep me in the dark,
I will die if I go to the light.
They will never give up,
The Demons will win.
They tell me no one will miss me
In the end.
I have tried to love
But LOVE runs away.
The Demons are right
I have nothing more to say.
It's true
I've brought you nothing but pain.
Death is my only answer
THE DEMONS HAVE DRIVEN ME INSANE.
This is a true story of my life. You are about to receive an insight into the man I am. I wrote it, not for pity or sorrow, but in the hope that others will read My Story and know that they are not the only ones in the world who suffer. You are not alone, even though at times it may seem that way. There is hope. You can survive.
My Story
Survival. That was the name of the game: survival. It is a game I was forced to play very young and a game I learned to play well. The fourth largest city in the United States is where I called home.
Unlike New York or L.A., Houston does not really have "Projects," but the area is still poor. The houses were not always run down and falling apart at the seams but the neighborhood was still poor. One look around and you knew you were in the ghetto.
My father was a school teacher, which naturally meant he did not get paid much, and my mother was a stay at home mom. To earn extra money mom use to baby-sit for other people. In the early 80's a dollar stretched farther than it does today.
My journey bounces between Stockton, California, my birth town, and Houston, Texas, the place my father thought would give his family a better chance at life. Total, my parents had six children. I came out number four. I had one older brother, two older sisters, and way too many cousins to count.
Clothes were never an issue in our family, hand-me-downs were plentiful. As far as shoes were concerned Payless was our best friend. K Mart knew us well. Layaway was a way of life.
As I grew out of infancy my baby fat decided to stick around. Hand-me-downs were hard to find for me, but my mother refused to have me looking like a jungle boy so Husky became the brand of choice. The Donkey Kong gorilla became my logo.
I do not remember much about my parents before we moved to Houston, but I do remember my first job.
California is the state for produce. Everyone grew something different in their yards and come harvest time we would trade and share. Our house had a cherry tree in the back yard. One neighbor grew bananas and the other raised chicken. At one end of our block was an abandoned lot where the house burnt down in the late 60's. In that lot was a fig tree, a plum tree, and a lime tree.
Across the street from our house was an open field owned by the Santa Fe Rail Road. Sugar canes grew in that field directly in front of our house. A quarter-mile away at the edge of the field was two peach trees.
Two miles north of our house was a huge strawberry patch. When I was four I went twice a week with my neighbors to pick strawberries, my first job. See, at that time child labor laws did not exist. Hard work for little money, but thanks to "Progress" none of these places exist anymore.
Kindergarten was the next step for me. Four of my cousins were going to the same school I was, so I would not be alone at school. At the bus stop, however, I was on my own. Simpler and safer times back then allowed my parents to send me to school on my own. Unlike today, where a route may have many "little" stops, the route was one stop per neighborhood. Our stop was on a busy main street. No kids running out into traffic back then.
I had three long blocks to walk to catch the bus. For a five year old it might as well have been a mile. I had to travel west to get to the bus stop. We lived in the far back corner edge of the neighborhood and the bus stop was at the main entrance. Walking to the stop I had three challenges to overcome each way.
At the end of our block, Mary, the owner of the house had a huge tree stump in her yard and no fence. Tied to this stump was her Saint Bernard we called Cujo. My idiot brother and sisters told me if Cujo caught me he would eat me. Being a fat kid I would have fed that dog for a week. So I ran.
Once I pasted Cujo I had to cross the haunted train tracks. The tracks were no longer in use and when it got real hot outside the bridge under the tracks would catch on fire. It actually happened so often that the fire department never came to put the fire out. The bridge would burn but NEVER fell apart. Haunted.
No ghost was going to catch me so I kept running. On the next block was another dog. This one was not on a chain, like Cujo was. I never stopped running until I got to the bus stop. After school was the same thing. My little fat legs were pumping for dear life.
After I graduated Kindergarten we moved to Houston. Dad packed us all into a huge blue moving van and hauled us from a three bedroom, one bath house to a two bedroom, one bath house. The type of neighborhood was the same, poor. But Houston was suppose to give us all a better life. Eight people and a small dog under one roof.
My older brother and oldest sister had dropped out of school. They did not want to go anymore. My sister was not going to come without her boyfriend David, so he came too.
Not long after we settled in we were introduced to things in Texas. Roaches were tiny in California but in Texas they are HUGE! OFF bug spray was a must when we found out about mosquitoes. Then there was a Hurricane, Alicia.
We had never been through anything like that before. We were all angry with my father. It took weeks before things went back to normal. The Red Cross Wagon Wheel was a God sent.
Soon summer was over and it was back to school for me and one of my sisters. The school was two blocks behind our house. I was in Mrs. Walker's class. This was going to be her last year teaching. I was about to learn a few more things that were done different in Texas.
Unlike in California, corporal punishment was aloud in Texas. To Mrs. Walker we were already thugs and hoodlums. She had a thick wooden paddle full of holes. It whistled when she swung it. Like the horror stories of nuns and rulers, Mrs. Walker was not afraid to use her paddle.
My first meeting with "The Whistler" was when I had to pee. In California if you had to go to the bathroom you were allowed to just get up and go. I had to go so I got up and walked out of the room to the restroom. Mrs. Walker's hand grabbed me and pulled me back so hard I got scared and pissed my pants. I was whipped and learned that no matter how bad I had to go I had to wait till break time.
Also, in Kindergarten we got out at noon so I never ate lunch at school. On paper, my father made too much money for free lunch and not enough for me to pay full price, so I received reduce lunch. Of course that was on paper.
You have to eat to survive and we did not always have money for reduce lunch. On those days I brought a sack lunch that was often eaten by Moses, the class bully. I worked hard once before, now I was about to do it again.
Mr. White, the school janitor, saw what was going on and intervened. He would pay the breakfast and lunch fees if I agreed to help him. So I did. For four years I worked for Mr. White. He was a true friend to me, sneaking me extra food whenever he could.
In the morning I would help roll out the tables and put them down. During breakfast I was stationed at the trash line. Kids would bring their trays up to the line and I dumped the different sections into the proper trash can.
If there was a program happening during the day I came to the cafeteria to set out the folding chairs. After school I went back to put everything away, tables and chairs.
Now we fast forward to 1988. My little brother, two years younger than me, was left behind in elementary while I moved on to Middle School. My baby fat had only gotten fatter, and was a cause for teasing. My belly made me a target.
I was on my own again. My parents were expecting child number six which now put us into a different tax bracket. We now qualified for food stamps, government cheese and butter. We also qualified for free lunch.
My older siblings were now out of the house and I was the oldest one in the house. Things were changing for me again.
Sports were now available to me but my father wanted me to be a "Brain" not a jock. That was another thing that made me a target. I have to give my family credit though, I was never without books. My parents always made sure I got the books I wanted. During the summer the only place I was allowed to go alone was the public library.
My Grandma Margaret and my Uncle Herman were always giving me books, believing at that young age I was smart enough to understand Robin Cook, Michael Crichton, and Tom Clancy. If not for all of them pushing me I would not be here writing to you today.
Well, in 5th Ward, where I grew up, when you went to middle school you only had one choice, McReynolds. The Bears. Since my parents did not allow me to play football, and the coaches wanted me to play because I had a good arm, I joined the band. Music was in my blood.
My family could not afford to buy or rent an instrument so I received another hand-me-down, my older brother's broken coronet. Its bell, the end where the sound comes out, was crushed inward. I was the joke of the band.
There were now more bullies than when I was in elementary school and I was their favorite target. They would corner me in the locker room and beat on me for no reason another than I was fat, hitting my body so no one would know. They threatened to kill me if I ever told; if I only knew it was a lie.
These bullies would break the lock off of my locker, leaving it open. Taking my books and flushing them in the toilet happened often. Soon I had to start carrying all of my books home with me. In addition to that I had to carry the coronet case too.
I looked like a soldier carrying a fifty pound rucksack on my back and a radio in my hands. Adding fuel to the fire, I was forced to walk home because McReynolds did not have any buses. I lived a mile away and most of the time I ran it home.
At the end of the school year my mom told us we were going to California for the summer; my little brother, my new little sister, and me. My grandma, my mother's mom, was now living in our old house so I was back in the same neighborhood I was born in.
By this time Cujo had died and the strawberry patch was now a highway but all the fruit trees were still there. I did not mind picking the fruit now, I was an active kid, fat but active. Climbing those trees I looked like the Donkey Kong gorilla that was on my pants.
The summer flew by quickly and school was about to start. My parents were having trouble and separated for the year. I was about to go to school in Stockton again for the third time. Kindergarten, fourth grade, and now the seventh grade, but the only question was where.
The district had redrawn the lines a week before school started. I was already enrolled in Hamilton Middle School, the Hawks, the same school my older siblings had gone to.
I could either go to the new school or take the public bus to Hamilton. The district provided a bus but only after it had finished its first route. That meant late to school and late getting home. I could have walked and it would have been faster.
I took the city bus to school and walked home. This time the distance was two and a half miles. The lockers had locks built in so I did not have to lug my books around everywhere. I was in band again and my Uncle Gerald let me use his trumpet. A real trumpet.
Since my mom did not work we were on welfare. I was back on reduced lunch. Money again was not always there in the beginning. The school let me work my lunch debt off. Ten minutes before lunch started I went to the cafeteria and got ready.
Paper hat on my head and plastic gloves on my hands, I was ready to serve lunch to my fellow students and teachers. My job was to make sure there was plenty of milk stacked and pass the trays down on the hot plate.
I was laughed at and teased but it was survival. The gangs in Stockton were a lot tougher than the ones in Houston. Before Christmas there were three drive-by shootings at the school and two more before the school year ended.
Gym class looked like the "Yard" at San Quentin State Prison. If you were in trouble you did P.T. (Physical Training). Jumping jacks, sit ups, and pushups. The girls were watching boys as they walked around and flirted. The boys were either playing basketball, volleyball, or lifting weights.
For us nerds, we either prayed we were invisible and ignored by the bullies or we were their toys. I was too big to be invisible, so I hid and ran. I did not have to run often due to band practice after school. Most of the bullies were gone by then.
One day I was caught in the hallway by a "Muscle Head," the weight lifting bullies. He grabbed me by my throat and my balls, threatening to rip them off, as he slammed me into a wall. That day I decided if I was going to survive bullies I needed to fight.
Out of rage I had beat up one bully back at McReynolds so I figured I could do it again. The Karate Kid was my inspiration. I could relate to Daniel. Martial Arts were the way to go. I watched Marshal Arts movies over and over, copying their moves, go Ninja Turtles. I had boards in our back yard that I used to practice with. I learned about pressure points, spin kicks, roundhouses, sweeps, and punches. I would not be picked on again.
With band practice over after Thanksgiving I was now at the mercy of the bullies. I had to strike first.
A week before Christmas vacation, as I was walking to the front of school, I saw the "Muscle Head" who had grabbed me. Butterflies filled my stomach as I attacked him, punching him in the back of the neck.
The fight lasted only a minute and I had won. A sweep to his hip and three hard kicks to the groin was enough to bring him down. Muscle did not matter and I was never picked on again. From that day forward I was not going to take shit from nobody. Nobody!
My parents made up three weeks before school ended and we were on our way back to Houston. I returned to Houston totally different than I had left it. All the running and playing I did helped to slim me down. I had to be twice as active than most to stay in shape. I was still over weight but only by ten pounds.
School started and I was now in all Honor classes. There was only one set of Honor classes so all the students were the same in every class. No one recognized me. I thought I could start over fresh.
I was known only as the transfer student from California. Girls that laughed and teased me for being fat were now talking to me. At the end of the week I was discovered. My good arm and broken coronet gave me away.
Fat or not, the bullies wanted their easy target back. They wanted the girls laughing at me, not talking to me. One day I walked out of History class and went to my locker. Band was my next class. Band was at the front of the school and the rest of my classes were at the back of the school, so I had to run.
As I closed my locker and turned to leave, I was tripped and fell hard. Laughter rang out through the hall. Quickly I got back on my feet to face my attacker. Two guys pulled me back and slammed me into the lockers. They did not know I had learned how to fight.
The boy in front of me found my foot in his groin. My elbow flew into one boy's nose and my fist into the other boy's face. The fight was over. I had three more fights that year and never lost once.
I was glad to leave that hell hole when summer came. My father insisted I go to Barbara Jordan High School for Careers, a magnet school. I studied hard and was accepted. There was no way I would have gone to my home school, Wheatly. If I had I would have been killed sooner or later. I would rather have dropped out.
To my father, dropping out was no longer an option. I was going to be the first in my family to graduate high school. My father took on a second job to help keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. I hardly ever saw him.
The ninth grade brought a fresh start. Mostly the brightest of the bunch from 5th Ward went to Barbara Jordan. I did not have to worry about bullies anymore. With this new school I was suppose to learn a trade. Without trying I learned many trades and life lessons.
My first kiss, my first girlfriend, my first breakup. Making friends for life that I would never see again after graduation. My first failed grade, allowing my brother to catch up to me. We may have come from the same place but we grew up opposites. I fought, I loved, I cried, I made my own way.
When I turned sixteen my older brother paid for my driver's education. With my license in hand, I received my first paying job. My father was angry and cut me off with money. I had to buy my own clothes, school supplies, and pitch in for food. If I wanted to go out I had to pay for it myself. If I wanted to work then I had to be responsible. I was not afraid to work; I had been working all my life. The only difference was now I was getting paid for it.
After graduation came the REAL world. Nothing in my fourteen years (K-12th) in school prepared me for real life. I got my own car, fought my parents over it but I got it. Less than a year after graduation I was living in my own apartment, leaving because my mother did not approve of my girlfriend, who is now my wife.
Money was tight and life was hard but I was out of the ghetto. I swore to myself I would never go back again to live.
The circle of life is funny. Every child wants to do better than their parents and every parent wants a better life for their children. I find myself taking on traits of my father, something I never wanted to do as a child. But I also try not to make some of the same mistakes.
I have worked two jobs at once just to keep my head above water. I try to give my daughter what she wants without spoiling her. She likes books, writing, aviation, and music, just like me.
My wife thinks I'm trying to make her grow up too fast when in fact I'm scared to death of it. My daughter is very outgoing and not shy. She loves to sing and dance. She is so big and yet so small.
We do what we can to keep her safe. She is the light of our lives, she is our baby. She will help me keep my promise of never returning to the ghetto. I escaped and have not looked back. I survived.
From a pile of manure can grow a beautiful rose. Granted, I am no rose but my family is.
There you have it. That's my story. So what's yours?
THE END
Max was born in 1977 in Stockton, California. There Max stayed until he was five, when his family moved to Houston, Texas. Max still lives in Houston where he works full time and writes in his spare time.
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