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[identitynarrtives]

Gravity

The stars aligned one day and allowed me to partake in history. Early in the morning on March 24th, 2018, I began my journey to Washington, DC for the March for Our Lives protest for gun control. We drove from Philly all the way there; a long, painful trip to somewhere I’d find comfort in somehow. Maybe for once, I’d have the chance to express my passions alongside those who feel the same. They’d listen to me, and I’d listen to them. 

When I’m passionate about something I tend to talk more. However, I never found a set of ears that would hear me, interpret and support my passion. I never found the person that’d look at me and think that I deserve headlines, interviews, and articles about me.

I wanted to be like the sun, a life source for many but especially for myself. People would bask in confidence and my personality would be a blinding light. Anything is possible. I held onto that thought for the entirety of the day. 

There I was, looking for my opportunity to showcase my inner sun. I used every atom in my body to be a voice for inner-city students of Philadelphia, a community often overlooked. A quiet, hyper-aware white guy had been on the bus that morning and I had no clue of who he could have been. He came across as a spy that would lurk in on our conversations. My friends and I passed time by laughing and making vlogs. The bus squeaks and bangs filled any empty space. The spy walked to our section of the ragged, tailbone-killing bus to see what we were up to. Words flew around in the air like comets. His microphone and headset looked something like a supernova. He was a journalist- embarking on a journey of discovery and change. I, an aspiring journalist and student activist was too, embarking on a journey of discovery and change. 

“You should talk to her. She knows a lot about this; she’s right there,” emerged from the clamor of the clanking bus from the mouths of my peers.

The spy and I met eyes, but most importantly, ears. 

He turned out to be named Avi. He served as a brief balance in my solar system. Hell, he was a Big Bang that my soul needs. Yes, it was his job to listen and make a story out of the information he gathered. In my mind, it felt as if he cared less about his article and segment on NPR; that feeling is what mattered the most. Being listened to and transcripted was a feeling I only knew from doing it for other people, and for it to be broadcast on the radio and published on WHYY made me feel heard. For the rest of the day, I found myself talking to him the most. 

It seemed as if he had more interest in my words than I had on my own. I spoke words of nothingness; about having makeup wipes at the ready if I ruined my winged eyeliner, yet he listened. And listened. And listened. By the end of the day, I tasted the foam that filtered out background nonsense, and for a moment, I didn’t drown in that nonsense.

A solar system has orbits that exist due to gravitational pulls amongst planets and stars. All planets orbit the sun and each orbit helps keep the system balanced. A disruption in this pull would cause possible absorption by the sun and planets crashing into planets. An asteroid can sometimes fall out of orbit on its own, but it doesn’t always hit something else. 

Everything needs balance. I need balance. I deserve balance.

I am often the solar system that gets disrupted. Planets collide with one another, causing me to collapse. The sun takes in too much and causes mass destruction. Asteroids are issues planets would be hit with unexpectedly, but I’d have to deal with it somehow. Stability is light years away from me. 

My real-life disruption is putting too much energy into listening to others, helping them, and not being helped in return. Everything doesn’t have to be a quid pro quo, however, it’s expected and respected when greed is absent. When it’s an equal exchange between one another. Being treated with the same energy I give off is the main thing I would strive for. 

I realized the importance of stability. I can’t have a life, or solar system, where I’m micromanaging my system every waking second of my existence. Other components of my system have to keep their shit together and support one another to make things a little less chaotic. I deserve to be listened to as much as I listen. A trip to Washington, DC to fulfill my teen activist dreams resulted in feeling listened to. The biggest outcome that I didn’t realize I’d benefit most from. It all resulted in the recognition that I’m worth having sets of ears that’ll listen to me. Maybe all it takes is a spy turned journalist on a bus.

-Santana Outlaw

(photos are mine)

[identitynarrtives]

Egypt First

After three long hours, of seeing non stop pavement and sand all around me. After what had felt like an eternity of just passing cars and looking at sand from every window, we finally got home. As I was walking to our house, in a far too familiar dusty road. I still couldn’t believe I was finally going to see them, my grandparents and the rest of my family.  Even though it was beyond hot and thinking I was going to pass out from this heat, all those thoughts vanished.  When I looked up, I saw them in the street waiting for me. As I was walking towards the house, they started to walk towards me with arms wide open. That was the best feeling in the world, getting to hug my grandparents, after not getting to see them for six years.

While walking with them to the house, there it was, the same door from six years ago. Huge, gray and black metal door, just like a mansion gate out of a fairy tail. As I took the first step, through the fairy tail gate, all I saw was my aunts, uncles  and cousins, who grew up so much, standing there on the patio waiting for my family and I. Just seeing all of them with their mouths and arms wide open. Eyebrows up and sparkling in their eyes as soon as I walked through the door. Was just beyond comforting and just simply amazing. But it took me a minute to take everything in, since it was so overwhelming and just so surreal; but yet the best feeling ever in the world, being surrounded with all family and loved ones. Especially ones I haven't seen in six years.

This reunion actually began right after high school ended. I couldn’t believe the news when I heard it. Until I had the ticket in my hands! I was finally going back home. After six long years of non-stop missing my family. I knew in two weeks I would see them. Those two weeks waiting, were as torturting as waiting to open up your christmas presents. Again, I couldn’t wait or believe that I was still going, until my passport got the official stamp. I was finally going back home.

As we were landing, in the motherland(Egypt), I was beyond disbelief, I’M IN EGYPT! I couldn’t wait to finish all the formalities of entering a new country. As soon as we got our luggage, I was speed walking from all the excitement within. When I saw my uncle through the glass door, waiting for me, my face lit up brighter than a lightbulb.

So as soon as I saw my uncle I said with a loud voice,”uncle.”

My uncle replied with a joking voice, “Screw you and your uncle, get over here”, as we were walking to each other to hug.

Instantly, as I let go of my uncle, my other uncle showed up, and I hugged him as tight as I could as well. As excited as I was seeing my two uncles after six years, I was also annoyed, because the ride home from the airport was a dreadful 3 hours long trip. I was getting irritated, because I wanted to see the rest of my family, but instead I had to put up of seeing non-stop pavement and sand from every direction I looked until then.

(time skip)

After enjoying quality time with my family, it was time to start our mini vacation, in other words, travel all over Egypt and visit all the cool places. My family and I, went all the way from Asyut(where I’m from) where it felt like everyday I was melting to the cool atmosphere of Alexandria(Alex). We got to enjoy the beautiful beaches in Alex, where the cool wind was always blowing, and the biggest mall in all of egypt, which is 2 times the size of  the King of Prussia Mall. Then, we got to go visit many, marvelous monasteries. Also, visit more family, that lived in Alex.

Then we traveled from Alexandria to Cairo. Again, we went to visit even more family. Have you ever wondered, how magnificent one of the seven wonders of the world would be? Well I didn’t think that of it before, but after seeing it in person, it’s a whole other view. People when they think of Egypt they think of desert, pyramids, and heat. Well they're not wrong. I got to experience all of them while visiting the Great Pyramids and its guardian the Sphinx for the first time in my life. Most people know that the Sphinx doesn't have a nose, but actually getting to witness it in person, has to be one of the most memorable sights. Even though, I know that the Sphinx is made of stone, it looks sandy.

Nevertheless, how awesome the sphinx looked, the Pyramids were even more unbelievable. When standing in front of it, face to face, I realize how enormous it really is. Not just the pyramids as a whole, but how massive each stone really is. Furthermore, I can just feel the sun beating on your head and neck the whole time while visiting. Even though there was wind blowing in your face here and there, I mostly felt the sand coming in my face with the cool wind. In spite of, the heat, and dust/sand, it was amazing just being in the presence of one of the seven wonders of the world. And finally being able to blout about being an Egyptian that actually got to see the pyramids in person, was almost as satisfying as getting to see them.

After visiting the Great Pyramids of Giza, we got to go to the best resort in all of Egypt, El Hurghada. Which is a beautiful resort on the shore of the Red Sea. Beside from being at a five star resort and having non stop food whenever I wanted. Getting to go to the swim and see the red sea, which was beautiful sight to behold. My family and I got to ride a blow up couch, being pulled by a speedboat, in the Red Sea. Well, my mom, sister, and I, my dad was too scared to go with us. During the whole ride, the feeling of the water splashing into my face, the wind blowing, and hearing my sister and mom screaming the whole time. It was such a bliss feeling ever along with the screams  by my mom and sister.

Afterwards, my sister and I got to go on a safari trip, where we got to go to the sahara desert and go quad-bike riding. Which personally, was one of the coolest things I ever did. After driving in the desert for twenty-five minutes on the Quad-bikes, in one giant line. We reached a resting place, where they offered me refreshments, and if I wanted to have a camel ride. While I was on that camel’s back, that’s when I truly felt my Arab/Egyptian heritage, just camel riding with a scarf like cloth wrapped around my face. Then we got back to the resort, for our last night there, the resort throw a huge party(which happened every night). Finally, we traveled back home to Asyut for our last week of vacation.

I hated every minute of it. Just knowing that this is my last week in my hometown, with my friends, and most importantly my family. Even though I truly despised the thoughts that this is my last week and im leaving them for God knows how many more years. I tried to look passed that thought and to try to enjoy and spend ever last minute with my family and loved ones, I didn’t want to waste a second.

The last day came, as a harbinger of death, waiting to take me away from my family. Not only was it hard on me, but It was even harder on them, especially my grandparents because over the last two months that flew by, I grew so attached to my family and I was so used to seeing them every morning and every night. . That whole day I saw my grandmothers both tearing up. Finally it came, my last hour, that whole time I kept telling myself and my grandparents, “Stop crying, I’ll be back, we're gonna come and visit again”, For the first time since I was a little kid, I started to tear up, eventually those light tears turned into full out crying. I was upset. I was leaving my grandparents, my uncles, my aunts, and everyone that I loved. That was the hardest and most grieved feeling in the world.

As I was hugging my family members for the last time, each person hugging me tighter than the last, it made me so beyond broken up. I couldn't stop thinking about my loved ones, I didn’t want to go back I wanted to stay with them. Unfortunately, I had to go back and finish my education. I couldn't stop thinking about them and tearing up, until we left Egypt and landed in America. Even though, I may have returned to America, but this trip showed me I am also, firstly, Egyptian.

Remon Youssef

[identitynarrtives]

The Caregiver

My mom did find them. Despite being on the other side of the room, while I laid in bed some nights, I could hear her cry herself to sleep. We shared a large master bedroom. It was impossible to ignore during my many sleepless nights.

When I was fifteen, we had received yet another Foreclosure threat from the bank, another power outage due to the light bill being too much, and so many other bills. I was usually the one to find the notes. The notes were barely hanging on the door with a cheap piece of tape. One time it said “FINAL.” It sounded so… well, final. It looked as though they were just as tired of sending the threats as I was for finding them. At first, I tried hiding them so my mom didn’t have to see the impending doom looming over our heads.

We lived in the same house since I was seven. It was nice and large. I never had my own space, but I enjoyed finding my own nook in the house, even if it was my aunt/grandmother’s room when they were still living in New York. I honestly don’t know how my mom and aunt were able to cheat the system and get a loan big enough to buy that house. It was most likely due to the market crash that had happened.

My mom had a good job in New York, making $75,000+ with the two master degrees that my grandmother never approved on. In Pennsylvania, she can barely make more than $60,000. She convinced herself that we moved so her children can get a better education. She didn’t want us to have to grow up like she did. I don’t know why we moved here. I was more outgoing in New York. Yeah, our living arrangements were better compared to our one room apartment on the fourth floor. This is why the thought of losing our house was even scarier.

The foreclosure letters kept coming and eventually my mother had pretty much run out of options. She was looking at places to rent because we all knew that realistically we were never going to own another house until her credit went back up. We applied to rent at many different places in our neighborhood, so that I didn’t have to lose all my friends again. No one approved her due to her credit.

It wasn’t until someone finally approved her, that we moved to a borough about thirty minutes over. We went from a large house to a small townhome. The townhome was in a completely different school district, with about five times the number of students than the old one. I transferred in the middle of my sophomore year. My anxiety and depression plummeted so badly that I couldn’t even hide it from my mom anymore. I became a social recluse, while my younger brother thrived in our new school. My mom became my only friend, and I eventually lost all contact with my “friends” in my old school. It broke me. All those times I comforted my mom and was her rock. She was now my rock, the only thing holding me up. Suicide is against my religion, but I knew that if I killed myself, she wouldn’t have anyone. She would be alone. Not literally, she would have my siblings, whom are all teenagers, but they have always been oblivious to her and would be as useful as a get-well card that was sent half-heartedly by a stranger.

Growing up was hard. I watched as my mother struggled with bills. The payments were always late because she paid them on her own. It didn’t help raising three ungrateful children who were always expecting more. Except for me. I was the one who watched and saw the financial situation as it was and tried my best to comfort my mom. I secretly grew up too early so my mom wasn’t handling the burden alone. I tried to find a job as quickly as possible, but no one wanted to hire me. It wasn’t until the first job I had was desperate enough to hire a sixteen-and-a-half year old, Wendy’s. I suffered through hell with the managers who did not have appropriate skills in managing, physical contact, or how to control their voice and how to treat customers. None of them should’ve been able to run a building. I got a job just so my mom could have another form of income without having to overwork herself and make her health even worse.

My mother is a contract employee for a school district. She has been for the past couple of years. This means she never gets paid during summers, so she either has to find a summer job or suffer without any job and not pay bills. Two summers ago, when I had finally snagged a job, I gave all my income to the bills. My older siblings made money, but they never were in a rush to get a job, nor did they volunteer their income to the bills. They complained and groaned when my mother had to ask them if they had any money to give. She hated doing it but it was a fact of life for us. If we didn’t contribute, then we couldn’t pay the bills. I never complained about giving my money. My mother tried to insist I keep some of it for myself, but growing up the way I did (not really getting any gift or getting what I want) I knew the minimalist lifestyle. I didn’t need anything. I knew how to get by without buying random items for satisfaction.

We are all still in the townhouse, although the rent is still going up. I still worry and I am still working. But I will never give up helping my mom. I am a daughter and I still need her, but she also needs me.

~Kaitlin Munoz

[identitynarrtives]

May 11th, 2014

When I was 14 my aunt Karen was told that she had less than six months to live. There were multiple tumors in her brain and in her lungs. My Godmother was a kind, smart, happy person. Karen Purtell was always there for me and was always willingly to help me but, she was a smoker for the majority of her life until the late 90’s when she had her first run in with cancer. The next year of her life was spent in bed or resting because of the treatments. She started to forget things. It was only little things at first like she would forget what her phone number was, but she eventually forgot bigger things like my own name. It was heartbreaking to see her forget everything about my family. She died May 11th, 2014.

I also started dying one week after my 15th birthday. Cigarettes were something that I never cared about. I knew that cigs were terrible for you and that they made you reek so I was never interested in them. That all changed when I turned 15.

It was a beautiful summer night. I could hear the chirp of crickets clash with the faint noise of cars from Queen Street. My friend Kyle asked if I wanted to come with him to go get food. I threw on a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and a hat. I dug my wallet out of a pile of junk papers on my dresser, and waited for him to come pick me up. We got our fried food and talked about random gossip until his friend came to meet us. Kyle had mentioned that he smoked prior to that summer day. I later found out that he had been smoking since he was 12. We went outside to his tan 2001 Toyota Corolla, and he asked if I wanted one. I was tempted despite never being interested in them before. I told him no, he shrugged and lit the cigarette. I was proud of myself for holding my own and avoiding the toxicity of cigarettes. However, this small victory was short lived.

Later that week Kyle picked me up to go out for food again. We met up with a skinny guy named Steve, who had just bought a pack of cigs and needed to smoke after a long of doing absolutely nothing. Kyle and Steven both started to light their Camel Crushers and asked if I wanted one. I looked down at the all white cancer stick. My mind seemed perfectly fine with just trying one. Kyle looked like a kid on the night before Christmas. His wide eyes were accompanied by a wolfish grin. I broke the silence with a typical teenage,

“Yeah, fuck it.”

That phrase condemned me to a brand new lifestyle.

When I started out smoking it was mostly just bumming cigs off Kyle whenever I saw him. This fueled my addiction and quickly turned into going into the sketchy Sunoco next to the hospital and buying my own. The workers were mostly Indian guys who never carded me. Eventually we ended up on a first name basis. It was as though we were friends. I would walk in and Rahad would nod his head and greet me:

“Hello Mr. Jack. How are you doing buddy. You want the usual?.”

I was a regular customer for their sketchy underage-selling gas station. The sad part was that I somehow had myself convinced that I wasn’t a smoker.

I didn't notice my addiction until school came back around. I started to crave cigs during my classes until it was all that I could think about. My leg would bob up and down uncontrollably. My eyes constantly wandered the room in search of anything that would distract me from my anxious thoughts about smoking. I would think to myself, Okay three more hours to go...Okay two hours to go. the smell of smoke became so bad that teachers would give me looks of disgust whenever I would walk into their class. Hearing the bell ring at 3 O’clock was always the best part of my day. I would cross the street, run to Kyle’s car, light my cig and sigh with relief, my face beaming with pure joy.

During soccer season, I noticed that I had a constant cough and I would run out of breath faster than I ever did before. I would collapse gasping for air after sprinting laps. My lungs seemed to scream at me everytime that I would run faster than a jog. Going from one of the fastest kids on the team to one of the slowest was a huge blow to my self esteem. After practice I would open the trunk of my car, kick back, light my cigarette and relax. All of the thoughts of being slower vanished. I had to train harder than ever just to get back to the level I was at the previous year. I would reward myself with cigarettes after every game, practice, or individual training session.

Everything got worse once I got my license. Everytime that I would get into my Jetta to drive somewhere, I would light up a cig. For me, smoking was an activity. Instead of going to the movies Kyle and I would go smoke cigs by the lake or just go drive around. On family vacations I remember sneaking off to some remote location, so that I could smoke without my younger siblings seeing me.

By the summer before my senior year I would go through almost a pack a day. People would tell me that I would get cancer from smoking and that its a disgusting habit but I just never cared.

I never cared until October of 2017. I was cleaning my room and I noticed a picture of Karen along with her funeral program from years ago. I sat in my room for what seemed like hours thinking about how different life was without her. I drove to the lake by my house and started to smoke and started thinking about my godmother. Stunned, I read the date on the paper, “May 11th, 2014”.I had discovered the funeral program for my Godmother, Karen Purtell.

For some reason I never even thought about quitting smoking. Looking at this image puzzled me. I sat in my cold room and thought to myself about Karen. I would remind myself that it was bad for my health and that I should probably quit soon, but I never did. Karen died from cancer which was caused by years of smoking. I knew that I needed to quit before I reached that point.

Waking up the next morning I threw my last yellow filtered Newport out onto the street and threw my pack into the trash can. The urges were hard to handle at first but with each passing day the loud screams became faint whispers. My addiction was silenced and I was proud of myself. I went from smoking everywhere to never smoking at all. I still get urges to smoke sometimes but everytime I do I think of May 11th, 2014. I know Karen would be proud.

Jack Passariello

[identitynarrtives]

Unlike the Rest

I walked through the large double doors of the cafeteria and I all I could were large masses of kids sitting at tables. All I could hear was the overcast of murmurs from others’ conversations. I got ready to unravel the yellow plastic shopping bag my mother packed my lunch in for me.

“What’s your lunch today? More icky stuff?” asked a kid.

I quietly explained that it was rice and some meat and eggs with sauce as some sides. They just saw it as weird and gross. It didn’t look like the type of food they were used to and I understood that.Having to explain that my parents’ culture is different from theirs’ was hard. They were used to American food and I ate Asian food because that’s what my mother knew how to cook the best.

“EWWWWW! Why would you bring that! That looks disgusting!!!!” exclaimed another.

I always got that comment. I couldn’t possibly tell you how heartbroken it made me feel as an elementary student to have to hear people tell me how unlike them I was or the food my mother packed for me was.

Being Asian, our foods are unlike others. We eat all sorts of meat and veggies and prepare them in assorted ways. We use all kinds of sauces that you wouldn’t find in your everyday supermarket, making food vary in color, texture, taste, and overall appearance.

It wasn’t just my food. The way I looked, the way I dressed. My clothes weren’t the nicest and they didn’t really match. Of course, it’s not like others wouldn’t tell me how I looked compared to them. I was unlike the rest of them. My mother would dress me in jean capris, a t-shirt with a tank top over it, the first pair of shoes she could find, and a hat of some sorts. I also sometimes had to wear a traditional vietnamese long dress to certain occasions pertaining to family. I understand from a young age that people came from different backgrounds but I never understood why they were so entranced or felt the need to point out the differences they saw between me and them.

After that cafeteria incident, I told my mother that I wanted to do things for myself, she was kind of taken aback but she also understood. I got to dress myself the way I thought would help me fit in with others and I bought cafeteria food every day. I never again brought in food to school and my mother never chose my outfits unless I asked for her opinion. My family was quite supportive of my decision and helped me along the way.

In public I always tried to blend in as much as I could and at home I would dress and eat whatever I wanted. I ate anything my parents made, and no matter how much I thought about how kids at school would think it was, I still enjoyed it. I dressed in all the “odd” clothing my mother bought me, along with my new casual clothes. I could be as much of myself as I wanted. Home was definitely one of my comfort spots. School was never easy for me. Trying to fit in sucked and it never made me happy. I just did it to make it seem like I wasn’t the “strange, outcasted asian kid.” It was hard to fit in to me. I never wore the “right” thing. I just wore what I thought would make me fit in. It was never the “right” thing.

Having others point out my differences and pick on me for them is never easy. Owning up to those differences is even worse. I remember walking with my best friend casually talking and someone had asked her “what” she was. She was always one of the kids that could make anything look good. She always looked nice even when she dressed down. She had long black hair and was tanned just like me. We basically did everything together. I was kind if taken back by this question but she owned up to it very well.

“It’s not what I am, it’s who I am. And if you’re referring to my ethnicity, I’m all sorts of different things.”

In that moment I was proud. Proud of her, that she could be so proud of who she was. It made me want to be that way. Unconditionally accepting of who I was. I wanted to accept my culture and who I was, to the point where I could have the confidence to do what she did. It really opened up my eyes to see how I could be and how I should have acted, rather than pushing it all away.

She really showed me that I should keep my head up high and not let anyone degrade me for who I am. From that day on, I never let anyone’s words get to me. It was just stupid things others said about me. What really mattered was what I thought of myself. I had finally learned that if I didn’t let them get to me they would eventually stop.

After her incident, I realized that my mentality was wrong. I realized that if people if didn’t like me for me and they saw me as peculiar and different then I didn’t want to be friends with them and I definitely didn’t want to be a part of their life. That mentality started to come to me towards my highschool years. I believe that this was one of the best mentalities to have for me. Knowing what I do now, I realize that it was something that took a lot of courage to do and it made me so much happier. It was hard having this mentality because as I grew up I tried and find my self worth through those I surrounded myself with and at this point I thought I was nothing. Having a couple of wonderful people around me helped me in realizing that I’m so much better than to let people walk all over me.

Accepting who I was, was hard for me. It took me a long time to actually be proud of who I was. I remember when I decided that I’d had enough and just wanted to live my life, that it felt so damn good to just let go. Granted, I still eat cafeteria food, dress and act the way I want, but maybe every now and then I’ll bring some food from home and share it with my friends.

Sophia Duong

[identitynarrtives]

A Brother To Death

It’s hard fighting your brother knowing that he’s died before. There’s an expression, “You never know what you have until it’s gone.” Well for me, I never knew what I had until it was here. That “it” happened to be my brother. There are days when I get into arguments with my siblings. But it’s hard having an argument knowing that instead of arguing with my little brother, I could have been arguing with nothing at all.

I am four years old wondering why mommy and daddy keep going back to the hospital all the time. I didn’t know mommy’s little bundle of joy was born premature. I didn’t know that I almost didn’t have a best friend growing up. For some reason I blocked out the scariest things. It seems as though my childhood innocence helped me out because it protected me in that time. I don’t remember my parents crying. I don’t even remember him dying and being brought back to life.

I don’t remember all the pain, however there are things I remember. I remember the scar he had on his chest. I would just come up to him, look at it and wonder. I remember the stuffed animals that surrounded him as we would visit. I even remember the incubator he was in. The “normal” to me, wasn’t really normal at all. But that is how it was on October 25th, 7:05 pm at Greater Baltimore Medical Center. The day he was born.

I wish I thought about the image of my brother’s frail body in the incubator, perhaps recalling the sight of him clinging to life in a glass case whenever my brother and i would argue. I said some mean stuff during arguments. I made him feel bad about himself and that’s all because I was selfish. My brother and I were inseparable growing up. We shared a room. We had our own handshakes. We even took showers together. All of those were by choice. We had other rooms. We had other showers. We didn’t need a handshake. But still, it's what we did. Nobody addressed us as Tim and Isaiah, we were only called “the boys”. We still are called “the boys” except the family is gradually changing “the boys” into “the men”.

Because we were so close, arguments tended to get out of hand pretty quickly. I would say some pretty dumb things. No one ever really thinks about someone else's emotions when you’re sitting there yelling at them. If I would have been the bigger person and walked away, we would be even closer today. My brother and I are still close. Our relationship could have been much better if I would have stopped and understood that I almost lost my brother.

This relationship of course is not perfect. I get mad at my brother for doing the same exact things I did when I was his age. For example, I hit this weird selfie stage in my life where I wanted the world to know I was cool by taking dumb selfies. Well he hit the same exact age and he also took selfies and it drove me completely crazy. I think that’s a bad trait my family has. My dad used to get mad at me for doing things he did when he was younger. I would get mad at my brother the same way. It could be the dumbest reason you could possibly think of. I believe I argued so much with him because I realized how fast he was growing up. He is still my little brother but he wasn’t my side-kick anymore. He was growing up rapidly and that bothered me, because I knew that he would start making his own decisions. He wasn’t my little light skinned curly haired brother anymore. His skin darkened, his hair got longer and he got a lot more muscle. He was growing.

Looking back at it now, I realize how selfish I was. I could have been preparing him for his early teenage years. Luckily now, I was able to help him adjust to being a teenager. I let him truly know how life went. Because of our relationship, I have been able to be very open with him. We talk about grown up things because we are grown boys. I warn him about hanging around certain crowds, I tell him how he needs to take advantage of the opportunities he has in front of him. I also warn him about sex. Those are all things our parents preach to us,  but the lessons really resonate when someone close to us experiences all of those situations and guides us through them.

It would sound crazy if I said that I could have wasted nineteen years of my life arguing with air, doesn’t it? That’s what could have happened. I almost lost my brother when he was born. I almost lost myself when he was born. Today I possess perspective. Today, I value his presence. I don’t take him for granted. I don’t resent his growth. I’ve come to terms with who he’s become. Because of his strength, I am not a brother to death. 

-Tim Sturgis

[identitynarrtives]

The Split

I sat in my kitchen, most of the lights were off, except for one single light shining on the table. I looked over at the seat where my sister usually sat and I couldn’t help but feel lost. I was staring at a pot of boiling soup I made and studied my warped reflection in the dull and grimy metal of the pot. Interestingly the pot was dull enough to erase all my features. This didn’t come to a surprise as I often felt erased and unseen by my peers and friends.

I felt unseen because I felt like people never saw “me”. I always remember people referring to me as “the twin” I wasn’t called by my name very often. Having a twin that went to the same school as me and shared all of my experiences made it difficult to develop an identity for myself as an individual. We always grew up with similar interests, so by nature we often shared the same friends. We both had similar tastes in music and movies, we both enjoyed reading, we both gravitated towards similar people, and we were just similar in personality overall. This made my problem way more difficult because out of the two of us she was the more social and outgoing twin, so I would often trail behind.

I felt this way even through high school, and I still hadn’t resolved the problem. I didn’t want this to carry out for the rest of my life and I knew I had to do something. By the end of the month my sister would be leaving for a week to go to a college summer program. This would be the longest time we would have been separated and I knew that this was a good first step to finally begin the process of separating myself as a new person. By this point in my life college was only a little over a year away, and I knew that I probably would be going to a different college than my sister, so I felt a great deal of pressure to separate myself beforehand so I can go into college confident in myself and confident in my identity, I no longer wanted to just be apart of someone else’s.

During that week everything changed. There wasn’t as much activity in the house to distract me so I was alone with my thoughts. However a lot of these thoughts were biting and nagging and I needed an escape, so I went downstairs so something else can occupy my mind. I started to boiling a pot of  soup and I sat there staring at the pot in a meditative state. I was going over things in my head that differentiated myself from my sister, because I wanted reassurance that I had the ability to be my own person. The fact that she was gone helped me become less distracted, so I was able to focus hard. People have said that I was more approachable and friendly and that I was more positive in general. That was a start. I also was building myself up as an artist that year. In that time of my life, my artistic pursuits was something I was becoming more serious about.

My artistic ability was one talent I felt belonged to myself especially. All my other interests were shared, even my artistic interest was shared to an extent but I felt it was something that I was very serious about, as opposed to my sister. I knew this would be a good gateway to get out of this situation. Despite these differences however, it still took a long time for people to see them because of the fact that I was very reserved.

In this moment I realized that it wasn’t a matter of not having a personality it was a matter of not opening to show people what I already have. So from that point on I knew that in order to truly separate myself I needed to make myself uncomfortable and get my own friends and focus more on my hobbies and interests that were different from my sister’s. I know that since high school started I had been getting better at opening up to people however I still had a long way to go, however my senior year was my last chance to truly separate myself.

I knew it would be extremely difficult and uncomfortable to break away from my sister as we were very close. Even that single week she was gone, was tough as I was used to talking to her very often. However as hard as it was I knew that severing contact with my sister for a while was the first step I needed to take in order to develop myself on my own. In the following months I spent less time with her and more time focusing on my artwork and my other interests. I spent time exploring myself and what I enjoy. Eventually, in senior year I started breaking off and making my own friends.

I finish my soup and I put the pot in the sink, I wash and scrub away until the metal becomes clean and spotless, I scrub away the previous mindset I once had, And the identity I thought once belonged to me was gone. I was able to refill the pot with a new identity, more clear than before, and an Identity I can call my own. My reflection is now looking at me, and it looks completely clear with defined features and a defined identity.

[identitynarrtives]

Appreciating Home

Within the past few years my family and I have been leaving home and traveling to different states for family vacations. While traveling down the coast of California from San Francisco to Los Angeles we were able to see the different views of the coast. I was able to see the curves of the road and the cliffs of the mountains. When driving I got to look out the window and see the ocean and how far it went out. The cliffs were neat to see because of how they were like right next to me when we were driving. The landscape was just all green and full of different colors when we stopped at pull-offs to get a view of the land.

The weather is nice there too with it being a little on the cooler side in San Francisco and then it got warmer down the coast as we drove. Sometimes when traveling down the coast the weather would be in the lower 60’s and then up in the 90’s and then back down again. Even with the weather changing that much it still makes it feel comfortable out there.

When we stopped in the city of San Francisco we were able to see how difficult living conditions affected the homeless. I noticed homeless people were crowding sidewalks and surrounding parks. It was surprising to see them everywhere I looked. They would just be sitting at different places around the city, many even had pet dogs with them.

When going on a bus tour of the city we were able to see an entire block of homeless people. They would just be in their own spot that they had found on the sidewalk. Many of them just minding their own business and not harming anyone. The city gives them food stamps to get food for themselves and the dogs they have. It was surprising to see that many of the homeless had pet dogs, which I was not expecting. The dogs were not even on leashes and behaving well. I would just see the homeless and their dogs walking down the street, thinking why we can’t have a dog that will behave that well. Even with being homeless they have found a way to have a pet dog with them. On a daily basis it is not something I think about, but when visiting a city, it becomes a reality. After witnessing this it makes you open your eyes and see that people do live this way.         

While walking the streets of Los Angeles, I had to be much more aware of the homeless. Most of the streets were littered with debris and trash, which forced me to keep my distance as much as possible. Although this was the case, from a distance I could see that the homeless tried to make the best of the environment they live in. They were able to find little areas to stay on the sidewalk. I did not see a block just for the homeless in Los Angeles, but more of them by themselves then in groups like in San Francisco.

After seeing the homeless in San Francisco, coming to Los Angeles was such different because homelessness was more prevalent and many were begging for money. Whereas in San Francisco homelessness was accepted but was an area where they were able to find a spot and not bother the people who lived there. When touring the city in Los Angeles, I had to be more cautious of where I went and what I did because we did not know the area as well. It makes me realize that the environment changes within the different cities I had visited in California and how the way in which people live can vary from region to region.

It helps to emphasize that I have the privilege to live where I do, and many people aren’t as fortunate, such as cities within California. This helps me to reflect on the life I have, realizing throughout the world many different cultures and lifestyles exist. In fact, I should open up my eyes in my daily life to see how the world around me is constantly changing.

I noticed that in the states we have visited that I saw quite a bit of homeless people out and about. Seeing this was something that I was not used to from where I live. I know that there are homeless people that probably live near me, but I do not really venture into areas that they may live.

It started to make me realize how lucky I am to have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in and a car to drive. This gave me a chance to look at my life and see how it can be different for other people. The world in which we live in today is sometimes a bubble, where we can be sheltered from the little things that make an enormous impact. Traveling opens your mind to visualize how others live, because everyone is different. This make me realize how fortunate I am to have the life that I do. Many people don’t get the opportunities or experiences that I may get, so I must make the most of everything. Now, I should be grateful for what I have and realize some people live a unique life.  

Whereas I may wake up and have everything I need to survive at my fingertips, without having to worry about if I’ll have a meal tomorrow. Understanding that some people have absolutely nothing and must work extremely hard to live just day to day. It makes me think about how important it is to be thankful for everything I have.

~Kaitlin Fisher

[identitynarrtives]

A Bloody But Confident Girl

In February of 2008, I was a scared little eight year old girl with a half-bitten ear, blood streaming down my neck, and bruises all over my face.

One morning, my mom told me that I was going with her and my sister to a studio because my sister was interested in modeling. I had no idea what this meant or where I was going. We hopped into our van and drove for about a half hour. After the half hour drive, parking was scarce. When we were finally able to find a parking spot, we had to climb several flights of stairs to arrive at our destination- A Modeling Agency studio.

This studio had brights lights everywhere and many people were getting their pictures taken. Unfortunately, my sister could not be one of those people even though she was interested in modeling. The agent said they would not consider looking at my sister until her braces were removed from her teeth.

Fortunately, one of the agents took interest in me. The agent asked my mom if there was any possibility that I could play a part in one of the Forensic Files episode. After the discussion that occured between my mom and the agent, my life changed.

On my first day of filming, I did not know what to expect. I was a little anxious when I first arrived on the scene, but this changed very quickly. Every person that I encountered was so nice to me.

The first person gave me a wardrobe and had me get changed. I was sent to another area for a makeup artist to work on me. This is where I obtained the bruises on my face and the blood down my neck. The bruises were made out of wax, and the blood was a red liquid mix.

It was then time for me to get filmed. The first filming occurred outside a home in Bethlehem, PA. It was very cold that day, and I only wore pink and grey pajamas. During shoots, I was wrapped in a warm blanket to prevent me from getting a cold. Throughout the filming, I had to listen to instructions from both the camera men and the agents. These encounters helped me to learn how to interact with adults that I barely knew.

My next scheduled day of filming was at a different site. This day of filming took place in a studio. The studio was unbelievable. There were so many different rooms with props were people could be filmed.  There were camera men, producers, and agents everywhere.

After we were shown the studio, it was time to film the beginning of the episode. This order of filming gave me insight into the real world of television. I realized that shows are not produced from start to finish.

On the day that the show was going to air, an announcement was made at my school to inform everyone that I would be on television that night. Everyone was so excited and happy because I was going to be doing a speaking part on television.

The episode started with me laying in bed at my grandmother’s house. I heard a commotion, therefore; I ran out into the living room. My uncle was standing there, and my grandmother was laying there dead on the floor.  I ran back into the bedroom and covered my head hoping my uncle did not know I was there. Unfortunately, my uncle appeared in the bedroom shortly after.  He pulled my covers down and began to abuse me. He abused me both physically and sexually.  When he left, I ran to the neighbor’s house for help.

It’s hard to believe that I feel more self confident after being a bloody, abused girl. But that was not me. Fortunately, my appearance was due to a role I played. I played the part of a physically and sexually abused girl in an episode on Forensic Files. I played this part because people believed I was capable of doing it. Since other people believed in me, I gained self-confidence from this experience. This self-confidence is still with me today.

Katelyn Terplan

[identitynarrtives]

Scar Tissue

“You’re gonna need some stitches.” That’s how I found out my face was sliced open by a skate blade. One would think that stitches would be obvious in an event like this but for me that was not the case. Let me backup.

It was my teams first game of the season and everyone, myself included, wanted to make a good first impression to set the tone for the season. What increased the stakes even more is that this game was against our closest rival. Ice hockey games are intense, to say the least, and players can expect to pay the price when being around the opposing team's goal. I was no exception to this general rule.

Still early in the game, I was in front of the net trying to poke in a loose puck. The ref blew his whistle, stopping play, meaning the sprawled-out goalie had covered the puck. Simultaneously, as I heard the whistle, I felt a cross-check in my back and started fall to the ice. My eyes still fixed on the goalie, my brain quickly calculated the trajectory of my inevitable fall and where my face was poised to land. Within a quarter of a second I closed my eyes and braced for impact. With my eyes still shut I felt my face bump against something foreign that I thought for sure was a skate blade. Expecting to see a growing puddle of blood upon opening my eyes, I was shocked, but also relieved when everything appeared normal.

I immediately wondered how I got so lucky and only bumped me face against the ice.  Amazed and thinking I cheated injury, I started to lineup for a faceoff that starts back up the game. My eyes then locked onto a ref who was staring me down. His awestruck face lead me to believe I was not as lucky as I previously had thought.

“You gotta get off the ice… you’re gonna need some stitches,” he said like it was extremely obvious, even though I didn’t believe him.

I figured if I needed stitches I would be in pain. As I skated towards the bench to see the trainer, I dismissed the comments made by the ref but I soon after caught a glimpse of my reflection. My cheek looked like an open face sandwich. I saw a dark red gash with a small trickle of blood stemming from the wound flowing down the side of my face. The team trainer was immediately attending to me as I left the ice.

“We have to get you to a doctor now,” said the trainer repeatedly and with urgency. “We have to go now… we have to go.”

I hurried to untie my skates with uncertainty. Slowly, as adrenaline wore off, I was beginning to feel the effects from the wound. However, it wasn’t like anything I’ve experienced before. It was a fierce combination of tenderness and a burning sensation. However, I couldn’t help but wonder why the pain wasn’t more severe.

Not too much later at an urgent care a nurse began cleaning it with various antibiotics. She assured me it was going to be a very simple procedure because of how clean of a slice it was. She also explained that my lack of pain was due to skate blade slicing my nerves so cleanly.

The operating doctor then entered the room and his confidence and the familiar tightening sensation of an anesthetic meant I was one step closer to finished operation. Just moments later the doctor made final adjustments and went over postoperative protocol. I was still fixated on how lucky I was to escape severe pain or even a serious injury.

Just three days later the stitches were removed and back in the locker room I started getting compliments from envious teammates. At the time, it hadn’t set in that I won’t be a hockey player forever and this scar will stick with me until the day I die.

Even after the extremely attractive nurse telling me “chicks dig scars” I am still neutral with having this as part of my identity. I know strangers will wonder and possibly even judge. In a way, the scar has made me more confident because it is symbolic of a severe incident. I do not dwell on these people who do not see eye to eye with me.

It is crazy to think how much my identity would be different today if my body was positioned even just inches differently. For now, I am just a former hockey player with a facial scar.

[identitynarrtives]

The Unexpected Tragedy

My sister was at home faking another cold so that she could get some extra sleep and skip the school day, or so I thought. It was a quiet drive to school that day, it was just me and my thoughts. I was not thinking anything about it as I was in school, until my second class of the day, shop class. It was a normal class, the hooligans were screaming and i was in the back trying to do work that I didn’t have. That was when I was told by my teacher that my mother was calling for me on the school phone. Even though I was a little skeptical I was not expecting the words that came out of her mouth. I was expecting her to say I forgot some of my school books at home, or to come home right after school, but that was not the case. I picked up the phone and I instantly heard her voice cracking and she was barely able to talk through the tears, she seemed so upset, more than when she usually blows things out of proportion. She had finally been able to say that I needed to leave school and meet my grandma to take me to the hospital. I was concerned, but i was not too concerned, i am just not that kind of person. I need to know everything about something before i start pouring my emotion into it. Anyway, that was the entirety of our conversation, and I had no idea what was going on. I did not think that is was going to be as major as it was. I had gotten out of school and met with my grandma who had finally told me that my sister was put into the hospital because she was diagnosed with diabetes and celiac. I did not know how intense it could be so I figured that she just got to the hospital and they would give her insulin and she would be fine, I thought my mother was just overreacting, until I got there. I had finally gotten up to the room where my sister was, she was not moving anything but her eyes, she could not talk, she was so confused that she could not even tell that I was in the room, and I did not think that she was going to get out of that hospital bed. That is when I started crying, I fell against the wall thinking that this was the last time I was going to see my sister, I knew that I was not the best brother and how we would always get into fights. This was all that I could think about.  

They needed to transfer her to a Geisinger hospital, and they wanted to life flight her, but because of the conditions they were not able to do so. They had put her into an ambulance as quickly as possible and me and my grandmother were right on their tail, following them every inch of the way to the hospital. This drive was silent, dead silent. We did not listen to music, we did not talk. I was trapped with my thoughts, putting myself down thinking that I was the worst brother to her, and thinking that I was never going to be able to make it up to her. When we had gotten there I saw my sister on the bed, after the few hours where they had to be let alone with her. She was doing much better, she could move her head, and she could think of words to say, and she could try to say the words but the pain had stopped the words from coming out. But this is the best she has been, she was acknowledging me, I was able to tell her things and she would understand them. The first thing that I had said to her was “I’m sorry for being a bad brother, I promise I will do better.” I said this because I was not the best brother to her, we barely talked, and when we did we tended to get into arguments about stupid stuff. Nevertheless She was doing immensely better, and my mom said that I should go home and get some rest, and that she was going to stay there with her. Me and my grandmother said goodbye and left. The next three days I skipped school to go and check on my sister, who was doing better by the day, and already by the second day she had her attitude back. But after those three days my sister was back home with multiple different rules on how she had to live her life.   Now my sister is doing perfectly fine, she is currently one of the best cheerleaders on the squad at my old school, even though she has high standards set by her one and only brother. This experience had changed me for the best. I never thought that I would say that, but ever since that day I had never gotten into a grueling argument with my sister. This experience made me realize that anything can happen to anyone in a blink of an eye. It scared me to think about what could have happened if my mom just went to work like the countless times before, when she would go to work when either of us were sick. My sister was not even able to move, if my mom was not there my sister could not have done anything but lay in her bed motionless, getting worse by the second. This has made me a  nicer person all around, this has made me make sure to never leave off on a bad note with someone, because I never know if i am going to see them again. This has not only made me a better brother but it has made me an overall better person, now whenever I start having a disagreement with someone or be mean I always stop myself and immediately apologize, because I go back to when I saw my sister lifeless on that hospital bed, thinking that she would never get up. Now i look forward to being the best brother a sister could ever have, encouraging her to better herself and being more lenient on things that i would’ve argued with her about in the past.

- Alex Frindt

[identitynarrtives]

Just One More Bill

One day I realized my tips had not been adding up. My mason jar felt emptier than the day before. Yet, I never told her I knew.

It was 2016, I was a sophomore in highschool and just started my first job as a waitress at the pizza shop down the road. I truly felt independent. I was making my own money and could finally afford to buy myself anything I wanted to. I could easily make over $100 a night. After awhile the money felt like nothing. Which was strange to me, given how I grew up.

My parents have been divorced since I could remember and throughout my childhood, I moved between my father and mother’s house; but, from middle school on I lived with my mother. We were considered a low-income household. Only my closest friends knew this. I kept the fact that I had free lunches a secret, I was terrified of being the poor kid. I hid behind my “free rack” eyeglasses, only wore second-hand clothing, and even never had friends over. I was ashamed of my home because it wasn’t like everyone else’s. It was an older one story house that rarely had electricity, internet, water, or heat. (If we did have water, it came out orange and left everything stained). I was accustomed to this, but I was still ashamed.

This shame continued into highschool and made me feel inadequate. I had previously applied to be a yearbook editor, but I had doubts. Why would they choose me? All the other editors were popular, had nice clothing, and fit in. I felt like when people looked at me, they knew I wasn’t like them. They knew I only ate at school. They knew I was the poor kid. However, despite all that, I was given the position.

It was one late night in October of 2017, the yearbook room was a constant mess with papers everywhere. Students were rushing to finish their pages, photographers running around to get that one last photo, and lots of yelling. The other editors and I stayed after to finished a deadline last minute. I was slouched over my computer, my hair up in a messy bun, and my face was expressionless. This was my first year as Editor-in-Chief and I was only a junior. There was a lot at stake. Our yearbook had a chance at being first in the state. But, I could not focus at all. I was trying to manage this job and my real job as a waitress.

My desk was a complete disaster. Pages with corrections were haphazardly thrown around and half-eaten snacks were scattered everywhere. While my desk was in disarray, so was I. Half of my brain was attempting to finish writing the homecoming story while the other half was concentrated on my mason jar. I had been saving up for a brand new iPad Pro. I wanted to treat myself for all my hard work. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, how many shifts I worked; the jar never filled up. I was too busy with yearbook to notice at first. If I wasn’t waitressing, I was in the yearbook room. My life had been consumed by two big responsibilities. However, that night in the yearbook room two battles were at war in my head trying to figure out what was more important.

Arriving home from my late-night deadline cram, I opened the door and could see straight through the living room (that is also our makeshift dining room) into our kitchen. My mom was standing in the kitchen, almost as if she was waiting for me. The kitchen was always a mess and very tiny, barely two people could fit in it. There were a few old broken empty cabinets, the basic appliances, and a small table that was devoured in papers. I went to walk past her and go into my bedroom, but she stopped me. Her long black hair was in a curly mess, as if she hadn’t brushed it. She was wearing a pair of old sweatpants paired with one of her biker t-shirts.

“Just this one time,” she whispered.

She couldn’t even look me in the eyes. Her face cowered to the ground. I looked down at the table, the mountain of papers were overdue bills. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars in past due fees. This was the first time I was asked to pay the electricity bill. But, she said it would be just one bill… However, from this moment on, it would always be “just one more bill”.

If I am being honest, my first reaction was frustration. She didn’t have a job. How could she ask me to pay the bills? Why didn’t she just get a job? I ended up paying the bill, but every time I looked at my mother anger built up inside me. I was angry that I had to be an adult so young. Why, why is my life this way? Why was I more responsible than my own mother?

At that moment, I also realized that the mason jar wasn’t bottomless. She was taking the money. There was a reason we had water the last couple weeks. I paid bills, without even knowing. I thought becoming an editor and waitress would make me a mature and responsible person. While those aspects of my life definitely affected my personality, my home life left an impression. There was previously two responsibilities at war in my head and now there was a third. I had become an adult at the age of sixteen.

That anger never went away. After that day, I never kept my money in a mason jar and I no longer live with my Mom. The experience was tough, but I now know how important it is to take care of myself. I worked for my money and my money is mine.

-HailleKern

[identitynarrtives]

Brain Vacation

Every now and again my brain wanders off leaving my body brainless for a few minutes here and there. It takes a vacation and each time it goes to a different place sometimes it makes me stare off and mumble incoherent words and other times it gets a little more serious and makes me shake on the floor and at times foam at the mouth. Once it is over I once again become a fully functional moody teenager and continue on with my day. I have no memories of these vacations, there are no pictures to show, no souvenirs just sleepiness.

These vacations began in fifth grade. I was the girl who once brought life to a room but slowly I became the one who was draining it away. I became the subject of everyone’s conversations and was looked at as if I was a caged animal in the Central Park Zoo I loved to visit.

In a silent room I could hear judgement and all the eyes on me said the same thing. All other children at eleven years old were smiling drawing on their driveways with chalk or playing with their barbies while the adults thought of me as a science experiment no longer a child just something they couldn’t figure out.

My immediate family were the only ones who could look at me like I was still the same person they loved and had lived with since birth while everyone else acted differently like saying something could cause a seizure. I was simply labeled as epilepsy I was stripped of my name the human part of me no longer existed only my disease.

I became very reclusive I thought being alone would solve my problems but nothing seemed to work, if anything I felt worse about myself. I have never been able to express emotions well and this only made me become more locked up inside. I felt like I was suffocating in the middle of the street and no one could see me dying. At a very young age I had discovered insecurities and didn’t want my peers to see me as weak. But the truth was at the time I was weak. Fifth graders did not need strength in most situations they had parents who they leaned on in a time of distress and made them feel good about themselves but my parents could not get through the impenetrable walls I had put in place around myself.

I believed the others when I was defined as my disease, I gave up in life. It tore down my self confidence I would explode with rage when people spoke of my seizure disorder in front of me and it had to be called a seizure disorder and not epilepsy because I didn't want it to be real and using the word epilepsy in my eleven year old mind made it real.

Weeks after being diagnosed with a rare seizure disorder that was in three different types of seizures in three different parts of my brain so surgery was not an option and would never be, I was hoping for it to all blow over and my mom hoped I would have a big revelation and I would be okay with everything. I will admit big revelations are rarely real, of course you read about them in books but usually the genre is fiction.

The more information I learned about my disorder just made me sink into a deeper black hole. By the end of fifth grade I was nothing like the kid I was before I was diagnosed and nothing could bring the old me back not even motivational quotes or the angels my mother prayed to.

Years passed as my epilepsy overtook my life but my mom believed some of her happy child was under the self pity I was basking in. As my middle school years were slowly coming to an end and I had high school right around the corner it seemed as if a weight was lifted off my chest. I finally embraced who because I felt as if my life was slowly slipping away if I kept at self loathing. No matter how sorry I felt for myself it wouldn't change anything.

Gymnastics was my main coping mechanism. Especially my state championship when I had beam next and I needed a 9.45 to stay in first place and become state champion two years in a row.

I got ready for beam the way I always did, I listened to music on my iPod with my beats on ignoring the outside world to calm my nerves. While I sat in my warmup to keep my body temperature high. When I was next on the most nerve wracking event I slowly stripped to put chalk on my hands and feet, I clapped the remaining dust off my hands making a white cloud hover over me. And as the white smoke of chalk was hanging in the air around me I was ready to go.

I hugged my coach and slowly lifted my arms to present to the judge who was going to pay attention to my every move for the next minute and thirty seconds and pick out all of my flaws. Staring me down, intimidating me making me want to tumble on the four inch beam and stay on to show every I could do this and leave my personal life out of it.

To these judges everyone was the same, we all started from a 10.0 and had no faces, these judges were there to judge our body to make sure toes were pointed and legs were straight and that was all.

I was able to stay on the beam and show everyone I was a good gymnast. When my score came in while I was receiving warm hugs from my team the entire gym started screaming and clapping. My score was put up on the board and all I could see was the 9.7 I had just received for the routine I worked for a year on. I had won that championship as a gymnast and not as the seizure disorder kid and for once I felt great about myself.

I am not my disease I am a daughter, a sister, a gymnast, a state champion, I am simply Kara.

-Kara VanDyk

[identitynarrtives]

Leaving the Scene

My car horn will not stop screaming at me. Windshield wiper fluid covers my legs. I’m scrambling to find my phone, which made its way to the passenger side of my car. I touch my face, expecting blood to cover my palms. Opening the door, in the middle of the busiest intersection in town, I let out a screech with tears rolling down my cheeks.

 I am not sure what I am more upset about: being in a serious accident, or wrecking the car my parents passed down to me. I have no choice but to run to the grass on the side of the road. I stare at the highway in awe, watching other drivers simply go around my totaled car as if nothing happened.

I am alone, I am numb. It is a Wednesday afternoon in July, and both of my parents are at work. I may be seventeen, but as I stand on the side of the road, I feel like I am seven because all I want is Mommy and Daddy. I am waiting for someone. I am waiting for anyone to come bolting from their vehicle to help me: the alone, crying teenage girl who just wrecked her car.

Instead, I watch the samaritans who I was longing for dash to the other driver, and her three toddlers… As each toddler sobs with different complaints of injuries, the mother weeps into her hands. This is a traumatic and startling accident; furthermore, what makes it more traumatic is the fact that no one cares about me (because I appear to be an adult). In reality, I am just as sad, disoriented, and scared as those three little toddlers.

Alas, a friendly stranger darts from her truck and her raspy voice fills my ears. She has good intentions, but she will not stop asking me questions. It seems like she is trying to ‘shoot the shit’ as a way to calm me down. Her tactics do not work—I am still hysterical, too flustered to muster up a cohesive answer to one of her many questions. Not even her warm smile can put a halt to my hysterics.

Everything seems to be moving at one thousand miles per hour around me. As someone calls an ambulance and state troopers arrive at the scene, the responding police officer begins interrogating me. He tells me that I was at fault for the accident: 

“The other driver was speeding, trying to make the red light; however, you turned directly in front of her.”

I am in a daze as I watch his mouth move with words that make no sense falling out. Each word forces more and more tears to fall from my red, swollen eyes.

When the ambulance arrives, the friendly stranger and I part ways, and she wishes me ‘the best.’ As I sit in the stretcher, I watch my car be hitched to a tow truck from the back window of the ambulance. This is when I have a realization…  I could have lost my life. 

My car was on the brink of flipping; the entirety of the front of the car looks as if a giant drop-kicked it. Despite this, for some reason, I lived. On the way to the hospital, I relentlessly sob, thinking about how lucky I am and how good I have it. I realize that life can not be taken for granted.

I had no idea this was going to happen when I woke up in the morning, but it did. I woke up with intentions of shopping at the Bonton, eating lunch with my grandmother, and visiting my boyfriend at work.  My life could have ended before it even really started. I could have lost my family, my friends, my boyfriend, and most importantly: my future. I would have never graduated high school, gone to prom, experienced college, watch my brother grow up, or marry the love of my life. Within a second, my day and life were turned upside down. I was given a second chance.

Now, I have a new perspective on life. I make it a point to call my mother and father everyday. I let my little brother know how proud he makes me, I love my boyfriend unconditionally, and I work hard in school. When life gets rough, my little brother gets on my nerves, or I just have a bad day, I bring myself back to the accident. I would rather face any bad day then lose the life I have created for myself and the future that stands ahead of me.

Nothing else matters. Not the fact that I destroyed the family car, not the fact that I made the left turn which ultimately caused the accident, not even the legal stuff matters. I put that all in the back of my mind and remind myself I am still here. I can buy a new car; however, I can never buy a new life.

Today, almost two years later at the very same intersection of my accident, a small teddy bear—surrounded by flowers of every kind—sits beneath a few dollar store balloons. A handwritten sign reads, “We miss you,” with the face of a young women posted under it. This young women did not get to walk away from her accident, as I did after mine.

Countless numbers of cars pass this shrine everyday, while totally disregarding its existence. Except for me. As I sit at this red light, the woman's shrine gets all of my attention. It is so hard to ponder the idea that my loved ones could have built my shrine right next to hers.

 As I gaze at the spot in which my memorial could have been, I am stung by a touch of guilt. How could I get so lucky when she did not? What if I died? How has her family handled her death? When that red light turns green, and I drive away from that women's roadside memorial, I leave the scene of the accident I was in. Although I leave the intersection, the fact that I am one of the lucky ones, a survivor, will never leave my thoughts.

-Samantha Norton

[identitynarrtives]

Becoming Miss Cassie

One day I was waiting for the other assistant teacher to start ballet and tap class when I got a call that her car had broken down and she will not be able to make it. I looked at all the little faces staring at me and realized I was on my own. I was now really Miss Cassie.

 I went from walking into my first dance class at two years old crying because I didn't want to leave mom's side to never wanting to leave the dance studio. I didn't like dance at first but then slowly my dance teacher made me love it. I started taking more and more classes because I wanted to be like the older girls who competed and would teach classes, one day I saw a flyer that there was going to be a competing team called the “Jr. mixers”.

I joined the team and had dance class seven days a week and had to travel every other weekend for dance competitions with the older girls and dance teachers. Becoming part of that team made me grow as a dancer and my teachers would push me to the limits. I loved being part of the team that all the little girls looked up to, watching my dance teachers teach me and other classes really got my attention and I wanted to see if I would like teaching them and help them grow. I asked the owner of the studio if I could be an assistant student teacher at age thirteen but she said her rule was I had to be 14. So the next year she sat down with me and went over all the things I needed to know to teach the little ones and let me assist with my first class. She went over how I need to act around the kids and how to keep their attention during class. She went over the warm up to do in the beginning of the class and how to teach choreography step by step.

After that phone call, I knew I had to teach all alone. All the girls were already there so we couldn't cancel the class. The owner of the studio had a class to teach so she couldn't help, I was all on my own for the first time. I suddenly got nervous again even though I knew the girls all by name and knew how to teach them. The idea of having the whole class in my hands scared me but at the same time, I was excited to see if I could do it. I started with attendance, went through all eleven names and told the girls it was just me teaching today. They seemed excited it was just me but they also seemed confused, I had to find the music get the big speaker system in the corner set up, find the appropriate song and start warming up. I started to freeze and forgot what to teach, do I start with head rolls, first position plie, arm circles? I didn't know what to do but I looked at the class and the little girls faces looking at me with such excitement, joy, and smiles and At that moment I knew exactly what to do.

The warm-up came back to me and the girls did an excellent job. We then went over the dance routine for the show at the end of June. I let them pick what game they wanted to play at the end of class as a reward because they were well behaved. They, of course, picked the most popular game, freeze dance, and danced there little hearts out. I could see the joy in their eyes as they would dance, seeing that sparkle of happiness was an amazing feeling because I knew I helped create that.

At the end of class, I asked if they had fun and they all seemed so happy, they said how it was one of the best dance classes they had. We went into a circle to do the final curtsy at the end of every class and bow to each other. They lined up at the door to exit and as they left I gave each girl a lollipop out of the jar like the end of every class. The parents came in a thanked me and said not to stress because they thought I did a fantastic job.

The owner of the studio asked me how the class went and I said it went very well and I truly enjoyed it, she came and observed my class one day and was very impressed with how I was teaching and how much the kids enjoyed it, she then offered me more classes to teach, she now calls me to cover her classes when she is sick and now has me teaching my own class but for a older age group that is more advanced. It was interesting to find out what I liked teaching the most, I thought tap, ballet, tumbling and lyrical. Going from teaching 3-6-year-olds to 10-14-year-olds was a change but it made me realize I liked teaching the younger ones more.

Teaching became a part of me, I like helping kids and teaching them how to learn. I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for dancing and becoming a teacher at my dance studio. That very first time teaching alone, the first time I was truly Miss. Cassie, made me realize teaching was a part of me. Dance truly opened my eyes to what I can become. Being part of the team and teaching the little ones showed me what I truly love.

Cassie Torres

[identitynarrtives]

Eagleville, 7/18/18

We started out learning covers in my grandparents’ basement. The basement at my grandparents’ house was where I always kept my drums, so that was the best place to practice. It was always so hot in that basement, and because of the placement of the couch in the middle of the room, it always felt kind of cramped trying to fit ourselves all relatively close together. Setting up the PA system for the mics and arranging the amps for the guitars was always such a pain, trying to find the right spots so we could all hear each other well. The hot summer weather would cut through the sliding glass window and shine directly on us, cooking us as we put our all into our music. I’d always come out of that basement dripping with sweat, but happy with what was accomplished there.

Getting a feel for each others music tastes and playing styles, we started out doing songs like “Santeria” by Sublime, “Should I Stay Or Should I Go” by The Clash, or “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5. Eventually, we began writing our own music, starting with the song “Break Through”. Three originals and many covers later, we found our first show… an open mic in a park in Eagleville, PA.

It was the summer after my senior year of high school, and after roughly two years of trying to find the right people to start a band, my friend Liam and I had finally found them: our friend’s Rajiv and Aidan, two guitarists we met through our school’s rock band class.

The day of the open mic, we met at my grandparents to go over the songs one more time, load up all our gear, and head out. All piled in Aidan’s Jeep, we were ready to go, singing along to Oasis and other great bands the whole way there. We were all very excited for our first show.

We arrived at the park and carried our gear to the small amphitheater, and waited for the show to begin. I looked around at the grassy hill that would soon be filled with people, all there to hear live music. It was a hot day out, and we were already sweating without having done anything. Every once in a while a soft breeze would cut through, and the leaves in the tall trees would appear to shake, and we would all make a point to stop and enjoy the breeze cooling us off. Behind the amphitheater there were large woods with paths for people to walk down. Some of our friends and family came to support, but for the most part we were playing in front of an audience of strangers. People who wouldn’t care too much if they hurt our feelings being brutally honest about our performance. People with no bias, or reason to sugar-coat anything. We were nervous, but confident.

The butterflies raced around in my stomach, faster than they ever had before. I had performed so many times, for school bands, for an old band program I used to be in, and for talent shows, but this time it was different. This time, I was performing my own songs, with my own band. Songs I related to on a much more personal level, songs that held so much more meaning to me. Songs my bandmates and I had slaved over for days making them as perfect as we could. We sat through the solo performances, then the duos, and then the first full band went up. They were pretty good, but not very memorable. I’m not sure if they weren’t memorable because they weren’t that great, or if I was just too focused on the fact that we were up next. They finished their last song, and we ran up on to the stage.

I’ve always been fine performing. I get the butterflies in the moments before going up, but once I sit down behind that drum set, I’m perfectly fine. The drums are great for me, I basically get to hide behind them during the whole performance. This time, I couldn’t go straight behind them, I had to set up my cymbals first, so the butterflies stayed for now.

I helped the last band’s drummer breakdown, unscrewing the tops of the cymbal stands, sliding off his cymbals and replacing them with mine, putting the felt cover and the top of the stand back over my cymbals. We were ready, and Rajiv started the intro to our song “Tell Me”. We didn’t even introduce ourselves, we just started playing.

“Thank you, we’re Senior Citizens and that was our song Tell Me!” Liam said to the crowd.

Wow, “our song” really hit me. This was OUR song. The song we made in Rajiv’s room and worked so hard on. The song we practiced countless times in the basement. That song was no longer the song that only we knew. Everyone there now knew that song, and soon we would put it online for anyone to hear. We weren’t just another band doing all covers, we had created our own music!

Most of my memory of actually playing is a blur, but some moments truly stick out in my mind. Like during our second song, “Break Through”, Aidan began playing his guitar solo and Liam turned around from the mic and looked at me. The moment went by really fast, but my memory of it feels so slowed down. The way he turned around, somewhat slouched over, really playing into his bass as it hung low on the strap. And for a quick moment we shared a look that held a full conversation. A conversation of “Holy shit, are you seeing this?! We’re actually doing this! This is seriously happening right now!” The very thing he and I worked so hard to accomplish, was finally happening. A dream come to life. All the waiting, hard work, the failed attempts of bringing others into this small thing we had created… it was all paying off, and we recognized that within each other during that short look we exchanged. The butterflies came back, rowdier than they had been before the show, throwing their own little party inside my stomach.

In the few seconds between each song, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. When we were actually playing, I’m not sure what my face looked like. I usually bite my bottom lip, squint my eyes, and either bob my head or head bang so hard that my neck hurts for the next 2 days. I was definitely head banging during this show, I felt it for the rest of the week.

Our set was short, only 15 minutes. All day we had been debating if we would have time for four songs or only three. In the thrill of the moment, we decided to squeeze our cover of “California Dreamin” by The Mamas And The Papas into the middle of our set. This wasn’t just any old cover, this was one we had made our own. The only similarity between our song and the original, were the lyrics and the notes. We made it a blues rock song that transitioned into a fast paced rock song and then had it slow down at the end, instead of the soft and gentle version the original band had written. Finally we ended with a song we wrote called “Carry On”, possibly the heaviest song we had written. It was nice to start, soft with only some light guitar and Liam singing, but for the chorus we would all come in, playing as hard as we could. The song was about leaving old friends behind, and for me this song had felt all too relatable at the time, as I had just lost the friendship of one of my best friends.

At the end of the show we were packing up our gear when I went to get some water. As I walked through the audience to the water, and the next band played on, I was stopped by two girls who had performed earlier in the night, singing and playing violin. They told me our band had such a great energy when we played and that our songs were really good. As they said these things, it felt insanely surreal. Just a few days before, I had seen one of my favorite bands, Makeout, and got the chance to meet them after the show, in which I had pretty much the same conversation with them. I told them how much I loved their energy when they performed, something that inspired me and motivated me to have so much energy during my own performances. The girls then asked about our bands social media accounts and where they could find recordings of our music. That was crazy to me. Someone enjoyed our music enough, based off hearing a few songs one time, to follow us and want to hear more of our music.

Although we started out in my grandparents’ basement, but through all our hard work we were able to take what we created there and bring it to the public. This was a dream we had all had for a long time, but now it had become our reality.

[identitynarrtives]

Enveloping Every Corner

As I looked out into a sea of faces, I heard the first few chords of my song come dancing out of the piano. I looked around the black box theater as I smoothed my hunter green dress out with my sweaty palms. My heart was beating, the stage lights shone into my eyes, and I could feel the judging eyes of each and every audience member. Parents, grandparents, current and former students filled the rows of black plastic chairs. I made eye contact with a few friendly faces as they smiled at me, awaiting my introduction. They all gathered together to enjoy some vocal selections on this cold November night. Despite the cold, I was shaking with nerves for what lay ahead of me. I knew that there was no turning back, no hiding behind other vocalists. This was a solo piece. Sung by just me. Me.

I have been singing in choral groups since the fifth grade. Aside from the time I sang along to Taylor Swift in my fifth-grade talent show, I was always singing with other people. This was a security blanket for me. These other voices were a support system for me, I knew I could always count on them to be there if my voice faltered. If my voice cracked or ran out of breath, I had at least thirty other people that were able to drown me out.

It went like that until my senior year of high school. I had been elected by my peers to be the Choir Board President. I was now the representative of the eighty high school choir students. It was up to me to be a good example for any members of the choir, as well as be a resource for anyone with questions about our program. I had seen three years of Choir Board Presidents before I was elected, and it was a tradition that the President would sing a solo piece at one of the semi-annual Vocal Recitals. The two girls and boy who were President before myself amazed the audience with heartfelt ballads that left everyone in amazement. Each of them had confidence that I did not possess. Their solo pieces were always a hit, and I felt nervous that mine would be a flop.

Once the announcements started circulating about the Fall Vocal Recital, I knew I had to start looking into solo pieces. I was petrified. Eventually, I settled on a ballad from one of my favorite Broadway musicals, Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812.  I was comfortable with the note range, but I would mess up on the lyrics at points. No matter how hard I practiced, I was still unsure of myself.

I am by no means a talented singer. There is always someone with a better pitch, a better vibrato, better tonality, the list goes on and on. I felt like a fraud leading the choir when there were plenty of more talented singers in my grade. Regardless, I had to get over myself and get over my fear of performing alone.

My heart continued to beat fast. I tried to hide how violently my hands were shaking by holding them together. My entrance was approaching faster and faster. In a mere matter of seconds, my voice would be exposed and vulnerable. There was no turning back. I opened my mouth and out the first line came,

“Hard as it is, in the coming days, I watched my friend in her strange, unnatural state.” The microphones carried my voice throughout the theater, and suddenly I was all around.

My voice was enveloping every corner, every nook and cranny of the room. There was no hiding from myself any longer. I was present. I was standing at the front of the room. I was the one girl who was filled with self-doubt, who felt like I was an embarrassment to the department I loved dearly. But standing there, something within me shifted.

The song continued on, and for a mere three and a half minutes I had nothing to hide. There I stood, singing my heart out for everyone in the audience. The final chords on the piano laid to rest and I heard an applause break out across the crowd. I smiled as I looked out across the room and saw the audience of all ages clap for me. The stage lights no longer seemed to blare in my eyes, they were there to shine light on this pivotal moment for me.

I earned my position for a reason, there was no reason for me to feel like a fraud. I am valid and always have been. I had every reason to be proud of who I was, to be happy to represent a group I have spent all my high school years in. I justified myself to the little voice in my mind that I was worthy. That I was not an embarrassment. I was finally proud of the way I sounded.

I was able to find my mom in the second row with tears of joy in her brown eyes as she clapped her hands together frantically. My little sister smiled at me and joined in with the applause. I said a short “Thank you.” and did a small bow before making my way back to my seat.

-Sarah DiFulgo