“Teaching is the art of changing lives.”Happy Teacher's Day to everyone!

I grew up listening to tales about the television stars my dad met through his job as a carpenter and stagehand. I eagerly waited for my dad to come home from work each night to fill me in on happenings behind the camera. How I longed to meet some of those famous people. Just meeting one would make me happy, I thought as I'd drift off to sleep each night. Visions of Steve Allen and his crew, Milton Berle, and Mitch Miller danced their way through every dream. Arlene Francis became my role model. After hearing the wonderful stories of how Ms. Francis did so much for the stagehands in a tough but lady-like manner, I decided I'd grow up being just like that wonderful lady. One afternoon, my brother, Frankie, raced home from school with some incredibly interesting and exciting news. A local company comprised of young adults formed a small organization for children between the ages of 10 and 16. The purpose of this organization was to teach music and march in the neighborhood parades. It was as much to keep the kids out of trouble as it was to advertise the company. Frankie wanted to be the first to join. Now I'd have the chance to play something. The first band practice interested more than one hundred children. The elimination process lasted two weeks and among those accepted were Frankie and me. Frankie, for whatever reason, chose to learn the bugle instead of the drums and while I tried my hardest to get one note out of the bugle, it was all in vain., I found myself learning to play the bells. Soon, we were not just marching in parades but playing in movie houses when celebrities came to town to promote their latest films. Then it happened. That summer, in 1961, Troy Donahue along with his co-star, Connie Stevens, came to town. While adults ran the operation of the band, they felt as a children's band, a child should represent it. Frankie, being the oldest child in the group at age 15, seemed only natural to represent the band by shaking hands with the stars which never fazed him in the slightest. Since their arrival in town coincided with my 14th birthday, the band's owner arranged a surprise for me. As Frankie made his way to the stage, his friends hooted and hollered from the audience. To my horror and excitement, I heard that same manager call out, “And now, I'd like Donnie to come on stage. Today is Donnie's birthday and I can think of no better gift than to have her meet our guests.” I'd get to shake hands with Troy Donahue – my latest heartthrob! Connie Stevens gave me a hug while wishing me a happy birthday. Troy Donahue, then took both my hands and the crowd in the theater came to a dead quiet wanting to hear what he said to me. What seemed to be an hour, was probably no more than two minutes Mr. Donahue stared deeply into my eyes. He slowly leaned towards me and pulling me toward him, placed a huge kiss on my cheek and then whispered in my ear, “I hope your birthday is as beautiful as you are.” Late that afternoon, as I walked home with my brother, I felt as though my world crashed around me. My mother noticed a downfall in my spirits. “Donnie, what's wrong,” she asked. “I thought meeting Troy Donahue would be the highlight of your entire week.” “Oh Mom! I always dreamed of being like Daddy. Meeting famous people and having them greet you when you go to work. But this afternoon changed everything. Connie Stevens hugged me, and Troy Donahue kissed me. I waited for the star's to shine, their faces to glow or something special happen. But nothing did. Nothing! Her hug and his kiss were no different than a hug from you or a kiss from Daddy. Yours at least mean something. They're just like daddy said, they're as human as we are.” My mom smiled as she realized how much her daughter grew up in the short span of two hours. Calling her husband from another room, together, they handed me a small box. “We thought of giving this to you earlier but decided to wait until after dinner. However, now, while dinner is cooking, this seems like the perfect time. Happy Birthday, honey.” I opened the small box and found the prettiest little ring with a dark green emerald – my birthstone. I immediately put it on my finger, jumped from my chair and with both arms, grabbed my parents and hugged them tightly. “Oh, Mom, Dad! I could meet all the stars in the world and none of them could ever make me as happy as you just did.” All it took was one kiss from an adored celebrity to take the stars from my eyes and put my feet back on the ground. To this day, I will always remember that day as I laughingly call it, the day the stars fell.

There is a sign, of course, at the foot of the drawbridge: “Welcome to the inside of my head”. Ah yes... take in the brilliance of my Disney-like castle. The palatial grandeur, the iridescent colours. The bricks are units of time: from small second-bricks to huge year-ones. And those turrets? They're decades. The fourth one is still under construction. Do you see how my castle shimmers on a sunny day? When the skies are warm and blue, marvel at the French doors that swing open to the sound of music. Out pop amazing stories of wild adventures, daring encounters and breath-taking journeys. Out dance passionate affairs dripping in salacious details, followed by hilarious conversations, endearing anecdotes. Inside my Castle of Time it's like one of these multi-screen cinemas where rich assortments of films are playing simultaneously, in various languages and with different subtitles. There's upbeat jazz music – the quick tempo a perfect remedy for the chaos of my ever-spinning thoughts. Fairy lights are a-twinkle and the scent of freshly baked bread magics a smile upon your face. “How clever, how witty!” visitors say. “Super creative… fabulous imagination.” “Aren't you tired? There is SO MUCH going on here,” says a kind soul. “Inspirational.” “I can't stop laughing. Do you do this professionally? No? Well, you should.” “Those psychedelic dreams!” “So capable,” says a tourist, clapping me on the back. “Great potential. When is your book coming out?” But suddenly, thick clouds set in and drown out the sun. The drawbridge creaks and heaves as it clanks down. There, in that muddy moat that hugs the castle, live terrible traumas. Hideous monsters that rise from the murky depths. The tigers crouching under the drawbridge are males who touched me, uninvited. The dragons hiding in the rye are the screamers; dominant men who must be in control at all times. There are more demons in that pond, lurking in the shadows of the Castle. The snakes are the cheaters, the scorpions the contaminators. Worst of all are the piranhas; the loved ones that simply upped and left. They wake up when my castle is stressed, scared or worn out. That's when the CP (Condemning Priest) who rules the place spews his poison, his Sect of Smug Women screeching that nothing I do is good enough. “My book,” I tell the tourist, breathing away the tension, “Oh, I don't know. I…” By now, the grey sky is pressing down on me. I feel exhausted. I want to run inside the donjon and hide in a room marked PRIVATE. It has a sofa with a warm blanket, a TV, books, and mountains of chocolate. “You'll never amount to anything,” the CP sneers. His Smug Women snigger. They've caught up with me, loving the torture. “Others write better, more poignant stories,” they mock. “They're successful. You're not.” “You have no energy to pull it off, a book on the market? You're always tired. Loser!” “Failure!” “You've got wrinkles. Time's up.” “Your body is flabby, you can't stop bingeing.” “You say you work hard but you have only ONE child. Pish.” I try to ignore their scorn. Grunting, I shove the CP and his haters in the pantry and lock it. I have another tourist to show around. “And where are you from?” I ask as I throw away the key. “Macedonia.” “Great,” I smile, opening the golden doors. “Здраво. Јас сум Сузана. Како си? добро или лошо? Мило ми е.” The woman's mouth falls open. “How did you...?” “I learnt some Macedonian whilst studying in Barcelona.” “Which languages do you speak?” “Oh,” I say shyly. “English, Dutch... and to varying degrees, French, German, Spanish, British Sign Language, Arabic, Italian, Mandarin and Turkish. “Can you read the Cyrillic alphabet?” “It was amazing to read signs in Moscow,” I say excitedly. But in the distance, I hear banging and clanking. The CP and his army of Smug Women. They're breaking out of the room. I feel anger bubbling inside. “What about Arabic?” the tourist asks. “Love reading and writing from right to left.” “And the Chinese one?” “Don't push it.” Grinning, the tourist picks up a memory. “Wow,” she breathes. “You covered this posh hotel in the Seychelles? You're a journalist? A writer?” Before I can even reply, the CP comes galloping up, flanked by his faithful followers. “She was,” he barks, “but now...” BAM! My fist hits him square on the nose. He slumps on the floor, clutching his bleeding face. Did I just do that? The tourist is too wrapped up in pictures of tropical trumpet fish and gorgeous Creoles to notice. She grabs a Huge Fact off a shelf. “Who's this handsome little prince? You're a Mum too?” “Lazy sloth…” one Smug Women starts. "She..." But I don't let her finish. “Oi,” I say, yanking the Smug's hair. “I am the Queen of my castle,” I bite at them. “No one else. Shoo!” “That's right,” I tell the tourist as I glare at my retreating demons. "And I do both well.” Yes, I've got some fight left in me. But how do I banish the baddies from my castle forever? Time will tell.

I remember when I was a child – when I had wide eyes and wore white. I remember trying to capture butterflies as I twirled and danced my way through the flowers. I remember the scent of blossoms, and mildew, and the smell of dusk and taste of dawn. The warm embrace of sunshine cocooned me as I echoed my laughter throughout a world that opened its arms and caught me when I fell. Today, I can now reach the top shelf and think for myself. Cracked eyes leak wisdom, and hands shake with effort. I see you and the world. I see it broken as it is – destroyed and decaying as humans run across it like ants. The stars glitter through white smog, and a single hand can count the trees. The pavement grazes my knees when I fall, and no one's words mean more than a shallow step to get ahead in the game of life. I realise as I have grown older that age is just an allusion; adults' bicker like kids, and when they shout, they don't get reprimanded. An adult is only trying to survive and look alive in a society that aims to tear each other down. Growing up is not a matter of age, but rather a matter of perception. Adults pull roots from the soil, destroy homes to build factories, dump garbage in seas, and murder animals for the chase of the kill. Today the world is broken, and no one (not even the grown-ups) knows how to fix it. I remember the exact moment when I became a woman and no longer a girl. I was 13. I recall looking around and realising how destroyed everyone was: how people held up masks, played charades, fought in a game that only they were playing. At that moment, it was decided that a grand gesture was needed – something to force Earth back on its' axis. Things needed to be cared for, and others made to feel like they mattered. I aspired to make reality feel like a fairy tale. My heart only knows how we grew up believing in things made of wisps of words and imagination; a princess, dragons, a knight, and mermaids splashed deep beneath the sea. The real demons were the ones under our beds, not the ones in our heads nor lurking the streets. Are we all drugged? We have all cheated, lied, or stolen; committed a crime that is better if forgotten. In the end, are we our enemy? I know the only battle I am fighting is with myself. Still, I yearn for when I used to believe in a world filled with fair-folk and folklore; a world where saying hello to strangers on the street was okay. I did not know that by today, I would be shattered like glass sprawled in pieces across the floor. I know now that the world only makes sense when examined in parts. I am searching for something blind. What I know is that I want to live, to be alive, and to no longer survive - to be free in a world that follows strict sunrise and sunset. I need to feel the grass beneath my feet and the wind blowing in my hair like a summer breeze. I wish to return to the world of make-belief. I mourn for whispered words, lullabies, and fables. The sunshine is shrouded, and the acid rain falls; darkness has bled into my veins. Now flowers bloom with poison, and the butterflies have flown away. My dress is red, my steps stilted, and only the scent of decay persists. The land I once knew no longer exists, and I refuse this new one that has swallowed me whole. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut until the horrors of today leak from my head. Please, I dream of sanity. To be insane in a mad world, now that isn't of myths and fairy-tales.

She was beautiful with her long, gently curled, brown hair hanging down softly just below her shoulders. Yet, her pale blue eyes always seemed to hold a hint of sadness and fatigue. I remember the few times when I peeked in her room and found her crying. As a child, I never understood why. Her hair, cut a bit shorter, reached just below her delicate earlobes. She still wore no jewelry but for the wedding band she received from her husband, my father, so many years ago. Some of the sadness has gone and her eyes seem a bit more alive than in years past. As a teen, I never understood why, nor did I care. She wore her hair in a shorter crop, just midway down her ears and it had begun to turn gray at the temples. In addition to her wedding band, she wore a small locket around her neck – another gift from her beloved husband for their 25th wedding anniversary. At times she seemed happy but beneath that glimmer, if you looked closely, you saw the unmistakable hint of wear, worry and fatigue. I didn't understand as I was a fairly new wife and mother, I was too busy to notice. Her hair now has turned white and she wears it as short as possible. Her pale blue eyes emit more sadness than imaginable. So sad. Such a faraway stare. No longer able to see, but for the memories in her mind. Her jewelry, throughout the years has never changed but with one exception, one new addition – a larger gold band that she wore on the middle finger of her left hand – right next to her own. As an adult, I understand. I finally understand!

Growing up, books were everything to me. I loved how Enid Blyton told her magical fables, like she only drank coffee mixed with fairy dust; how Roald Dahl created brilliant new worlds and awe-inspiring characters (Matilda, anybody?), weaving words like baskets through his fingers; and don't even get me started on how J.K. Rowling had me dying to be a wizard, a hippogriff, a goblin, anything—as long as I was magic enough to sneak through platform nine and three-quarters. At age seven I read eight hundred books. Mother was so pleased she got me a Gameboy, then she took it back two weeks later because it was cutting into my reading time. The irony. Notwithstanding, books continued to be my gateway to reality: teaching me to be kind, humble and brave; exposing me to colourful cultures from diverse places I'd never been; cultivating me in the sacred arts of algebra and science. Books are the reason I had a near-perfect score in my Common Entrance examinations, earning admission into one of Nigeria's finest secondary schools: Mayflower School, Ikenne. Mayflower had meant enrolling in boarding school at the tender age of eight. Mother cried on my departure date. I cried hard, too. It was a harvest of tears. I would go on to hug her tiny passport photograph to my chest for many dark, lonely nights afterward. Books earned me a reputation as class grammarian right from first year. My classmates couldn't fathom that I could spell over thirty thousand words, nor that I could narrate the history of the Mali and Songhai empires from 1000AD till they declined. I bested everyone at Scrabble and Wordbuilder, and it was during one of such showdowns that I met Bolu. Bolu was bright, but his size was intimidating. He was huger than me by so much that he could've had me for lunch and his stomach wouldn't bulge. Still, he respected my proficiency with words, and I respected that he respected me, so we became best friends. We ate at the same table in the dining hall, did our laundry and assignments together, and walked side-by-side to class. One night around 2AM, while we battled over a game of Scrabble, Bolu reached over unexpectedly and kissed me full on the lips. My heart fluttered and my brain scattered. It was a strange, twisted, terrifyingly new feeling. I didn't hate it, but I found that I couldn't encourage it either. I told Bolu this and instantly everything darkened. His attitude transmogrified, and he soon became my first bully. He would kick over buckets of bathwater I painstakingly fetched, pour sand in my cereal, and one time he slashed my forehead with a rusted hanger. Fortunately, when second year rolled in, our hostels got reshuffled and Bolu was allocated elsewhere. As transition periods often do, second year crossed my path with Nonso and Tola: Bespectacled Nonso, whose sharp nose could open a keyhole, and Tola, the artist, who could sketch a speck of dust till it was Mona Lisa-level gorgeous. We got along pretty well at the start. Nonso desired writing essays as well as I did and Tola thought me ‘dope'. We bonded tight as concrete, so much so that I allowed them unrestricted access to my stuff. Having received them so warmly, I believed they would welcome me in like manner. Little did I perceive how quickly things could become sour pudding. Nonso was mean and selfish. He charged me forty percent interest whenever he loaned me money, made a habit of constantly taunting Tola over his poor grades, and it took a bucket list of arguments to convince him to part with a sachet of milk. Worst of all, Nonso was a liar. One afternoon, after I returned his Mathematics textbook which I had borrowed for an assignment, he accused me of taking the cash he supposedly kept within it. It made no sense but he sounded so convincing that, before I knew it, he had turned the entire dormitory of eighty boys against me; even Tola. I was as embarrassed as I was infuriated. Then, to my eternal befuddlement, Nonso slapped my face. Consumed by fury, I rammed his head into a locker. And so the camel's back broke. He reported me to the authorities, I got punished severely, and we never spoke to each other again. It took several years of bearing the burden of anger in my heart before I realized that I had it all wrong. I had always been nice to others, true, but it dawned on me that I'd done every good deed with the expectation of reaping kindness later. I realized that—though I stood (arguably) at the other end of the spectrum of selfishness—I was no better than Nonso, who was only truly helpful when something was in it for him. As a species, we could never be perfect. To err is human after all. However, I now understand that the more we learn to do good just for the sake of it, no strings attached, the less the heartache we will feel when the ones we hold dearest hurt us as they inevitably will. Besides, Karma never stops watching, and no matter how deftly we mask our underlying greed, she always will see through the ruse.

The Monsters Beneath Me That's where they were: beneath me...under my bed, actually...the grizzly and ghoulish creatures of my childhood imaginings. But, for a six year old boy, still treading the perplexing waters between fantasy and reality, they were as real as the bed I lay upon. Night after night I would lay rigid in my bed, dreading falling asleep, for I knew that once asleep, my arm or leg would come to dangle over the side of my all-too-narrow bed. And that's when it would happen: some hideous, cartoonish monster, or team of them, would snatch my dangling limb and pull me under the bed, where all manner of horrors awaited me. Fearing what lay in wait for me, I would try to fall asleep laying perfectly still in the middle of my bed, legs together, arms tight to my sides, and hope that somehow I might safely awaken in the morning. Often, I would awaken in darkness and deep dread (did I yell for help?), sweating and shaking. Unconvinced that this was “just” a dream, I would lay there in that fixed, rigid position, trying to stay awake, but failing and falling again into sleep. To my great relief, I would indeed awaken safely each morning -- another treacherous and fearful night, survived. And although I would rise to meet the morning with my childish exuberance -- forgetting the sweat-inducing panic and fear of the night before -- all would return upon bedtime. I am not certain how long this phantasmic phase persisted. The memory is fuzzy, distorted by a lifetime since lived. But it seems to have recurred over many days, or periodically, over a week or two. I don't recall sharing these night terrors with my brothers or ever mentioning it to my dad or mom. I was, even at the age of six, deeply embarrassed by the whole thing. And so I felt rather helpless as well. But, possibly due to some innate stubbornness, or exasperation, this terrifying dreaming would abruptly stop. I can recall only opening my eyes, one morning, peering straight up at what seemed to be a wall of wooden slats pressing in on me. Startled, I lifted my head, banging it hard against the wood, exclaiming “Ow!” as one might expect. What was this? What's going on? A few seconds of disorientation and rousing consciousness passed before I realized what was ‘going on' -- where I was: I was underneath my bed! Somehow, in my sleeping state -- and I possessed no memory of doing so -- I had gotten out of bed, and, blanket and all, maneuvered myself onto the floor beneath my bed -- a tight space with just enough room, plus an inch or two, for one six year old boy. I laid there for some time, awake and marveling at this strange feat of magical transportation. And then, another profound realization came over me: if I was under my bed, then there couldn't be monsters under my bed, too -- there was simply no room for them. I remember smiling, even laughing out loud. That whole day I felt a strange, all-pervading sense of calm and confidence that I had never felt previously. I had, unknowingly, found the solution to my night time hallucinations. I had confronted the monsters where they lived and had emerged the stronger! I had become my own hero. No help from mom or dad or divine intervention. And, something in me had changed, permanently. My view of ‘reality', however limited by youthful inexperience, had been forever altered. I felt, deeply, that my Life was no longer the same. Possibly, I might have spent a night or two more sleeping under my bed (just to be sure), but I distinctly recall the complete vanquishing of those limb-snatching ghouls that were just out of sight, and yet so close beneath me. And, over the months following, whenever a new night time phantasm emerged, I would somehow find a way to thwart or out-smart it, as if now possessing magic powers. Over the years, I would come to confront other fears common to many...such as the ‘panic' of having to speak in front of others and even a fear of hypodermic needles. I remember a nurse rubbing the alcohol-soaked swab on my arm, just moments before being ‘stuck'. I started to feel that familiar panic rising up in me. Closing my eyes, slowing my breathing, I recalled that long-ago morning when I woke up beneath my bed. But now, I felt only an eye blink of anxiety, and then a wave of calm flowing over me as the needle pierced my skin. I think I laughed -- surprising myself, and the nurse. This ‘extinguishing' would ultimately prove invaluable as, only a few years afterwards, my dad developed an acute form of dysplastic anemia and was in need of a familial blood supply for possible transfusions. And, in the ride to the hospital, feeling no little pride, I recalled the vanquishing of those monsters once more. It might seem strange to say it now but I believe I first started ‘growing up' the moment that my six-year-old-self woke up, under my bed, bumped my head, and laughed.

Amelia stared out her bedroom window overlooking the neighbors' lawn - wondering whether other children her age had families like hers. Were they also sent to their bedrooms so the grown folk would yell at each other and fight? Did they ever have to hide under the bed just so they could feel safe? Were their lives full of horror and misery like hers? She adored her parents, like most kids her age but never spoke of them with the enthusiasm other kids did theirs. Whenever anyone asked about her parents, Amelia would hang her head low with sadness. And if they insisted, she would get furious. “I don't want to talk about it!” She was often quick to end the conversation. Most kids at school despised her. If your parents did not drop you off in the morning or pick you up after school, you didn't have any friends. Most of the other kids assumed she had no parents. Whenever her parents were summoned she would go all the way to Aunt Flora's place across town and ask the bulky noisy woman to fill in. Aunt Flora had no children of her own and had given up trying a long time ago. Now she simply stayed home tending her garden, looking after Molly, Jolly and Polly, her three cats, and yelling at whoever appeared on TV. For Aunt Flora, people on TV either dressed badly, spoke poorly or just looked bad. Having been kicked out of a convent a few years back, Aunt Flora had dedicated her life to being a noisy loner. Not long after she was kicked out of the Convent she had met Patrick with whom she tried to have children. The news of her bareness came as a heartbreak to Patrick who eventually died – possibly of disappointment. Now all Aunt Flora had was her garden to tend, her trio of nonchalant cats to keep her company, her TV to yell at, and the occasional visit from her little niece, Amelia. Amelia noticed the lights go out from the neighbors living room window. Around this time of the night, they would all be seated in the living room playing Scrabble, Monopoly, or charades and laughing the night away. But tonight, they were turning in early – either because of the storm or the noise from Amelia's house. “Please stop it, Nathan! You're hurting me!” she heard her mother plead from downstairs. “I will do as I please," her father retorted. "And you will do nothing." “You're hurting me, Nathan. Stop!" Her mother began to scream. Then for a whole ten seconds, everything went silent. But Amelia knew what was coming. This was not the silence she was hoping for. Something horrible was about to happen downstairs - it always did. Her mother was about to let out a loud painful scream. Without warning, the sky let out a thunderous roar drowning out every other sound, including the noise from downstairs. Amelia dove right under her bed. The loud thunderstorm outside seemed to offer her a bit of reprieve, albeit scary reprieve. Perhaps the universe had listened to her silent prayer for the noise in the house to be drowned out because, for a few seconds, she could not hear anything more than muffled sounds of fighting and screaming coming from downstairs. Her mother was pleading for her life but Amelia was momentarily glad she could not hear it. Just as quickly as the thunderstorm clapped and roared, it went silent and heavy rainfall replaced it. A steady pouring of tears from the sky replaced the noisy thunderstorm and the sky became one with her emotions. As Amelia became teary, the sky wailed and sobbed, letting out its own steady flow of tears with the occasional cough or sneeze marked by a bit of thunder here and lightning there. From under the bed, she could see shadows floating around the room. And she held tight onto Dory, her only friend. Dory was a plush little blue fish with large eyes and a little yellowtail. She wore a constant smile and always reminded Amelia that everything was going to be all right. She pulled herself from under the bed and quickly jumped into it, clutching Dory close to her. “Dory, I am scared,” she whispered to her inanimate blue friend, hoping for reassurance. Then she pressed Dory close to her chest and waited for the magical words. “When life gets you down, you know what you gotta do? Just keep swimming.” Dory responded. And that is what she always did - swim. Through the tides of noise and fear, through the waves of sadness and pain, she was going to keep swimming. Most fifteen-year-olds had big fluffy bears and large stuffed animals. She only had Dory, and that was all she needed. Most teenagers worried about how they looked, who their friends were, what dresses they wore and what toys they had. She worried about the constant arguments and fights between her parents. She held Dory close to her chest, folded herself into a tiny little bundle of fear and drifted off to her safe place - dreamland - a place where there was no noise and no one could hurt her.

Because I was eight years old, my ten-year old brother always let me tag along with him and his friends. When the boys played baseball, my brother would say to me, “Hey Sis, you're so good in the field, go over to that spot and wait for a fly.” That spot was not just in “out” field, it was in “left-out” field. But, at the time, I was too young to realize what was happening and way too enthralled with the idea of being part of my brother's team. At the same time, my brother, Frank, although making sure I didn't get in harm's way or the way of the game, every now and then, asked his friends to hit a ball in my direction so I could “field” it. Naturally, that play never counted but it sure made me feel important and like I was someone really special. Despite being only 27-months older than I was, Frank always found a way to do just that – make me feel special. However, there was one day in particular that, to this day, brings a warm feeling to my heart. It was the day we climbed the Iron Man. In a section of the park near our house, was a statue. I didn't know it at the time, but the statue was a memorial commemorating the battle between the U.S.S. Monitor and the Merrimack, which was fought in 1862. The Monitor was only six months old at the time of its sinking and the street on which we lived was named after the massive and historic ship. The statue was huge and made of iron. It depicted a man in a semi-sitting position holding desperately onto a rope that stiffly hung just below the ship's deck on which he sat. This was a favorite place for the boys as they would climb the statue and sit for hours looking at everyone in the park who walked through the park. From that height, a child felt you could for miles. On one of my “tag along” days, Frank and the other boys decided to climb the statue. I stood at base looking up helplessly. I, too, wanted to climb the big iron man, but was too small to reach. Finally, my brother stretched his hand down. “Come on, Sis, grab hold. I'll help you up.” As I took his hand, he explained where I should place my little feet and what part of the statue I should grab to hoist myself up. Within seconds I was sitting in the lap of this great iron man. I was on top of the world. I looked around and as my heart fluttered with excitement, saw the wonders around me that the others had seen from such a great height for so much longer than I had. As the boys laughed and joked among themselves, I was quite content to sit in silent awe. Eventually, it was time for dinner. One by one, the boys climbed down. I was the last to begin the descent, trying carefully to place my feet around the iron man's wide arm. My legs were just a bit too short. I couldn't get down. My brother realized my plight and ran to help. “Hey, Sis, turn around and kneel on the spool. Wrap yours legs around the rope. Then hold on to his arm and let yourself slide down. Once you get low enough, let your feet drop and then let go. I'll catch you,” he said. While I trusted my brother with my life, I didn't trust my life with my little hands and legs. Frank assured me I'd be okay. He stood directly beneath the stiff iron arm. I knelt at the edge and did what my brother suggested, but with one added thing. I closed my eyes. If I was going to fall and kill myself, I didn't want to watch. Suddenly, I felt Frank's gentle hands grab me. “You're down, Sis. Safe and sound. Let's go home.” I opened my eyes, gratefully and happily, as Frank gently put me on the ground. He grabbed my hand to walk the short distance from the center of the park, across the street to home. It didn't matter to him that his friends stayed and watched. After all, he was the big brother taking care of his little sister. As we approached the parks exit, I turned to give the big iron man one last look for the night. As I did, I realized I'd learned some very important things from my experience. Although for a while I felt like I was on top of the world, I didn't need a statue to keep me there. My brother's love and protection did that better than artificial things I could ever have or do. I didn't need to climb a statue to see the beauty and the wonders of the world. They were right before me – at my own eye level, in my mind and heart. As we grew, I married and moved away, my brother enlisted in the Army and was sent to Viet Nam. Although he returned after his Tour of Duty, he did not return whole. There was something lacking in his spirit. Years later, we would find out that he contracted the cancer that would consume him before his 51st birthday. Many years have passed since then, and although Frank is no longer a physical part of my life, every time I recall the Iron Man, I think of my brother. He was my Iron Man.

Three little girls walked side by side. The sun was shining, beating down, and warming the crowns of their heads. They chattered and laughed; it was a happiness known only by the innocent, who have yet to see the true darkness the world held for them. We lived in the middle of nowhere; on the outskirts of a bigger town near Milwaukee; we were on a desolate island. There are two roads that run up and down perpendicular to the main road of our subdivision. Much like the two roads Robert Frost describes in his poem, “The Road Not Taken”, there are two roads you can take in life. One path is worn, tread by many. The other is completely overgrown with brush, maybe it has been awhile since someone has braved through the thicket, if anyone ever had at all. There are always shortcuts, and slightly beaten paths, but your freedom of choice is the only thing that will determine your true destination. The two roads I speak of on either side of our, seemingly harmless, little neighborhood both lead to potential destruction. My parents were strict, but had no real structure for themselves. They had no master plan for my life or the life of my sister. If my mother had forced me to play an instrument and keep up with school, along with everything else going on in my developing life, I may have felt too much pressure. Stressed out and anxiety ridden from a young age it may have, however, felt all the same. Perhaps though, I would have a greater tolerance for stress. Maybe I would have a sounder work ethic, if I were juggling multiple responsibilities. Regardless, I feel I would have still teetered on the verge of alcoholism and giving my life away to the ease of any high that crossed my path. Being in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people with the same mindset, you find things to get into. When we were too young to understand the world around us, we would pretend to be witches. We would draw “chalk houses”, displaying our dream rooms to each other. We would run the streets of our subdivision after our parents were asleep, in search of something. I'm not sure what. The oldest girl, Courtney, was taller than my sister and I, with brown curls falling around her face and big brown eyes. She had freckles sprinkled across her nose and dotting her cheeks. She was the ring leader to our little circus. The youngest of the three, my little sister Bailey, was running wild since she was born. She always drank her Ovaltine, she sprung up almost a foot taller than me; since sixteen I was always chugging coffee. Her dirty blonde hair, a little darker than mine, has always been long and luscious, regardless of all the chemicals it has endured over time. She'll always say her hair is brown, but it's the lightest brown I have ever seen. She has the same green eyes I do; they change colors and are speckled with brown that looks gold or yellow in the sunlight. There's a special place in the world for people with the universe in their eyes. As we walked away from the subdivision that held our whole lives, side by side, we continued to chat and visualize our future selves. We turned right, down one of the winding roads that ran either way, to Racine or Milwaukee. We headed passed rows of corn and soybeans growing in the farmer's fields that surrounded us and the little red house that sat across the street from our neighborhood's sign. The park we were heading to would be the backdrop to so many memories. The swing set was our favorite spot. It is the first thing you see as you walk south towards the park. There were two baby swings, and two big kid swings; all of us started running to beat the others. We grew up in that park and the streets and woods of the Vista, our subdivision. First riding bikes and hiking around, and then cooler hopping and breaking and entering. Fun turned to looking for euphoria in whatever form we could find it. I was the last to grow up. The life we were headed towards was one I was intrigued by from a young age, but I felt apprehension from the second it started appearing before me. I knew it was going to lead to places and things I couldn't even imagine. At that moment, life seemed so big and I was so small. I enjoyed drifting off, daydreaming of what could be. I had my sister and my closest friend, my parents and my grandma. I had aunts, uncles and cousins; my people. I knew who I was and where I came from. It wasn't always the easiest of times, but I was well taken care of. Slowly, however, I could feel myself being pushed towards the edge. Something was lurking around the corner; I knew this without actually knowing. One by one I lost everyone close to me in one way or another, and there was nothing I could do. I've never felt as hopeless, and I pray I can save others who find themselves down the beaten path.

I hate being black. No, I don't hate being black, I just hate that being black carries with it much more than just a darker pigment to my skin. I have always felt reluctant to share my experience of being a ‘little black girl' in fear of sounding like the angry, black, self-righteous and victimized lady that we see in a Black Power movement. That isn't who I am. I am just your regular 19 year old girl living in Queensland, Australia. I probably have similar hopes and dreams to anyone my age; uni, travel, meet a tall handsome man, marry, babies, the whole shindig. I speak fluent English (to the surprise of many old ladies I meet) and am always on time (contrary to the stereotypical black person we hear about). I was adopted from Ethiopia, graduated high school and no, I don't run cross country. No, I don't sunburn easily, and yes, I have been to Africa. No, I don't speak ‘African' and yes, I can (and do) brush my hair (but no, you can't touch it). I know I look different, and I know you don't mean to offend or mean anything by your questions, but sometimes the questions, in my eyes, serve much more as evidence of my blatant differences than curious inquiry into the unknown. I have always been told that being white is much better than being black. Very few times has this been said outright but it doesn't take a mastermind to read the signs. In fact, it can just take a preschooler, sitting, listing in to her teacher, minding her own business, wearing her afro. She hears a boy say behind her, ‘I can't see over that girl's hair.' He means no harm, but she begins to notice that ‘none of the other girls have hair quite like mine, nor have little boys struggling to see over their curls.' She begins to notice that there is something different about her, and that this thing that is different, it isn't good. I wish that the colour of my skin wasn't the first thing people notice about me, my most defining feature. That the reason I am picked, or not picked was because of my exterior hue. At age 7, again sitting in class, that same little black girl enthusiastically threw her hand into the air, desperate to be chose as a volunteer for a magic trick. With hand still high in the air, the boy ‘magician' upfront, looks her is the eyes and says, feigning sympathy, ‘sorry, the volunteer has to be white. They can't have…..olive skin' Abashed, confused and unsure of how to react, she places her hand back into her lap, an invisible blush spreading up her neck, heating her cheeks. I never like to admit that these encounters affected me, because maybe by admitting their impact and facing my emotions, I would be acknowledging some sort of truth to what was said. In grade 5, the cogs of reality already beginning to spin in her mind, this little black girl copped her first earful of overt racism. Miss Heidi Sutton, a beefy, red faced, blond haired grade sixer spat that one loaded word in her face. ‘Nigger'. She didn't know at all what to do. ‘Do I cry, shout, tell her she is wrong.' But is she? Is she really wrong? is that who, is that what I am? I remember hearing my older brother say that he wished that he was white. I didn't know what to say. In high school she started to compensate for her ‘blackness'. ‘If I am going to stand out, I want it to be for the things I choose.' Music, art, sports, academia, all a cleverly played act to hide her fear of really being seen. A beautifully constructed but frightfully precarious wall she built and a cleverly constructed curtain was hung to hide her innermost fears Of really being known. Of finding a truth that was too unsavory. Buckling down and straightening out, if I had a biography of my high school years there couldn't have been a more fitting title. Nose in a book, feet in netball shoes like every other year nine girl. Hair straightening appointments and the stress of watching curves form as I grew. Buckle down and straighten out. Fit in and don't stand out. I have, and always will stand out. Amongst the company of my white friends I will always be the blackest and in the company of my black family, I will always be the one who is most ‘white'. I had to make the choice between my culture and comfort and I chose the latter because it was simply easier to ignore one more thing that made me different from my peers. I don't hate my white friends or my black family, because I know they love me for me, but I also know that I am always going to be that random, not quite exactly how it should be, refraction in the looking glass. That little black sheep. I have always been told that being white is much better than being black. Very few times has this been said outright but it doesn't take a mastermind to read the signs. I am black, and I will always be black and, you know what, I don't mind. I don't mind that I look different. Or that I'm constantly asked the same, sometimes stupid questions. But sometimes I just wish I could be invisible, even if it was just for one day.

Writing has always come easily to me. That isn't to say that my writing is anything special, only that when it comes to sitting down and putting a bunch of words together I think I'm pretty dang alright at it. I've met people that say they have such a hard time writing but it's difficult for me to understand that. Those same people always try to attribute my lack of understanding on the matter to my education (I have a degree in English) but the truth to that is I wouldn't have pursued a degree in this subject if I wasn't already good at it. I'm being 100% honest – being pro-active is not my strong suit. If it comes between making a decision of taking the “easy” route or the “hard (but, in the long run, more beneficial because it teaches you about hard work, perseverance and blah blah blah)” route I'm not going to think too long on which one I'd prefer to take. Essays in college were a breeze, although I'm still sometimes shocked at the quality of work I was able to produce under the circumstances I put myself in. Example: its 8pm the night before my 16 page essay on [insert some literary debate here] is due. I have yet to open a word document. Sure, I've put some thought into what I want to write. That's the hardest part, right? Sitting down and putting all my thoughts into words in one cohesive structure just came so easily to me. I think it has something to do with the amount of privacy you have while writing. No one is listening to you stumble through your words or hearing your attempts at constructing a well worded sentence. You have complete privacy to say what you're thinking. You have the ability to rewrite and reorganize your words. You can take a minute to think on exactly which word best articulates the thought you are trying to express and, if you don't like it, can decide to change it later. You can't do that when you're talking. Well, I suppose you could but it would be weird. This brings me to my road bump when it comes to writing – who will be reading my words? Because, like I said, I consider writing very private. Concern of who will read my writing once I'm finished is a huge deal to me. With college essays it didn't matter much because I knew the person reading my essay would be someone educated on the subject I had written about and would be judging my words based on my display of knowledge on the subject. That isn't too intimidating because it's not creative writing. It's not something that would unveil ideas and thoughts that completely originated in my mind. I once took a Science Fiction class in college and for the final we had to write a creative sci-fi short story. That terrified me. Completely and utterly terrified me. I couldn't hide behind facts and information that were accessible to everyone on a subject that has been widely discussed for years. These would be words and thoughts that were 100% my own. Had this not been an assignment and I was writing something for myself that I could decide who, if anyone, could read it I think I would have enjoyed writing it much more. Once the story was done I began second guessing all of my ideas. Is that really original or am I completely ripping something off? Is this plot even believable? Does it make sense at all? Those were my road bumps. The actual process of writing the story came effortlessly – thoughts into words. Easy. Having to deal with my thoughts on them afterwards – yikes. Turns out my instructor thought it was great and so did the select few I shared it with. They all told me I had a “gift” and should be very proud. This made me feel uncomfortable. Receiving praise for something that came so easily to me didn't seem merited or earned. I truly felt as though I made no effort. I've always sort of blushed when people make comments like these and brush them off faster than they can be laid on me. Only recently have I decided to try to embrace this “talent” I have and attempt to open myself up to the possibilities it may grant me. The catalyst for this change of thought occurred yesterday when someone told me how talented and gifted I was after reading a cover letter I wrote for a job. A cover letter. A simple, short, nothing-special piece of writing that I was trying to use to convince someone to hire me. I finally decided that I should try to start sharing my writing with people. So here I was with this brave (ha) new confidence. I went online to see where I could put this bravery to the test. The first think I came across was Biopage, and they were asking for people to submit writing on the subject of… anything they wanted. Well shoot, if there's anything else further from a prompt I don't know what it is. This project called for me to come up with something 100% on my own for others to read and it was perfect. So here I am. I sat down and just started writing. I figured talking about why I was here was as good as anything else I could come up with. So now I'm ready to get my ideas out there, terrified as I may be.

My mother and father were married when I was born, 16 years ago today. He wasn't as good of a father as I thought he was. My father was heavily on drugs and nobody could do anything to stop it. When my parents divorced, he was homeless and doing drugs. My mother would tell me that he was "sick" all of the time, but I didn't know what she meant. I asked for him and I wanted to see him. I couldn't understand why he didn't show up for my birthday and on Christmas. He didn't come to any school event. Every time I'd seen my father, he was standing in front of the store begging for change. He'd see me with my mom at the age of 7 and cry. With him having bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, you'd think he'd take his medicine, but he didn't. It worried me to death everyday that my Dad could die, being out in the streets on drugs. As I'd gotten older, over time it dawned on me that he wasn't going to come and see me like he'd always promised he would. He was somewhere getting high and that was all he'd cared about. He didn't care about me or how I was doing. My mother bought me nothing, no new clothes and I didn't get anything from him. I remember crying every night, wishing I could see my dad. I'd wished he was there to listen and take me to father-daughter dances, the movies, be there when I'd made it to the spelling bee. He was never there. I was on that stage, during the spelling bee, hoping that he would walk in and sit down. For my 13th birthday, he'd gave my mom a bag of clothes to give to me. When I'd looked in the bag, I was happy. But the moment I'd pulled out the item of clothing, a was so terribly disappointed. The bag was full of old people clothing, over-sized and the awful fabric. My mother's friends made jokes out of what he'd found to give me. I sat in the car with my face in my palms and cried. He humiliated me, not in front of my friends, but in front of my mother's friends. I felt so useless in that moment. My sister's dad would buy her everything and anything that she wanted, but I was the one left with nothing. I had no clothing, no shoes, and I'd gotten bullied in school for it. I would sit and watch my sister smile and be happy on her birthday, she'd had so many gifts. My mom often tried not to tell me what was really going on, but one day she'd let it all out. She told me my father was doing crack and he wasn't even paying child support. I didn't see him for a year. He'd called the house from a number that we didn't recognize and I couldn't believe it was him. He'd taken me to get an outfit and I went right back home. That day I was happy to see him and at night, I prayed that i'd get to see him again. The year of 2017, my 15th birthday, my Grandma took me and my father to the mall. He'd told me I could pick out any pair of shoes that I wanted. I was only originally supposed to get a pair of shoes but I'd gotten a outfit, too. My mother had went partying on my birthday that year and I'd gotten nothing because she was mad at me. By December, I'd seen my dad again and he was clean. He'd been to a rehabilitation center and he'd gotten clean. He promised me that when he got on his feet, he'd get me the things I needed. That time hasn't yet come and I'm not worried about it anymore. Even though my father is clean, he's living with my grandmother. He never calls to check up on me and when we do talk he often just sits in silence on the phone. Whenever I tell him I need anything, he always tells me he doesn't have the money. I don't believe him, but I do love him and at the end of the day, he is my father.

Let's start with the basics! Her name was Joyce, she was born on a stormy Wednesday night on the 21st day of August in the year 1991. She was born and raised in Florida with her mother Michele, her father Albert, and her little sister Christie. She was a normal child who loved playing with her barbies and running around outside with other kids in the neighborhood. She played dress up with her dad and played house with her mom. She learned how to ride a bike and teased her little sister. Her parents weren't rich they struggled but they lived in a beautiful house and her parents were professionals at making it seem like they had everything. When she was born her dad was a business owner who owned a donut shop/diner called Mrs. Murphy's. It was pretty retro, it had the black and white checkered tiled floors, with red leather spinning stools at the bar, and it had yellow benches at the booths. Her mom ran the shop during the day and her dad ran it at night. Her mom before she had Joyce's sister would take Joyce to work with her and sit her at a booth or on the spinning stools with crayons and coloring books to last her for the rest of her days. Her favorite part about going to work with her mother would be whenever her mom had to walk to the back. She used to sneak behind the counter and steal all the boston creme donuts and go hide in a cabinet before her mom came back. But she was always found before she had the chance to eat them all. Joyce would get in so much trouble, but it was worth it. Shortly after Joyce turned five her behavior began changing, yeah she would have her moments where she misbehaved but one of her most popular things to do was call people a "Poopoo-head." But this was not like a normal fit, her mom noticed she was saying it at the most random of times. So she had Joyce seen by a doctor, that was when she was diagnosed with Tourettes Syndrome. For those who do not know what that is if you look it up in the dictionary the definition will read. "Tourettes Syndrome - a neurological disorder characterized by recurrent involuntary movements, including multiple neck jerks and sometimes vocal tics, as grunts, barks, or words, especially obscenities." -www.Dictionary.com Joyce did all of that, the grunting, barking, obscenities, she would also flick people the middle finger, hit them, spit, and kick. Now when her mom and Joyce talk about it she would tell Joyce that her favorite tic that she would do would be to shout "SHIT, FUCK, ASSHOLE!" in a loop three times really fast. It got so bad to the point where she wasn't Joyce, she was just a big walking blob of Tourettes. She also went to a public school that had over 500 students from kindergarten to the fifth grade and Joyce was the only one in that school with a disorder like hers. The worst years for Joyce was the 3rd and 4th grade. By that time, all the students knew her and they knew what was wrong with her, but they didn't know why she was the way she was. Someone started telling people that she was possessed by a demon and whenever she had an outburst it would be when the demon is attempting to take over her mind. So she started being referred to as "The Demon" suffice to say Joyce didn't have any friends. Whenever there was a new student was one of Joyce's favorite times, it was rare but it was an opportunity for her to make a friend. Someone that didn't know what was wrong with her. But if someone didn't get to them and tell them about Joyce before she did, they would see it for themselves eventually and she'd end up scaring them off. So Joyce gave up on the whole friend thing for a while. She did have one friend, her name was Rebecca she was there for Joyce because they met in kindergarten and she had the chance to get to know Joyce before she started having her symptoms. She stayed friends with Joyce throughout school but they were never in the same classes. So Joyce never got to see Rebecca and during lunch time they weren't allowed to sit with the kids in other classes, they had to sit at the table their grade and class were assigned to. Joyce's life went on like that until she reached fourteen, and her body started "changing." She noticed her Tourettes became easier to control without medication and she started making friends who liked her for who she really was. She still had her outbursts like the occasional shouting of "BITCH!" in a auditorium or "ASSHOLE" in a Wal-Mart parking lot. But the reaction from society was a bit more understanding than what you would expect from judgmental 4th graders. Eventually Joyce learned that her disorder made her a freak, and she was okay with that.