Mohammed: Meeting #5

After apologizing profusely for missing our last meeting, Mohamed sat down and quickly started to explain his absence the week before.  Last Friday, Mohammed realized he had no food in his apartment and needed to go shopping; however, shopping for Mohammed is not a quick trip to Kroger or Walmart, it is an expedition.  Followers of the Muslim religion are forbidden to eat meat that was butchered improperly.  This means that Mohammed must purchase meat from a refutable Saudi Arabian grocery, from butchers that administered the proper Muslim rituals before slaughtering an animal.  Saudi Arabian groceries are relatively rare in Fort Worth, Texas, meaning Mohammed was forced to travel far from campus to obtain “clean” meat.  Between heavy traffic and other car-related issues (gas, tire pressure, etc.), Mohammed did not reach the library in time for our scheduled meeting.  Last week, Mohammed’s absence perturbed me; I was irritated that I had spent 30 minutes in the library on a Friday afternoon, waiting for a person who never arrived.  However, as Mohammed nervously explained his absence and apologized multiple times, I set aside my agitation; his sincerity and apologetic attitude made it impossible for me to remain irritated with him.

Once again, our conversation turned to cars.  While I am grateful that Mohammed finds this conversation topic extremely interesting, my limited knowledge of motor vehicles makes my participation extremely limited in our conversations about cars.  During this conversation, Mohammed explained his fascination with “drifting”.  As Mohammed explained the process of “drifting” to me, employing a number of hand gestures and mimicking car noises, I listened with confusion and bewilderment.   Just as Mohammed was about to give up explaining the concept to me in his broken English, his eyes lit up with inspiration.  He quickly pulled out his iPhone, and muttering to himself, he loaded a video from YouTube and placed the phone in front of me.  The video he found consisted of a driver over-steering his car, causing the back tires to become even with the front tires.  Fascinated, I watched the video multiple times.   Mohammed laughed with amusement as I hit the replay button over and over.  After discussing the danger of “drifting”, Mohammed and I began conversing about speeding tickets and driving under the influence.  When the topic of drunk driving arose, Mohammed shook his head in disgust.  Angrily, Mohammed expressed his abhorrence of underage drinking in America, demanding to know where minors illegally obtained their alcohol.   Ranting, Mohammed explained that his religion forbids him to drink alcohol (beer, wine) or smoke marijuana.   When Mohammed first discussed studying in America with his parents, they rejected the idea because of the stereotypes of American college students.  Worried that he would begin drinking, smoking, and engaging in “immoral activity”, his parents originally denied his request; however, they eventually relented when he promised his father he would abstain from these activities.  ­­I asked Mohammed if he found the temptation to drink and smoke overwhelming in America.  Mohammed explained that he resists the temptation by always remembering his promise to his father; his desire to maintain his promise to his father prevails over the temptation to “fit in” through alcohol and drugs.

During our conversation, Mohammed asked for my opinion on American colleges.  In order to be admitted into TCU, Mohammed is required to score relatively high on his English exam.  Worried that he will not obtain the required score, Mohammed is beginning to research other universities which accept lower scores.  I suggested Mohammed look at other universities in Texas (SMU, Baylor, etc.), but he shook his head.  He explained that he wanted an “easy” college in which he could enroll for select classes for only one or two semesters.  Explaining that no college is going to be “easy”, I suggested Mohammed look at more flexible colleges which cater to commuting and working students.  I explained the difference between universities and community colleges, a topic Mohammed found intriguing.  I apologized for not being more help and suggested that Mohammed speak to his professor or other professionals more knowledgeable about solutions for his situation. 

Near the end of our conversation, Mohammed and I discussed our weekend plans.  While mine consisted of studying for exams, Mohammed happily announced that he would spend the weekend clubbing and napping.  We wished each other the best of luck and parted ways, not expecting to see one another until the following Friday.  To my surprise, I saw Mohammed only a half hour later as I ate lunch with my friends in Market Square.  We had never seen each other outside of the library so we had no precedent for how to interact during spontaneous encounters.  Luckily, Mohammed took the lead and gave me a small wave; reassured, I smiled and waved in return, confirming that we are more than just conversation partners, that we are in fact friends.

Education During the Cold War: Coming of Age (1950s/1960s)

“It must be remembered that the purpose of education is not to fill the minds of students with facts…it is to teach them to think.” (Robert M. Hutchins; 1945)

Ready to begin new jobs, new families, and new lives, thousands of young American servicemen returned to the United States after World War II ready to leave behind the tragedy of war and resume American life as they had left it.  However, World War II shattered the previous way of American life.  America could no longer reign in the Western Hemisphere and remain detached from European affairs; indeed, World War II placed a spotlight on America, forcing the country to enter the global arena to assert its freedom and superiority against rising powers like Soviet Russia.  Originating in the aftermath of World War II, the Cold War placed democratic America in direct opposition against communist Soviet Russia.  These two global superpowers would spend the latter half of the 20^th century competing to achieve dominance in science, technology, and weaponry.  From the infamous Space Race to the Cuban Missile Crisis, tensions between the United States and the USSR continued to rise throughout the 1950s and 1960s, fueling a drive in America to combat the communist Russian enemy in every measurable facet, including education.   

The post-war baby boom, which created an influx in the number of students entering American public schools, combined with growing tensions between America and Soviet Russia, forced Americans to reevaluate the American education system.  The classroom had evolved into a battleground, an arena for challenging young minds to exceed the intellectual capacities of other world powers, specifically the Soviet Union.  As nations competed to excel in areas of science and technology, American leaders and educators suddenly realized the critical impact that educating new generations of Americans had on attaining United States dominance in global affairs.  The August 1958 issue of the American School Board Journal, articles and editorial revealed the shifting perceptions of American education.  While educators continued to place high value on academic achievement, educators began instituting new regulations and educational approaches to ensure the products of the American education system would prove valuable assets in America’s quest for global superiority. 

To ensure superiority in the global arena, and to provide superior education, American educators began eliminating old, out-dated educational approaches.  The role of education was no longer to provide children with fun and entertainment; instead, education needed to prepare America’s youngest citizens for life in a highly competitive world.  As one article in the 1958 issue highlighted, many schools underwent construction or renovation to incorporate rooms promoting life skills and career preparation.  To be productive and valuable American citizens, educators insisted that students needed to exit school with the superior academic and life skills needed to propel American in front of global competitors.  

Beyond traditional classrooms, newly constructed schools often contained a variety of specialized academic and auxiliary areas in order to assist students in obtaining superior education and experience in life-like situations.   Food laboratories, clothing laboratories, living room unit and craft centers, music rooms, vocational agriculture and industrial arts shops, art rooms, typing rooms, and laboratories designed for specific sciences (i.e. physics, biology, chemistry) provided students with unique educational experiences representative of the “real-world”, ensuring that students entered the American workforce with the necessary knowledge, experience, and competencies to serve as valuable assets to the United States economy. 

In addition to more vocationally-geared education, educators began placing a stronger emphasis on science and mathematics instruction, reflecting the heightening race between America and Soviet Russia to gain world dominance in space exploration, weapon creation, and technological innovation.  Many articles within this periodical addressed concerns of educators that traditional scientific and math training were inadequate in American schools.  Educators insisted the improvement of science training was an urgent need, “basic to our (America’s) national capacity for defense and for living as a free people” (p. 14).  Despite this drive to improve science and math instruction, educators also recognized the need to improve all areas of education for American students.  According to the President’s Committee on Scientists and Engineers, funneling all of America’s best talents into scientific and technical studies would prove self-destructive; instead, the committee called educators to continue the development of the arts, humanities, and social sciences in order to ensure that America’s citizens, the basis of democracy, were well-informed and well rounded in a variety of content areas.

An average American child spends approximately 180 days per year in school.  Most children attend school for 14 years, adding to a total of 2,520 days spent in school from Kindergarten to 12^th grade.  Throughout this time, children grow and mature within the classroom, interacting with their peers and teachers in order to gain insight about the world around them.  Most likely, the persistent drive from teachers and educators to meet high academic expectations forced children of these decades to mature quickly and at a young age.  The classroom had become a training ground, refining American children as powerful human weapons, capable of combating Soviet intelligence and securing American supremacy in global affairs.  

Children were stripped of their innocence, forced to acknowledge the precarious existence of mankind in the midst of developing nuclear weaponry, living in constant fear of a third world war.  Memories of childhood during these decades often include reminisces of infamous “Duck-and-Cover” Drills, futile measures to “protect” students in case of nuclear warfare.  Like the pages of the periodical, childhood experiences during the 1950s and 1960s were marred by the constant threat of nuclear destruction and global destruction.  Children could no longer mature at their leisure, reveling in years of blissful childhood innocence; instead, educators made it their mission to initiate children into the harsh realities of the world as soon as they entered the American public school system, forcing the young pliant minds to accept the reality of danger, warfare, and death and dismiss childish notions of security and peace.

Mohammed: Meeting #4

I immediately regretted asking the question as soon as I saw an expression of alarm shoot across Mohammed’s face.  Our conversation had been flowing so freely, but one momentary lapse of caution, one question, had rebuilt the cultural barriers between me and Mohammed.  The conversation leading up to the question had been casual enough.  Mohammed and I had been discussing one of our favorite topics: soccer.  He explained how in Saudi Arabia, he and his friends would play soccer three times a day every day of the weekend (Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday).  Due to the heat, groups would assemble at nearby fields beginning at 4:00 in the afternoon.  After playing the first game, he and his friends would seek sanctuary from the sun, loading up on food and water before the next set of games began.  Mohammed told me that he and his friends would often stay up until 2:00 am playing soccer during the summer, enjoying the cool night air in comparison to the daytime temperatures typically measuring 45°-50 °Celsius.

Suddenly, I remembered a game of pick up soccer I had played before Spring Break.  One Friday night, me and two of my male friends had been passing a soccer ball around the TCU commons.  Three young men, carrying soccer balls approached my friend from India, and using hand gestures, asked if we wanted to play 3v3 with them.  Luckily, my friend knew enough Arabic to communicate with the young men and agreed to a game.  Before playing, my friend from India introduced the two teams to one another, explaining that the three strangers were students from Saudi Arabia.  The only girl present, I stood back and watched the boys from both teams greet one another, somehow left out of the emphatic hand shaking between the male players.  This should have been my first sign that something about my presence in the soccer game was a little unusual to the Saudi Arabian boys. 

Dismissing this thought from my mind, I eagerly asked Mohammed if he knew the three boys, attempting to pronounce their Arabian names.  Mohammed smiled and nodded, signaling that he knew the Saudi Arabian boys we had played against.  However, a look of curiosity overcame him and he asked how I knew his friends.  When I explained the encounter, Mohammed looked slightly bewildered; unfazed, I continued to boldly recount how much fun the game was and how I would love to visit Saudi Arabia just to have the chance to play similar games of pick up soccer.  Shaking his head slightly, Mohammed quietly told me that my experience in Saudi Arabia would not be like his own recollections, that I would not have the opportunity to play the pick-up soccer games I found so fascinating.  Without thinking, my curiosity overcame my cultural awareness; I blurted out “Why not?”.  

This was the question that made Mohammed uncomfortable, that made me regret ever pursuing the topic.  Without making eye contact, Mohammed explained that girls were not encouraged to join the boys in games of soccer, that he and his friends had never played soccer with females before. 

I should not have been surprised at this announcement; however, nothing could have prepared me for the numbness which spread throughout my mind and body.  My thoughts drifted back to that night in the commons, recollecting memories from that night I had never thought about before.  I suddenly remembered looks of shock on the faces of the Saudi Arabian boys when it became clear I was playing.  I suddenly remembered looks of surprise when I scored the first goal of the game.  I remember the Saudi Arabian boys shaking hands with everyone except me, an American girl.  As I remembered, Mohammed sat across from me, looking down at the table, nervously trying to explain that the gender differences were simply a part of long standing Arabian customs.  I knew these gender distinctions existed, but the personalization of the remark sent me reeling. 

Knowing there was no way to salvage this topic of conversation, I turned the conversation to something safe: the weather.  Yet as we discussed tornados and humidity, my mind remained focused on the concept of gender segregation.  I began to think about how blessed I am to live in a country where I can play a game of pick-up soccer with individuals of the opposite sex without fearing social repercussions or criticism.  I thought about how much fun I have playing soccer with my Co-Ed intramural team, about how every player respects each other despite gender differences. 

No matter how hard I tried to understand the gender inequality of the Arabian culture, I simply couldn't accept it.  I can understand the differences between cultures; I can understand how long standing traditions are respected and followed.  I can understand from a detached standpoint that women and men are different in Saudi Arabian culture, fulfilling different roles and adhering to different societal expectations.  Yet as much as I can understand the gender inequality, I have trouble accepting it.  As a female who has grown up in a country of equal opportunity, I am not sure I will ever be able to look on instances of gender inequality with an open mind; this may be seen as intolerance towards other cultures, but I view it only as intolerance towards segregation and inequality.

On a lighter note, our conversation ended quite amiably despite the earlier tension we faced.  At the end of the meeting, Mohammed and I logged into the library computers so we could become "Facebook Friends".  I found this an important milestone in our developing friendship.  When I wish to communicate with my other friends, I simply message them over Facebook or call them on their cell phones.  Previously, Mohammed and I have been conversing through email, a reflection that our meetings were strictly professional.  After 15 minutes of searching for each other, which consisted on switching my Facebook settings to Arabic and his to English, we were able to become “Facebook Friends”, a reflection of our growing friendship.

Reflection #4: The House on Mango Street

“She thinks stories are about beauty…She thinks people who are busy working for a living deserve beautiful little stories, because they don’t have much time and are often tired. She has in mind a book that can be opened at any page and will still make sense to the reader who doesn’t know what came before or comes after” (p.xvii).

When I read this passage, I almost laughed aloud; it perfectly described my reading situation for The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros .  Pressed for time, I was using every spare moment at work to read through this short novel.  Between refereeing TCU intramural soccer games, I would run back to the official table to read a page or two before beginning my next task.  I had managed to read through only a few pages of the introduction before I began my first shift.  After the game, I returned to the novel, quickly unfolding the dog-ear corner marking my place.  I found it hard to focus as I read; my mind drifted to my expanding list of “to dos” for the week, reminding me of everything I needed to accomplish within the next 48 hours.   I read this line of the introduction in the middle of life: the TCU Ultimate Frisbee team was running laps around the soccer fields, soccer teams were checking in for their next round of games, the rugby team laughed in the distance, cars zoomed around the bend in Berry Street, fraternities and sororities laughed as they enjoyed the warm weather outside.  All around me, life was occurring; and here I was, opening this novel as I worked to pay for my college expenses, busy living life yet reading despite the chaos around me.  Throughout the night, I was able to finish half of the novel, reading sketches sporadically as time permitted.  The next day, I attended classes with the book in hand.  While waiting for class to begin, I usually read 3-4 sketches; during class breaks, I could knock out another 2-3 sketches.  The House on Mango Street was living up to Sandra Cisneros’s intentions; I was able to open the novel at any point as I went through my day to day activities and still derive meaning from the text.

I found this novel emotionally trying as I followed the childhood reminisces of the narrator, Esperanza. Some of the sketches were humorous, containing familiar dialogues or thoughts I experienced during my own childhood.  However, other sketches were dark and deeply disturbing, containing events I have never encountered and describing situations I will never understand.  Esperanza’s dream in life was to have a home of her own; growing up I always had a home to call my own, a blessing I know I have taken for granted.  Esperanza learned from an early age the tragedies of poverty, forced to mature and become wise in the realities of the world far faster than any child should.  I think my biggest concern as a child was which doll to play with; I got in trouble for not eating my vegetables.  Esperanza worried about escaping the cycle of poverty which bound the residents of Mango Street, forced to eat greasy rice sandwiches because there was no money for lunch meat. 

As I read the novel, I tried to put myself in Esperanza’s shoes, to feel the emotions which must have coursed through her veins as she observed her poverty ridden neighborhood.  But no matter how hard I attempted to be Esperanza, I couldn’t.  Surrounded by the pristine brick structures and first class amenities of our private university, I could never feel the oppressive poverty faced by Esperanza.  I have worked with children in a preschool for low socioeconomic families and have volunteered in homeless shelters over the years, but knowing the existence of poverty and experiencing poverty are two entirely separate things.  This novel forced me to acknowledge that I will never grasp the entirety of Esperanza’s story without personally experiencing her situations.  Until I have lived in a poverty stricken neighborhood, personally witness the aftermath of abuse in my neighbors, and watch friend after friend abandon their hopes in return for relative “security”, I will never truly walk in Esperanza’s worn brown saddle shoes.   

“I put it down on paper and then the ghost does not ache so much.  I write it down and Mango says goodbye sometimes.  She does not hold me with both arms.  She sets me free.  One day I will pack my bags of books and paper.  One day I will say goodbye to Mango.  I am too strong for her to keep me here forever.  One day I will go away” (p.110).   No two individuals live identical lives.  I believe the every person is molded by the experiences and relationships they encounter throughout life.  “Coming-of-age” is not a process; as Esperanza reveals in this passage, an individual never stops growing and learning.  Though her house on Mango Street is part of the past, the memories of the street continue to haunt and strengthen Esperanza.  Esperanza will not be free from the painful memories of Mango Street in an instant; rather, these recollections continue to influence her choices and decisions, powerful agents in Esperanza’s “coming-of-age” process.  Someday, Esperanza might have the strength to leave Mango Street behind, barring her mind against the invasive memories; however, Mango Street will always remain a part of her, a life experience that will continue to unconsciously shape her perspectives and character.  Individuals can forget their past, but they can never fully erase it. For Esperanza, her childhood experiences on Mango Street cultivated a desire to rescue her neighbors, leaving only so she can someday return for the friends and family she had to leave behind.  Escaping Mango Street long enough to find happiness and peace, then returning to help others find the same contentment, rescuing those who cannot rescue themselves (p.110).

Memories of Easter

The three days of the year my Mom could force me to wear a dress: the first day of school, Christmas, and Easter.  Every other day of the year I could fight my Mom tooth and nail to wear pants or skirt; but on these three holidays, no temper tantrums or amount bargaining would cause my Mom to relent.  As I have grown older, my Mom has loosened the reigns a bit, graciously allowing me to choose my own outfits (within reason) for both the first day of school and Christmas.  However, on Easter, I still must wear a dress.  Despite her hardnosed dedication to dressing in “Sunday Best” on Easter, I cherish my memories of past Easters spent with my family, each defined by a unique Easter dress.

One of my first Easters was captured on tape when I was barely over a year old.  Unable to protest, my Mom had dressed me in the gaudiest Easter dress I have ever seen.  The amount of frills and lace adorning the garment were enough to make an Elizabethan Queen uncomfortable.  Surprisingly, the prison of frills allowed me room to move, barely, my arms and legs.  When my Mom placed an Easter basket in front of me, I reached towards the colorful array of toys, eager to explore the contents of the mysterious container.  Resorting to the traditional dump and explore method, I spilled the contents of the basket on the floor, hiding the surprises underneath a blanket of plastic grass.  The video shows me stuffing handfuls of grass into my mouth as my parents frantically tried to pull the slobbery masses of plastic from grip.  My earliest memory of Easter: the taste and feel of synthetic grass.

Since my parents were video tape junkies, another one of my early Easter experiences is also preserved in film.  From behind the video camera, my Mom played the “hot and cold” game with my older brother (5 years old), giving him hints to help him find his hidden Easter basket.  As he frantically explored the confines of the house, my Mom turned the camera to me, engaged in a comatose sleep in my Dad’s arms.  Obviously exhausted from the morning’s activities, I had decided to skip out on the candy hunting, content to spend the afternoon sleeping, cocooned inside the elaborately embroidered dress my Mom had stuffed me into.  But this disregard for her holiday planning was unacceptable for my Mom.  My shaking me awake, my Mom enthusiastically urged me to “FIND THE BASKET! FIND THE EASTER BASKET!”  At age 3, it was already clear that I was not a morning person.  As I groggily awoke, my Mom forced me to my feet and began shouting directions to me.  Confused, I stumbled aimlessly around without any real sense of direction or purpose.  Tired, I collapsed onto the ground, content to sit until the “game” was finally over.  To my parents’ chagrin, my younger brother reappeared toting his Easter basket along with my own.  You could almost hear my Mom debating whether to hide my basket again, desperate to catch the childhood milestone on tape.  Surrendering to my obstinate will, my Mom placed the arranged array of candy and toys in front of me.  Immediately, I snapped out of my drowsiness and began exploring the contents of my basket.  My brother, exhilarated that he had received two Smarties candies in his own basket, proceeded to dance around the living room screaming with joy.  These scenes are the memories of my fourth Easter.

Over the years, simple Easter activities have evolved into highly anticipated family traditions.  Every year, after compliantly dressing in an excessively elaborate ensembles, my family and I attended our church’s morning Easter services, participating in the singing of joyful hymns and pastoral readings.  Once our car pulled into our driveway, my brothers and I raced up the front steps, pushing each other aside as we frantically searched for our hidden Easter baskets. My older brother always found his basket first, followed by me and then my little brothers.  After organizing the contents of our individual baskets, my brothers and I proceeded to exchange and trade candy, swapping jellybeans for coveted Reeses cups and chocolate eggs for marshmallow Peeps.  Following our exploration of the baskets came Easter brunch with our neighbors.  Our kitchen was always filled with the scents of cooking ham, green beans, and fresh bread.  Before sitting down for brunch, my Dad said the Easter blessing, thanking Christ for his gift of salvation.  After eating to our hearts content, my Mom would sneak outside and hide dozens of plastic Easter eggs, each filled with quarters or other candy surprises.  When unleashed, my brothers and I tore through the yard, violently battling each other for the hidden eggs.  After finding each egg, my Mom compiled all the candy into one giant bowl for the family to share.  As Easter day came to a close, my family piled onto the family room couch to watch The Ten Commandments, concluding our Easter in the same way it began: centered on Christ’s death and resurrection.

While these basic traditions remained the same during my eighteen years living at home, I am able to see now the slight changes and moderations which accompanied my family’s growth and maturation.  As the number of children in our family grew, the contents of the Easter baskets grew smaller, revealing that my parents were forced to make a limited budget cover four children.  When I was seven and my older brother was nine, we stopped receiving chocolate bunnies and instead received chocolate crosses, revealing our acknowledgment of Christ as the reason for Easter.  In high school, my older brother and I no longer hunted for the eggs; instead, we hid the eggs for my younger brothers.  At brunch one year, my Dad suggested that my brother say the Easter blessing, becoming a new tradition that remains to this day for all of our family’s holiday meals. 

Today, my second Easter away from home will pass, yet the traditions of past Easters still linger in my memory.  I will wake up early to attend a morning Easter service at my church, joining my Texas church family in hymns and pastoral readings.  I will go with my friends to Easter brunch, relishing in my blessings of close friendships.  When I return to campus, I will Skype my family to watch my ten year old brother explore his Easter basket.  While I do all of these activities, I will of course be wearing the Easter dress my Mom mailed to me specifically for this holiday.

Kick The Can

“Ninety six, ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety ninnnneeeee…ONE HUNDRED,” the voice pierced the otherwise tranquil air of the neighborhood, alerting my brothers and I that the game had begun.  Hidden behind a flowering bush five houses away, I had a perfect view of the silver tin can in front of my Grandparents’ house, glinting in the fading summer light.  There was no need to make my way towards the can quite yet, not until the enemy began to uncover our hiding spots.  Content to watch the game unfold, I sat down in the moist dirt, using the brick foundation of the neighbor’s house as a backrest.  My Uncle D.J., the enemy, walked calmly away from the can, attempting to lure us out of our hidden sanctuaries.  An amateur at the game, my youngest brother took this bait, stumbling out from behind a tall oak tree in pursuit of the can.  Anticipating this maneuver, my Uncle spun around and began striding towards the faltering toddler.  Screaming my little brother tried to turn his tiny legs faster, attempting to make contact with the can before being caught.  I sighed in exasperation, knowing from my own past experience that his efforts were futile.  As expected, my Uncle scooped up the giddy, laughing toddler, and placed him on the front steps, also known as “jail”.  I shook my head in disgust; our team was now a man down and my little baby brother could not care less.  He had just deserted his fellow soldiers, his own flesh and blood, leaving my older brother and I to fight this battle a man down.

Every summer, my family traveled 17 hours back to Ohio to visit our extended family. Every summer my brothers and I played Kick the Can with my Uncle D.J.   Every summer we lost.   But this summer was going to be different; this year, I had experience and training on my side.  I had spent the school year training for this battle.  Rather than playing on the swings with my friends, I had dedicated recesses to playing hide and seek with the boys, perfecting my ability hide in cramped corners and run without sound.  Resolved that training would not be in vain, I centered my focus, zoning in on the metal can, keeping my Uncle’s retreating figure in my peripherals.

As my Uncle searched the houses down the street, I breathed freely and easily.  It would do no good to risk my safety to kick the can now, only getting my little brother out of jail.  He would simply repeat his earlier performance and cost us the entire game.  There was nothing to do but wait.  Suddenly, the branches beside me began to snap, sounding off like firecrackers.  I quickly scrambled into a crouching position, scoping out new possible hiding spots and preparing to run, when a firm hand pushed me down and covered my mouth, muffling my screams.  Jerking my head around to identify my captor, I was relieved, and then infuriated, to see my older brother’s mocking face peering back at me in the fading light.  Prying his hand off my mouth, I punched him in the arm.  “Are you stupid?!” I asked in a harsh whisper, appalled that he did not understand the gravity of the game.  Laughing my brother shrugged his shoulders, “Someone had to run sometime.  Otherwise the game would be boring.”  Infuriated at his impatience and willingness to sacrifice my hiding spot for his own amusement, I pushed him off balance, sending him sprawling into the dirt.  As I laughed at my own cunning, I turned my gaze back to the can; however, I never saw the can’s silvery glint, because standing right in front of me was the imposing figure of my Uncle!  He had followed the sounds of rustling and fighting to our hidden bush.  

Knowing there was only one thing left to do, I dove out of the bush and began to run.  I heard my brother yell out in defeat.   I looked around once, long enough to see my Uncle pull my brother out from behind the push by his leg.  I was only four houses away from the can; I still had a chance to win.  “Run! Run, Erin, Run!”  My brother’s voice alerted me of the gaining danger, but I already knew that my Uncle was fast approaching.  I could hear the sound of his tennis shoes slapping the cobbled sidewalk.  I urged my legs to turn faster, allowing my bare feet to barely skim the grass before lifting again.  Glowing fireflies scattered as my flying feet uprooted them from the grass, illuminating the evening sky in a fountain of sparks.  Three houses to go.    I could feel my Uncle closing in; my lungs began to burn, my breath came in short, painful spurts.  Two houses to go.  I could hear my Uncle breathing heavily, his footsteps thundering as he grew closer and closer.  I gulped at the humid air, trying to get enough breath for one final sprint.  One house to go.  My Uncle was only a few steps behind me, taking one stride for every four steps that I ran.  I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to transfer all my mind power to one final burst of speed.  My heart felt as though it would explode with every step, my feet screamed out in agony, begging me to stop running.  Five steps…four steps…three steps…I could sense my Uncle’s arm stretching out into the lessening gap between us.  Two steps.   I imagined the sound of the metal can bouncing off my foot, filling the neighborhood with clanging chaos and the sound of victory.  One step. One step and I was there, I would win.  I reared my leg back, preparing to send the tin can flying, but this hesitation was all the time my Uncle needed to grab the back of my T-shirt and pull me back. 

My foot never touched the tin can.  We never won.  Like every other summer, my Uncle remained the champion of Kick the Can.  As my Grandma called us into the house for some ice cream, my brothers quickly ran ahead, easily forgetting the recent loss.  I lagged behind, kicking tufts of grass, angrily attempting to regain my breath.  Picking up the untouched can, my Uncle fell in step next to me, walking with me to the front door of the house.  I never wanted him to let me win, yet I had not wanted to lose either.  Confused, I reluctantly looked up at him.   Sweat glistened on his forehead; his shoulders rose and fell as he steadied his breathing.  Extending the can out to me, he smiled and said, “Well played”.  I took the can from him, knowing that even though I did not win the game, I had challenged my Uncle to an unprecedented game of Kick the Can.  I had made winning difficult for him; a feat considered near victory in my book. I grabbed the can and skipped up the cement steps, knowing there was always next year.

Leaving Home Behind

Me on the front steps of my old house.

The shadows of aspen, pine, and evergreen trees danced in the wind, casting alternating curtains of light and darkness across the brick house standing before me.  Nestled into a grove of towering trees and flourishing plants, this house had been my home for the past eighteen years, acting as an omniscient guardian, watching me grow year after year.  The brick archway encircling the front entrance, the white faded flower boxes, the wooden tiers enclosing the countless flower beds; these sights had always welcomed me home throughout my childhood, but now, I was forced to say goodbye.  I would never again sit on the front steps as my mom took my picture for the first day of school.  I would never again turn the wobbly brass doorknob and walk into the cramped entryway, dodging the stray shoes littering the narrow doorway.  I would never again run up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs of the split level house.  The matted brown carpet, a remnant of the 70s, would never touch the soles of my feet; I would never sled down the grassy slopes of the backyard; I would never spend fall afternoons raking the countless leaves which drifted down to the yellowing grass yard.  The experiences which defined my childhood would be left behind as we slammed shut the door of our moving truck and drove away one final time.

My Mom insisted that our new house was perfect; in my opinion, that perfection was the problem.  It was perfect.  It was in a perfect suburban neighborhood, surrounded by armies of houses with similar roofs, similar colors, and similar layouts.  Each lawn was perfectly manicured, sparsely scattered with newly planted trees, landscaped without character or emotion.  Inside, the floors were mainly hardwood, cold and barren compared to the unique and plush carpeting of our old house.  The windows opened with ease, not needing a prop to keep open, not need a shove to slam close.  The foyer’s ceilings reached to the second floor, flooding the entryway with light.  A closet for shoes, a pantry for food, an alcove for the piano; home features previously unknown to me in my outdated childhood home.  The sight of the hot tub gazebo nauseated me, making me yearn for the natural simplicity of my old yard.  I was bothered that my brothers and I each had our own rooms; the house was already beginning to divide and separate my family.  An intercom system had been installed for easy communication across the big house, making it unnecessary to interact with one another face to face. 

This new house, updated with all the latest features, appeared cold and indifferent. Every day of my life, my old house had welcomed me with old, weathered arms, providing me with a place of comfort and familiarity.  This new home would never embrace me or my family; it was only stucco walls and slabs of cement.  My old house, constructed with care, built brick by brick emanated personality; this new structure emitted synthetic remoteness.  Fighting back tears, I stepped into the cab of our truck, prepared to look back in the review mirror for the last time, resenting my Mom and Dad, the people who had betrayed our home despite everything it had given us.  As I watched my house disappear in the glassy mirror, I resolved to never be happy in this new house, a final gesture of affection towards the receding house that would always remain my true home. 

When we reached the new house, my parents told me my room would be in the basement.  Viewing this as yet another reminder of the coldness of this impersonal structure, I grabbed the box of my most treasured possessions and trudged down to the dungeon.  The stairway was long, descending into ominous darkness.  Not knowing where the light switches were in this new place, I felt along the walls to guide myself down to my room.  Finding the doorway with my hand, I turned the knob, preparing myself to enter the cell that would be my bedroom.  Making contact with the lightswtich, I flipped the switch up, illuminating the room with light. Instead of empty prison walls, the walls were painted a bright sunny yellow, angled into odd shapes to create protruding corners and small alcoves.  My room broke the uniformity of the house, a bright beacon of individuality in a house of overwhelming similarity.  Though empty, this room revealed potential; potential for personality, and comfort; potential for warmth and hominess despite the house’s cold exterior.  The yellow walls began to melt my resentment and bitterness; while it was unlikely, maybe, just maybe, this place could eventually be home.