When I was...

I am 5 years old and I just woke up from a nightmare. The same man keeps showing up in all my dreams, even though he’s not part of the story. I think he’s a vampire. The first time I saw him, he was in black and white, like the rest of the dream. He’s still in black and white, but my dreams are in color. He was in tonight’s dream where I went with my momma to her college. She got to the top of the stairs and the building cracked down the middle like a lightning bolt hit it. Momma still went into the building, but left me outside so I would be safe. She disappeared in the darkness of the hallway when the black and white vampire man came out of the shadows and looked at me. He never speaks, but I am always scared of him. I am scared, so I am going into my momma’s room to sleep with her. The door is shut, so I open it and walk inside. I stand in front of her bed and telling her about my bad dream. Randy’s voice says “I don’t want her in here,” and my mom gets up to walk me back to my room. I am starting to cry because I didn’t wanna be alone in the dark. She leaves me in my room, sitting in my bed, and she shuts the door. That makes the room even darker and I know that the black and white vampire man is about to come out and give me that look. I run out my door and through hers, which is closed again, before she makes it back into her bed. She tells me to get out and so I walk outside the door, but I’m not brave enough to go back into my room. She shuts the door and I hear a click. I try to open it again, to try and convince her to let me in, but the door won’t open. I am crying harder now because I am all alone. I am banging on the door and still crying. I can’t leave because I am too scared. I am sitting on my sister’s green plastic chair that goes with her drum set. I am crying and sitting. I am too tired to move, but too scared to fall asleep.

I am 8 years old and I am playing outside with my sister and Jackie. I don’t know what we are doing, but I am bored. Jackie starts talking about her mom, Diana, and all the cool secrets they share. Her mom had a bunch of friends over last night and put make up on Jackie. Then she let Jackie have a drink of this gross bottled drink. She told Jackie that Santa Claus isn’t real, but I know better. “He’s real,” I said to Kristi and Jackie. Kristi says “You’re stupid, mom does it.” I know that Kristi’s wrong, so I run back to our apartment, across the complex, to ask mom to tell them the truth. I don’t understand why Kristi wouldn’t believe in Santa. He brought us a Barbie doll house and a Bubble Gum machine. Mom never buys us anything like that, so Santa has to be the one who brought it on Christmas. I bust through our door and see mom sitting on the recliner and Shane sitting in front of her on the floor. They’re watching TV. I look her in the eye and scream “Tell Kristi and Jackie that Santa is real,” and she looks me in the eye and opens her mouth. Before any of her words come out, Shane makes one of those “Are you serious” giggles. I flash to him to read his face and scowl at him. He is looking at mom. I look back to mom who is giving him a “Why’d you say that, you’re gonna get me in trouble” face. “He isn’t real?” I scream at her, and the tears start pouring. I feel stupid. I have defended Santa for years and have been laughed at for it. Mom lied to me. I tromp to her defeated and sick to my stomach. I can’t understand why she let me believe a lie for all these years. I start questioning what else she may have lied about. She rocks me and I sob. I am still crying. I am upset when Kristi comes in and laughs at me.

I am 13 years old. I have a group of friends who I eat lunch with and talk to on the phone. I don’t understand why so many girls already wear make up and I am not interested in conversations about house parties. I feel so young. I think I should probably try and grow up too, but I am so not interested in any of those things. I don’t like to dress cute, plus I look silly when I try. I don’t know how to fix my hair. I don’t think any of the boys are cute. I think that all the kids in school associate growing up with kissing and alcohol. My friends are starting to get caught up in it too. Today, I am standing in the lunch line listening to Kayla banter about the fact that Jason likes Alyssa now and if she were a true friend she would not date him. I agree, sorta. Besides, I have more important gossip. “I think Berry is smoking pot,” I tell Kayla. Of course she latches onto that piece of information. She doesn’t actually seem to care about him doing drugs, just the fact that it’s interesting. I am way more concerned with him and what he’s going to get himself into. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends and he would for sure be willing to do drugs or something equally stupid in order to be more popular. Kayla starts gossiping about how stupid he is and how that reminds her of Jason. I need somebody who is going to understand what I am talking about, so I head farther back in line to my best friend Phillip. “Phillip, did you know that Berry smokes pot,” I ask him. “I smoke pot too. So?” Ok, so I was definitely not expecting that response, but he’s my best friend, so I can’t act like it bothers me. “I know Phillip, but you’re honest about it, and Berry lies,” I say to cover my overall hurt. I zone out for a while and miss most of the lunch conversations. I get through the rest of the day, but after I get off the bus, I run into my house and call my mom. I cannot believe that my friends are doing drugs. I realize that Kayla wears a lot of make up now. “Mom, I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t know what to do!” I cry over the phone. I wait a few hours and she comes home. I vent to her about all the crap and how it upsets me. I have seen what drugs do to people. Look at my dad, for example. I just cry and realize that I am probably about to make some tough decisions. I am still crying when I make the decision to help them. I am crying, but I love them.

Dream Big

The dream of becoming a star is something a lot of people have when they are younger. Everyone starts out their career differently. The small Little Tikes radio with a microphone attached was the perfect beginners item for an up and coming star.
My room wasn't just a bedroom. Beyond the white walls, frilly comforter, and hand me down white and gold furniture, there was a stage. Maybe it was just a rug from Wal Mart, but to me it was a stage. On performance afternoons about 4 p.m. right after preschool, and on into kindergarten the auditorium was packed.
Leo the stuffed lion and his wife, along with two of the smaller stuffed lions were among the guests. Teddy was present, his vision impaired however since an earlier episode caused one eye to be lost. Some of the crew from My Little Pony would be able to make it, and the main V.I.P. guest was a small white chubby bear named Snuggles.
With everyone in place for the main event, I would begin. My small knowledge of songs would make for a few repeats. Preschool provides you with a few good ones. "This Little Light of Mine" and "God Loves All the Little Children," were big fan favorites. There were also times when my mother's christian music tapes were available for my use, and those were special surprise performances.
When i needed to take a break the music didn't stop. I was even a recording artist in my down time. I would play the tape in deck 1 and record my voice over it in deck 2. "Baby Balooga," received amazing reviews. Those stuffed animals really knew how to make me feel like a star.
It wasn't too long ago that my parents came across one of my recorded tapes. It was a very embarrassing moment. They laugh because of my few choice of songs, words, and the in between welcoming of different guests. I remember though, how important I felt. The love I had for those stuffed animals, and how important those days were to me. I loved being by myself, and singing.
Now that I am older my singing has slowed. I realized I was never going to become a multi-platinum artist. I settled for church musicals, and the choir. I do belt some tunes out in the shower, but no one is around to hear that.
I have fond memories of coming home from school and being the main entertainment. Now, I only wish life was equipped with a remote, so I could rewind back to the good parts, hit pause when I want to stay a while, and fast forward through all the bad things. I guess we all have to grow up sometime.

Outdoors

I grew up where the vehicles were covered in dust. You couldn't hear the cars on the interstate and the stars weren't voided out by the big glowing lights. I spent majority of my childhood here. For me being outside was an escape. You could hear the birds singing and smell the freshly cut grass from the lawn.
On summer break you could never find me inside the house, not because my family didn't get along but, because I could do so many other things outdoors. There were days when my mother would have to call for me in the late evenings just to get me inside.
My kid sister and I had many adventures at our secret place. We fought a turtle for my fishing pole and rode make believe horses along the bank. The green moss along the edge was the dragonflies home and the occassional baby frog. The water was a brown, not like the ocean clear and blue but, it was different and mine.
Early mornings my sister and I would look in dark, damp, and cool places to find the funniest of things, worms. We would find enough, put them in a coffee can full of dirt and fishing poles in hand and take off. We would look around the bank and look for the perfect spot. I would cast a line and wait. The sun would reflect off the water like dancing diamonds, almost a trance.
One day my red and white bobber started bouncing, I almost lost my breath. I kept watching and then it went under the water. I jerked and pulled with all my might and I had something on the end, I could feel it moving. I put up a fight for a long time, then it happened the huge fish jumped out of the water, at least at the time I thought was big. I kept pulling and reeling and then it made it to the bank. I picked it up and the colors were like I had never seen silver, green, and brown. It was perfect, but I put the fish back in the water, hoping I could catch him another day.
This place was my second home during the summer months. It is something that I will always remember, the time I fought the giant fish and lived the to tell the tale.

My favorite job ever...

I get to work at 6:50 a.m. Park my car and walk through the massive empty lot to the dock that stretches two football fields in length. As I get closer to the main office of the dock, I see workers from the night shift flying by on their forklifts, cheering that their shift is almost over. I walk up the stairs and clock in. As I wait for a forklift to become available, I'm told that I better get my shit together if I wanted to keep my job. This is my asshole supervisor. A true shit-head at heart, and a man bound and determined that I was his nemesis. I didn't care if I lost my job or not at that point. Part of me wanted to stay just to piss my supervisor off, but then I realized why I was working there in the first place, $15.75/hour. A young man that wants to make money will put up with a lot of B.S. for $15.75 an Hour.

The head foreman gives me my check sheet, a list of bills (freight) that need to be moved from one trailer to another, and tells me to get my shit together. The day is already off to a great start. Fortunately I'm assigned a trailer at the east end of the dock. In such a miserable place, this was the one part of the dock that had a view. You could clearly see the sun and the many fields and trees that were in front of it. The catch to the beautiful view, these trailers had a lot of heavy freight, sharp poles, and hazardous chemicals. That's what I get for being "young and strong," as my much older co-workers would say.

The day was long and tough as usual. Lots of lifting, stacking, sweating, checking and overlooking. At one point, I didn't know what I was going to do with all those boxes. Then I realized, I could just leave it for the other guy coming in at 3:00. My supervisor would walk to my trailer quite often to "make sure I wasn't fucking anything up." He was such a sweetheart.

After lunch I told myself that it's all downhill from here. I continue my lifting and stacking. I heard the older guys telling jokes about 10 yards away. Sitting on their forklifts and telling jokes. And to think I was the one getting yelled at. Those same guys helped me get through those tough times. They were some of the funniest people I will ever see and talk to. As funny and odd as the 3:00 a.m. regulars at Waffle House. The stories they had about the same jack ass foremen were truly great. The one about my favorite supervisor shitting his pants on a forklift was my personal favorite. You see, those men understood what I was going through because they were in my exact same position at one point. At the bottom of the pole, but they stuck with it because they had to provide for their families. And the money was pretty good too.

The House Where I Was Born

I was born and raised in Las Pilas. Las Pilas is a very small community located in the state of Aguascalientes, in Mexico. It consists of 25 families, one small school, a grosery store and a church. Upon arriving there the first thing that you can admire is the lake and its great waterfall. After you fall in love with the place, you would be delighted with its people and its great traditions. In the north side of this community you can find my parent’s house. The house where I was born!


The house where I was born is squared, has four walls, two floors and a garage.
The house where I was born contains a kitchen, 3 bedrooms and 1 bathroom.
The house where I was born was built by my father with great effort and love.
The house where I was born saw my grandfather cry when he used to tell us stories while he was at war. It also saw him die.
The house where I was born saw my birth and my departure. I grew up in three of its rooms, the last of them possibly still occupied by my cousin Luis and his wife Mary.


The house where I was born has a nice terrace where I used to kill imaginary space monsters, where I used to imagine crossing the mountains like a flying bird, where counting the stars with my mother was fun, and where night was day with my father.


The house where I was born is a set of bricks, cement and plaster that gave shelter to my parents, my sister and me. For a bank may be just clay, cement and plaster. For me there is a story in every corner, it’s a reminder to each step that was taken. It is a touch in each tile, a place where I find the people I love most in this world.

The house where I was born consists of four walls that do not say anything, but save everything at the same time.

Moonlit Wonder

I don’t remember the beginning of the evening that well. I just remember being hundreds of miles from home flying through the backwoods of New York (or perhaps New Jersey) in a crowded mini van with the low gas light blinking ominously at us and dark hills whizzing by the window pane. Every once in awhile I would see a deer poke its’ head out of the woods and then return to the safety of the leafy darkness. After a while, whether “a while” was defined as only a few minutes or a hundred years, we reached the ferry. You see, we were on a road trip spanning from Texas to Maine and we needed that ferry to cross a lake (although the lake’s name I can no longer recall) to get back to civilization. There was no other option. We either made the ferry or we spent the night foodless and hotel-less in a gloomy parking lot. Luckily we made it to the ferry 10 minutes before it headed off on its’ last trip of the evening. As we pulled up, the Capitan motioned us to drive aboard, park, and stretch our legs. Although it was a summer night, the air was chilly and I pulled on a sweatshirt to keep out the cold. My parents and my little brother and little sister went inside the glassed in cabin but I remained up on deck. As the ferry pushed off from shore, I went to the front of the boat and leaned up against the railing, gazing out across the water. The world was as it should be. Unlike the Dallas area, the place had no lighting pollution and when you looked up you could see the stars spinning and dancing though the night sky in perfect harmony. Over the course of the trip, even the moon decided to make an appearance, casting a silver light across the distant trees and turning the landscape into a place only seen in fairy tales. Every once in awhile a fish would jump out of the water and make ripples that spread spiraled out, creating a momentary disturbance in the lake’s glassy surface. The wind brushed cool and refreshing against my face and blew my long hair streaming out behind me. I think God creates such scenes to show off his handy work . He combines the moon and the stars and the lake and the gentle breeze to give us mere mortals a chance to be in awe. “Lord, why did you create such a beautiful world?” I silently prayed. And I could have sworn I heard the wind whisper “For you to enjoy.”

Back in the day when work wasn't work at all!

When you're younger, working in a fast food restaurant isn't really work at all...if you pick the right one, it was more of a social gathering! Sonic, for me, was that place. Two sides exist at a Sonic: the kitchen side and the fountain side.
On the kitchen side, where life isn't as fun, you have the crew dumping chicken strips and fries into the hot oil, the sound so loud you can barely hear the person yelling their order into the speaker. Burgers are always on the grill and the buns are constantly being buttered and toasted. Sometimes I wonder how I didn't gain 50lbs just by smelling the fresh fries and onion rings!
The fountain side--or up front, as we call it--contains the rest of us...laughing, gossipping, having a ball. Granted, we DO work- making cherry limeades, chocolate sundaes, orange slushies-we just work harder on our social lives! (Just a little side-note: We CAN hear what's going on in your car even when you don't push the button...oh and pushing that little button more than once really doesn't do anything!) Every now and then, your boss yells at you to be quiet, but even she is commenting on how cute the guy in car up front is, but how horrible of a tipper he tends to be. Life is great on the fountain side.
One place hides inbetween the two different sides...you might not notice it outside, but inside, everyone knows the sacred spot to get away from it all. A room separated from the smell of oil and the sound of our laughter exists. This room isn't separated by anything more than two walls-not even a door keeps out the crazy-yet the serenity of the stacks of cardboard boxes filled with stirofoam cups will surprise anyone who sets foot into a fast food restaurant during lunch rush. It's a place where a person can look around and ask themselves, "Do we REALLY need THIS much ketchup?" and you get a silent answer, "Yes...we do...". Suddenly, you snap out of your vision of people pouring ketchup down their throats and you realize, "Damn, I really need to go tell Kristen what happened earlier, she'll get a kick out of it!" You go back up front just in time to hear your boss tell you that 3 more cars just pulled in.
All you can hope is that they really don't want something to drink with that...you're story isn't finished.

Ivy and Grass

It seems like every summer has somewhat of a home base where everyone would rendezvous before the night’s activities, whatever they were. Sonic was our home base of our many different adventures. One particular weekend, one friend had heard of a haunted house further down the road. Haunted? No. Run down and creepy? This house had not been lived in for decades and it could barley be seen through the uncut grass and ivy. We wiggled through the boards in the windows to discover the vast inside of a once very nice house. Since then, the walls were decaying and the roof had been eating itself.
Random nothings were strewn about the interior including Polaroid photos and lawn furniture. As secretive as it looked, the house had been raided before perhaps by bored kids similar to us. The past visitors had tried to make the house as haunted as possible to frighten the likes of any one who came into the house. Disturbing messages written on the walls and the eerie photos were straight out of a horror film which ironically made it less scary. None the less, we were still unnerved and soon left the property. Not without stolen booty from the site of course. We returned to Sonic victorious. I sipped on cherry limeade while wearing a sombrero hat and lounging on a fold out chair, which were both found in the house. Others walked around with canes and glasses which were also excavated.
Last time I saw the haunted house, the ivy was tamed and the grass was cut to a respectable length.

My Family Legend

I remember late nights of hide-and-go-seek in the dark. The darkness always made it scary, and playing with scary older cousins didn't help any. I usually didn't get to play very long, just until my mom would call me from the porch and say it was too dark. I remember that cousins would sneak around in the shadow of a giant bush, their hands in the shapes of claws, while they whispered in a gruff voice: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

There is a legend behind that infamous quote, but I don't know the story well. It must have happened in the late 50's. My dad had been born, but was not old enough to leave his mother for very long. My aunts and uncles are in Alabama, far from their home in Missouri, at Mawmaw and Papa Freeman's house. I imagine my Great Grandmother (their Mawmaw) rocks slowly in her chair, intently shelling black-eyed peas, her hands stained purple. I imagine my aunts and uncles - five of them - are playing games and teasing each other. Then, through the open door, they see a shadow appear. The room is silent, and Mawmaw looks up from her work, wishing that the men were back from the store. Behind the screen door, the shadow speaks: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

My great aunt Evelyn always insisted that he said, "Hello, I'm Mr. Gardner. May I please come in?" This was just one problem with the family legend. No one could remember what happened. The story I get from my father is that Gardner, or Mr. Gardner, had evidently killed someone, accidentally or otherwise, and had come to use the phone to turn himself in. But the words he used were so perfect, so direct - a simple introduction, followed by a simple statement. Mr. Gardner himself has been lost to history - we don't really know who he was or what he did. But his words have become iconic - the words that will be used for an eternity as a stock phrase of midnight ghost stories: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

Blond, Beautiful and Dead

I think everyone in Arkansas heard about the news reporter from Little Rock, Anne Pressly. She was brutally attacked and murdered in October, according to police investigations and the media.

This story still gives my skin goose bumps and my stomach feels like it might just lose some of its contents.

I imagine myself in her place. Doing everything.
I want to be a news anchor, for CNN or, you know, some really big channel and network. Of course I know I’ll start locally and try to work my way up, that’s what happens, but when thinking of this murder, I see myself in her position behind the camera, smiling and reporting news, and then next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor of my large house, unconscious because someone decided to beat and kill me. My face, with bright shining eyes and a Miss America smile so well known to the local residents, now bloody, bruised, swollen and parts of it broken. And I’m dead.

“Vance was charged with capital murder in the death of Anne Pressly. The 26-year-old anchorwoman, who had a small part in the President George W. Bush biopic "W," died Oct. 25 -- five days after being severely beaten in what police described as a random attack at her home.”

A. Random. Attack.

The media is such a wonderful terrible thing. There is no such thing as having any feelings when one is reporting or writing the news. The news must be descriptive and catchy, if it’s not, you better write it over again. The media chooses what to report on, what not to report on, how often to report on something. And as horrible of a truth as it is, the story of beautiful blond reporter Anne Pressly, was news media gold.

I don’t think anyone ever really thinks about what they are reading when it comes to people who have died. Can you imagine a news article about yourself and included are the words “severely beaten” and “random attack”?

I can’t.

Yet I know one day I’ll have to sit in front of a camera and read these stories, ones about murders, rapes, beaten children and drug deals.

Everyone says the news is all bad, nothing good is ever reported. Not always true, but mostly true. I won’t lie. Do you know why? Because it grabs your attention, and a fucking report on the world’s smallest laptop or sweaters for your miniature chihuahua doesn’t grab your attention as much as a break-in at the local Best Buy or dog fighting that the guy living behind you just got arrested for.

We are sick and weird, the media knows this. And here I am, well aware of this, and what do I want to do? Be a part of it.