"The Bite of the Mango"

As human beings, we don’t take enough time from our “busy” schedules to learn about other people. We hold no desire to learn about where they come from, their experiences, or what they have lived through. We merely look at a person and judge them by what strikes our eyes, without looking beneath the surface to find something more. As people put on this earth not only for ourselves, but for others too, it is our responsibility to look beyond what just appears before us. We need to start looking beyond economic status, and race, and religion, and culture, and finally see that as Amanda Marshall sings, “Everybody’s got a story.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HixtKJyD40g

As a high school student, my school had the opportunity today to hear Mariatu Kamara and Susan McClelland, co-authors of the book entitled, The Bite of the Mango. A story told by Mariatu and her life experiences, written by Susan McClelland. When we first became aware that we were going to be listening to Mariatu’s story, I think many of my peers were interested in the fact that she is an amputee, missing both of her hands. However, the fact that Mariatu had no hands wasn’t really my concern. I was more interested in knowing how she came to be that way. My interest laid in the story of a woman who was fortunately given the opportunity to tell us, students of Canada, what her life was like during the Civil war in Sierra Leone. The fact that Mariatu is an amputee is a mere fragment of what she came to our school to talk to us about. Of course having no hands would be a challenge, and one that I never wish to face, nonetheless, Mariatu is forced to face even tougher things each and every day. The memories which she remembers on a regular basis, pose as an even tougher difficulty than the handicap that she has. With today’s technology, a limb can be fixed, or substituted for, but there is no fixing or substituting somebody’s childhood. The memories of torture, rape, and having to witness the deaths of friends and family are memories that will forever be engraved in her mind. Mariatu said that the most traumatic of them all, was witnessing her two best friends be locked inside a house, and burn to death. She lost her hands at the age of twelve. She lost her hands, “to the hands of rebels.” Despite all of this, and more I’m sure, Mariatu still has it somewhere within herself, to come and teach us valuable lessons. Ones that we hear constantly, but I don’t think many of us really think about. My very favourite part about Mariatu’s story was when she spoke about a question somebody had asked her. Someone had asked her if she was angry with God for taking away her hands. But she replied by saying, “maybe God took away my hands so I could touch the world with my heart.” That is exactly what Mariatu is doing every day, and that is why I am writing this piece. She was my inspiration today. Mariatu stresses the importance of not taking anything for granted. Most of us have two legs, two eyes, and two arms. Ten fingers and toes, functioning organs, and lastly, a voice. I hope that someday I will play the honourable role of Susan McClelland in becoming the voice of somebody like Mariatu Kamara. I am my own voice, and will continue to be. But I too, want to be the voice of those who sit patiently awaiting their story to be told. Maybe it can't be told because they don’t have the tools such as language to be able to do so, or the resources. But I have a pen, through which I will be that voice. I will instill in them, the power to tell their story. Instilling in them a voice, like Mariatu's, that will be heard.

Writers Block

Writers block is truly a tragedy; especially when the desire lies within oneself to write. I used to face this calamity - until today. Today’s class was one that really opened my eyes, opened my eyes “to the endless possibilities.” Carnovale told us to “just go out, and get some inspiration.” So, that is exactly what I did. He gave us a half hour to leave the class, and go out. But wherever it was we were going, we were asked to look, listen, and smell, all that was going on around us. I wasn’t sure where to go, but finally, the idea struck me to go into the girl’s washroom; a place where only girls are allowed. Where their secrets would be revealed and where they face their own calamity – themselves. Sure, I heard people using the washroom, toilets flushing, and stall doors opening and shutting. But I got to hear each girl who entered, and what she had to say about herself. The highlight of my washroom experience was a girl who was unhappy with her new haircut, “we experimented on my hair... I look like ******* Lady GaGa! I’m just gonna work with it.” It’s amazing how so many girls who are so different, have so much in common. Constantly in the mirror worried about what they look like to other people. When the only thing we should be worried about while at school, is school. Although, I can’t be one to point fingers; because I too, am that girl looking at herself in the mirror with dissatisfaction. This blog entry isn’t about that though. The moral of today’s lesson was simply about getting out and experiencing. Realizing that just listening or noticing things you wouldn’t normally think twice about, can provide a solid foundation to what could potentially become a short story, or maybe just a poem. Whether or not we choose to write about what we hear or experience, is one’s own choice. The point is, that the world is waiting for us to stop, and listen. The world is waiting for our stories.

almighty, Flying Man.

We are all captives of, the Flying Man. The all knowing, Flying Man. Don’t you ever doubt him – for he knows everything. He sees everything, feels everything. Sees your every flaw. And will forgive you not. He sees you approach her, looking at her up and down. She’s tall, slender, light hair, fair yet soft skin. She’s beautiful – but you don’t want her to be. You shouldn’t look at her like that. You have gone against the Flying Man’s wishes. You initiate the conversation while immersed in the deep blue eyes of the seductress. Wanting, wishing, craving her. All of her. You touch – he sees. You kiss – he sees. You touch some more – of course, he sees. A feeling comes over you, you stop. You leave. Leave the beautiful girl in confusion. Leave the memory behind. But it will never leave you, no. The guilt will hang above your head in everything you do. You will wear the shame as if it were your skin. We are all captives of, the Flying Man. The all knowing, Flying Man. It is the one thing we will always be bound to; regardless of the circumstances or consequences. Our conscience is one mere part of our minds, yet so very powerful; only ever defeated by truth itself. Don’t ever doubt him – the Flying man. You cannot escape him, for he knows everything – and will forgive you not.

tripod

Magic.

The art of supernatural powers.
A mere illusion.
Deceptive, false, misleading.
My magic isn’t David Copperfield, nor is it Criss Angel, or any Houdini.
My magic is a tripod.
Supporting, stabilizing, and creating my foundation.
Not just any tripod.
One with three heads and three pairs of legs.
Three people.
A mother, a daughter, and son.
Supporting, stabilizing, and creating each other’s foundation.
Without one, all power is lost.
No wand or black hat necessary.
No deceptions or illusions.
Simply the power of always being there for one another.
It’s magic in and of itself.
My magic, my tripod, undeniably true.

a memory that I cannot remember

I remember it all as if it were a movie. Fragments of a movie.

“Lights. Camera. Action.”

Scene one: At my best friend’s house getting ready for her birthday. It’s a cold night, the ground is covered with a blanket of snow, but we don’t care, were going downtown and were gonna look damn good. We leave our coats at home, and only remember the necessities: high heels, cell phone, and lip gloss, of course.


Scene two: Get onto the party bus and start heading downtown. A bottle of wine, some jagerbombs, and a little Rockstar vodka. I couldn’t forget to chug a half a water bottle of straight vodka though. No, can’t forget that.


Scene three: My vision starts to blur. Everyone is spinning. Everyone is having a good time.


Scene four: Things are getting really blurry now. I’m stumbling my way around the bus.


Scene five: I can hardly stand up now. What is going on? What have I done?


Scene six through twelve: I wish I could tell you this part. But I don’t quite know what happens. I don’t have a clue. I will never know.


Scene thirteen: Staring down at my hands. My hands covered in blood. Staring in confusion. Where is this blood coming from? My head?... What happened? Why is she asking me for my mom’s phone number? I’m getting really scared now.


Scene fourteen: At the hospital now. Moms finally here. She’ll make sure I’m okay. Were waiting in a white room. I’m nervous. What is going to happen?


Scene fifteen: Fifteen. The number of surgical staples that are used to repair the gaping hole that stretches across the crown of my head. My feet are wrapped, and I’m told I won’t be able to walk on them for two weeks. I have frostbite on both feet and knees.


Scene sixteen: My knees are bruised. So are my arms. So is my face. Everything is sore, and aching. My head is healing. The frostbite is worse. I would have to see a plastic surgeon in a couple days. To see if I would need skin grafts. I hope I get better soon. Why did I have to drink so much?


Scene seventeen: Seventeen. The number of years that I have been alive. The number of years I have been alive, and well. I’m getting better now. Thank God for that. Thank God I still have more years to live.




They say we fear the unknown. But I believe that the truth to what happened scenes six through twelve would be scarier than not knowing at all. January 28th, 2009, my life changed. My life was risked; all in a couple hours of just trying to “have fun.” Fun which ultimately led to the creation of a memory that I cannot remember.

a beautiful soul

She stands over her brother’s bed.

The bed he would die on.

She looks down at him...

Remembering all the beautiful times they shared.

She prays for him.

He can’t be strong anymore, God is calling.

She prays that by a miracle he will recuperate and return home.

Return to his family, where he belongs.

She doesn’t see his chest moving up and down anymore.

So she moves in closer to hear his breath.

But its absent.

She cries.

His heart and soul belong to God now.

He isn’t in pain anymore.

But this doesn’t take away from the hurt, it hurts more than anything.

It’s time to tell the rest of the family.

How is his mother going to handle the news?

Like any mother would, horrifically.

Everyone hurts.

Anyone who has ever known him.

Anyone who knows the family.

They just want him back.

Selfishness fills their hearts – God can’t have him yet, not now.

But he is gone.

He may not be on our earth, but he still lives with us.

Lives in our memories.

He lives in our hearts.

He lives through people.

Through his poetry.

Through his art.

Evelio Arturo Cardozo.

A man that wouldn’t dare hurt any soul.

We can’t be selfish or angry at God anymore.

God has taken him for a reason.

Taken a beautiful man to watch over his family and keep them safe.

He doesn’t suffer anymore.

He is not hurting.

He is smiling.

Smiling down at all of us.

He isn’t alone.

He’s found his father.

He’s found his brother.

They are together again.

All smiling.

All smiling down at us.

They are enjoying their time together someplace else.

A place called heaven.

A beautiful place.

May he rest, in peace.

a little girl

I still remember you know. I remember that day as if it were happening again this morning. I could re-enact you everything because I remember every detail of that day, the day you finally left us. It wasn’t a surprise though. But I really wish you would have left earlier. Because then, I probably wouldn’t remember this day. The day my life would change forever. It was an awfully beautiful Sunday morning. Beautiful because I was awaken to the sweet aroma of moms famous pancakes, yet so awful because we all knew today was the day you’d walk out on us forever. I don’t know how mom even had it in her to wake up and make pancakes after such a night. But that’s another poem. The night before was one of the worst fights I ever had to listen to. Instead of counting sheep I counted how many times my brother would beg you to stop. I wasn’t like most kids. I didn’t listen to lullabies; my “lullaby” was Mom crying, you screaming at the top of your lungs until you just couldn’t anymore. And to think, all I wanted to do was sleep; to drift to a place where none of this madness of my reality would haunt me. Maybe that was just too much to ask. But maybe not. I slipped into my footsie pyjamas and grabbed my favourite blanket, before heading downstairs. And there you were. Tall and handsome. Standing as strong as you always did. You already had your coat on, and sported a suitcase in each hand. All packed and ready to go. To escape your madness. Your madness that would ironically cause mine. You hugged your son, and kissed my forehead. Before walking out forever, you shot mom just one last look of disgust, and then you left. And that was it, it was the last time I ever saw you. No words were even spoken that day you left. Actually, we haven’t ever spoken of that day. Why? Because none of that ever happened in my childhood. No, my childhood was a beautiful one.

a true original

It's amazing how well you think you know somebody. You like them, so you get to know them a little more bit more. And before you know it, you’re spending every waking moment thinking about that person. You'd do anything for them, and only hope they'd do the same in return. But I guess you never really find out who that person is, what they really think of you, or the things they do when they aren’t with you. But this doesn’t matter; you continue this new experience, with some “bumps along the way,” while at the same time experiencing what some people consider, "the best feeling in the world." But along the ride you have a certain doubt about this person which lurks in the back of your mind. A feeling that just doesn't sit right. But, you just shrug it off considering you've fallen so hard. Soon enough you come to find out that that feeling, the one that just didn't sit right, was a reality. Under all those, "you're amazing," "you're beautiful," "I love you's" was really only lies, betrayal, and hurt. Not everything is what it seems. But it's not about mourning on the past or feeling sorry for yourself. What's important is learning from your experience and moving forward. Learning, and having better judgment for the next time around. Although you took one thing from me, you haven't taken the ME out of who I know I was then, am now, and who I aspire to be in the future. With that I can hold my head high, and move forward from here. So I guess that I wouldn't do "just anything" for you today, but I can say that I would never speak wrong of you, or judge for mistakes made. After all, we all do make them. Sure, they say people come and go in our lives, but it's those who are willing, and have the desire to stick around for a while who truly have an impact on who we are. It's those people who teach us valuable lessons.

So with that, I’ve come to realize...

how amazing it is, how well you think you know somebody. . .