The Day
I am not certain what day it was, but on this day my life changed. I walked into my first period class at 8:05 a.m. As usual I was five minutes late. I sat down trying not to call attention to myself. I opened Tuesdays with Morrie, the book I had been reading for the past few weeks. Soon I became distracted by my thoughts of my friend Tegan. She was on vacation in Virginia. I imagined Tegan with her short black hair hanging barely over her soft hazel eyes, sitting in front of her Apple laptop watching an anime show called Sailor Moon.
Soon sunlight peeked through the windows and illuminated the room. Classmates who sat near me started to whine.
“The light is too bright, I hate it,” they said in annoying, high-pitched voices that irritated me.
To pass the time I began writing about my sorrow and depression. Every few minutes I looked around the light blue room, listening to my classmates’ pencils and pens as they glided along their pages. I thought about what they were thinking and how they felt. I wondered if any of my classmates could see how engulfed in sadness I was.
Near the end of the class period, Mr. Danziger stood strong and confident at his tan colored podium and spoke to the class. My mind drifted off to another world as he began to speak. I stared at the tree outside the classroom window. I pondered how easy it must be to be a tree—all it has to do is consume water, sunlight and nutrients. A tree’s life is simple; it grows and dies. I envied the tree.
When I stopped daydreaming, my attention fell upon my classmates. They were smiling, chatting with one another as they were collecting their belongings and getting ready to leave class. Mr. Danziger’s deep voice broke my attention.
“Anthony, talk to me after class,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. What would he want to talk to me about, I wondered? I turned my work in on time.
The bell rang, alerting students to go to second period. I stood and walked a few steps and stood beside Mr. Danziger.
I am not certain of his exact words, but he said something like, “Your essay was good. You’re a great writer. Next semester come to class more.” He held out his hand for me to shake.
“Thank you,” I said in a quiet voice. I gripped his hand. I could feel his smooth, warm palm against my own.
At that moment I felt stunned, filled with disbelief. I have always believed I was nothing special and no one actually noticed me. But at that moment I felt different. For the first time I didn’t feel like an outcast. I felt as if I actually had something special to offer the world.
Shaking Mr. Danziger’s hand filled me with gratitude, an empowering feeling that made me feel like I could accomplish anything as long as I put my mind, heart and soul into it.
Ordinary Night
I sat at my kitchen table late one Sunday night. I was typing my final chapter for an essay for U.S. History. The house was silent just as I like it when I’m writing. My thoughts and ideas were flowing freely onto paper without much difficulty.
The house phone rang loud enough for all to hear. I didn’t move a muscle for I thought my sister or grandmother would answer the phone since they were nearer. I suddenly felt a horrid feeling. I stood and walked to the phone, not wanting to make much noise. When I picked up the receiver’s cold exterior sent a strange sensation down my spine.
“Hello,” I said in a curious voice.
“Anthony, it’s grandmamma,” she spoke in a slow, soft voice.
She had never called at such a late hour just talk, and I wondered what was wrong.
“You may want to sit. What I’m about to say is probably going to hurt.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your Uncle Danny passed away this morning,” she said in a shaky, raspy voice.
I dropped the phone, placed my head in my hands. I tasted the saltiness of my tears.
“Anthony, Anthony, are you there?” she asked.
I slowly picked up the phone, barely able to place it against my ear. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said and hung up before I could hear her response.
I sat with my head in my hands for maybe an hour or two. I don’t remember. I cried and cried. I could not believe my uncle was gone. I would never lay eyes on him again. When I forced myself to stand, I walked to my room in darkness, unable to see the path that lay before me. Once in my room I plopped onto my bed.
When my eyes closed, all I could see was Danny’s handsome face. His caramel skin tone, soft, light brown eyes and shaggy black hair. His smile and eyes taking me back to all the fond memories we shared. They raced through my mind like a movie.
I remember when I was about five years old. He would take me to a small liquor store with whitewashed walls and old rusted bars on all the windows. I was able to get anything I wanted. I felt special and engulfed in pleasure every time he chose me out of all my cousins who begged him to take them to the store.
Whenever I was feeling sad, he would buy me a box of “Pop Pop Poppers,” small bundles of rocks that contain silver fulminate. They made a loud popping noise when thrown against the ground. We would throw handfuls of them, laughing together.
He taught me to live in the moment. What matters most is what is happening in this moment. I shouldn’t worry about yesterday because that was past. Tomorrow is a mystery, and you can always improve yesterday. I live my life as if today is my last. I put one hundred percent into any task I embark upon. I exceed every possibility before I ask for help because I hate to give up. When I do, I feel as if I am giving up on myself.
The Call
I was 16,2345 days old when I answered my grandmother’s telephone. The cold exterior of the telephone sent a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the night breeze, just like the nights my father and I would sit outside of my grandmother’s house banging beats on the stone steps. It has been a long time since we have.
“Hello, who is this?” I said.
I looked down at my faded red shoes, dug in my toe, and kicked out some cereal left on the dining room floor.
“Would you accept a collect call from Eric Cortez?”
Are you joking? Arrested! I thought.
“No.” I could hear a faint voice behind the machine’s message, my father’s voice.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” my father, calling from Corcoran State Prison. I slammed down the telephone.
My father’s been in and out of prison my whole life. He spent more time inside a prison than he has with me. Sadly, I have grown accustomed to a father-less lifestyle.
Once off the telephone I sat down on my grandmother’s gray juice-stained couch, rested my head against the armrest and thought, “Is this really happening?” He promised he was done. He promised her. He promised he wouldn’t do this again.
I had spoken to my father the previous night. We sat outside talking about the basics—school, sports and girls. But I had to ask the question that had been hanging over my head for so long. In a small raspy voice, throat dry as the Sierra Desert, I asked, “Dad, are you out of the gang for good?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Well, that’s my little sister inside, and I’ve grown up without a father. So did you, so you should know how much a child needs a father. You’ve left two children practically fatherless. So quit the damn gang and give your daughter the father I never had. This is your last shot to do right.”
He turned to me, eyes glossy, head down, cheeks wet with tears. “Yes,” he said.
“Good.” I actually believed him. “Wow, please something, someone, watch over my father.” We went back inside.
I walked into my baby sister’s room. She lay on her pink blanket drinking her bottle. I lay next to her. She didn’t move or cry. I turned my head toward the beautiful two-year-old.
“Dad’s in jail again, so he’s not going to be around much. I know you don’t understand what I’m saying, but I hope you know this. I will always be here for you, no matter what the cost, no matter how big the fight. I love you.”
When a father disappears, life reappears.
