What was the word for it? It ended in an “ia”, like every term describing something does. The term that describes a feeling. The feeling you get of understanding that when you’re on a bus, everyone on the bus has an imagination as vivid as yours, with a life as detailed and crazy (or not) as yours. There’s a word for it but I always seem to forget it when I need to remember it.  

What a conversation starter that would be.

Bright lights. Bright lights and white halls. Bright lights and white halls and white tiled floors. Prison. At least the walls were covered in colorful drawings done by what I assume to be the prisoners. Walking even further in, and taking a right, the walls changed color from white to orange. I don’t think it was a good idea to wear my bright neon green jumpsuit. I would surely get picked on and my stuff would get stolen. But that morning I was feeling confident, as if the world couldn’t touch me.

Funny enough, I didn’t have an escort so I felt a slight sense of freedom. But that small feeling quickly left, fleeting my grasp as I continued on through the hallway. I passed rooms full of the other inmates. The rooms seemed to be all the same, rows and tables of people, getting fed information. I was expected to report to one of these rooms pretty soon now.

As I neared the end of the hallway, I came across a small metal door. Opening the small metal door revealed a small room with a singular chair in it. In the chair sat a small man that resembled a leprechaun. A thought came to mind; that I should ask him where he keeps his pot of gold, but I quickly dismissed the idea because this could be a potential leader. I noticed the leprechaun man was wearing knee socks. I don’t think I was in any position to judge this man for what he wore. After all, I was wearing a neon green jumpsuit. What caused this man to wear those knee socks? There was a series of events that made him, after all. There must have been something crazy going on in his life. And there’s a word for what I’m realizing. What’s the word again...

Authors Note:

Our old house was small but it always fit us. Our living room was the main hub that everyone frequented and it was the main room before we entered and left.  As a family of four in a small South Philly row home, we were always together for the good and the bad. The good, playing house under the desk that my big sister rarely studied at. The okay, getting chased up the stairs and down the hallway when I broke one of my sister’s paper robot collections. And the bad, which were usually from my sister to my parents - now that I think of it. I remember specifically the first bad time I had in the house and it wasn’t because of me. I was young enough to understand but not old enough to fully understand.

This time, the TV was on but no one was watching. The TV volume was muted but it sounded like there was a fight scene happening. The voices were loud but familiar. Looking up, I saw my sister arms bent at her side and in an angry SuperWoman stance and my parents standing over her. They were fuming. I stood behind them, staring at my sister yelling back at my parents. She was nine and we never did that as kids. We don’t talk back to our parents like we need to enforce nine year old made rules. But I guess Ellen didn’t learn that yet. My parents said “well if you don’t like the rules, you can get out!” What?! Get out? I remember standing there, crying without even noticing at first. This girl is my only sister - how can they just tell her to get out? I felt the tears and the heavy breathing kick in and everything was muffled as the snot filled my nose and ears. I couldn’t make of the last thing they were yelling about but the next thing I knew was Ellen was getting picked up and I dropped our taling toy dragon.

As he hit the ground, he said “I love boisenberries,” but that didn’t stop them! That would have stopped me! My dad put her outside and watched her through the screen, door half cracked to isolate her. I remember crying even harder. They just threw away my sister! My only best friend. What was I going to do? I didn’t have the power to let her back in, right?  I paced around scared and started packing some food, clothes, and shoes. She was barefoot on the door mat! That’s not allowed. After packing, my five year old body pushed the door back to let her in. My parents were shocked. They're faces were focused on what I would do next so I let her in. I was a big girl making big moves for my big sister.

After she stayed outside of the house for a few minutes, I opened the door to let her in. We both started crying and hugging each other. We cherished every moment from there on. That was really a traumatic experience for a little kid to experience even though they were not the one in trouble but got to see. To this day, my parents have never done that again. When I look back, I see that this teaching moment brought us together.

  I slid the key into the door and turned it, hearing that reassuring click that meant it had been unlocked. A long and stressful day has once again brought me to the comfort of my warm and cozy home. However as I entered my house I wasn’t greeted by my mother in the usual cheerful way. There was an eerie mood inside, one I hadn’t felt often before. The Television was off, no Polish dramas were playing, and my mother wasn’t on the brown couch we’ve had since moving in. As I came into the dining room I could see my mom sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face. I had never seen her like this before, my mother was the strongest person I knew. She could barely hold onto the phone in her hand. My brother and I looked at each other. Grandpop is dead, he’s gone she said with a tremble in her voice. I dropped my bag which, I had been holding with one arm and immediately embraced her, my brother following forthwith. I could feel her tears hit the back of my neck.

       I hadn’t said anything, I didn’t know what to say. I remember feeling sadness, the purest form of it that had ever resided in me. I wanted to cry, I felt my eyes watering, but I couldn’t, not now. I knew I had to stay strong for her, as she had been for me in the past. He’s in a better place now mom, I told her, but it wouldn’t change anything. How did it happen I asked. He died in his sleep, she answered. Thank you, she said to my brother and I. I knew we hadn’t done much, there wasn’t anything we could do other then be there for her, but still there was so much gratitude in her eyes. My eyes watered again. I remember thinking what I would do if I ever lost her, how I could continue living knowing I’d never get to talk to her again. Do you want me to make you tea, I asked her. I had to distract myself. Yes, thank you Marcin, she answered and so I went to put water in the kettle. As I poured water in the brass kettle, I remembered doing the same back in Poland when I went to visit my grandparents, I remember what my grandpop had told me back then. One day when I won’t be on this Earth anymore, it will be your responsibility to help your mom for me he said. The first tear fell. It hit the kettle and slid down into the sink. I went to turn on the stove.

       I don’t like to remember this memory, as the loss of a loved one is never something pleasant to remind yourself of. It is easier to try and forget, but forgetting is not an option. Sharing this memory will force me to remember, I have to accept what has happened and honor my grandfather’s memory. The present I live in is one without my grandfather in it, all that’s left is his memory and legacy, unlike the memories I have of the past, a past with him in my life.

Authors Note:

Similar to the style of narration presented in the Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, in my reconstruction there is a past tense in which I narrate the memory, but there is also a present tense where I reflect upon it and I why it is important to me. In Offred’s narrative we see her describe the emotions she feels towards memories she shares with the readers. I chose to write about this topic because of how it has affected me emotionally and molded me into the person I am today. I saw this topic as very relatable, as we have all gone through something similar or will go through it one day.

I used to love to swim. I always feared drowning though. I used to swim at or great uncles lake house.

My twin sister, Marzia, loved the lake. She was taller, a dark olive skin tone and slender. You could never be able to tell that we were twins or that we were related at all. I was shorter than her, a little heavier and far fairer than she was. We were both thirteen. She had breasts and I didn’t. She wore bikinis and I wore one pieces.

Swimming at the lake meant seeing our relatives. My great uncle lived at this lake house. He was a quiet old man. Never married, wealthy and respected by everyone for his wealth. All I liked about him was the lake.

“How’s the water Jess?” my dad said

“It’s nice. I swear I could spend hours in there. Where can I get dried off?”

“Your sister getting dried off in the back so use Uncle Frank’s front bathroom.”

I went to the front bathroom and noticed the door didn’t close completely, it seemed broken. I closed it as far as I could and began to get undressed. The door creaked. Heavy footsteps hit the floor slowly and I struggled to pull the suit back up but before I could a cold hand went on my chest. It was my uncle. He grabbed at basically nothing. It was just fat on my chest and I didn’t say or do anything. He was behind me and I just stood there. Pool water still dripped off of me and for those 5 minutes, it felt like I couldn’t get a word out. Lighter footsteps could be heard from the other room and my uncle left quickly and went outside talking to my Father. My sister entered asking if I was hungry and she could tell something was wrong but didn’t ask. I never told anyone.  I didn’t know if I should tell anyone because I didn’t know if it was wrong. didn’t have what I thought men like him wanted to grab. Why couldn’t he have just grabbed my sister? Maybe someone would've cared.

_____________________________________________________________________

Author's note:

This event is based on my life and an event that took place a long time ago. The characters were obviously made up and the scenario is different slightly. I wanted to write a flashback like a memory from the main character that appears to be positive but turns dark towards the end reminiscent of Kesey’s writing of Chief’s flashbacks during the electrotherapy. The end of the memory is also quite like Chief’s long paragraph writing in Cuckoos Nest. The reason a picture of a lake house was chosen for the meaning it has in the story. The lake house was somewhere that was tranquil and meant a lot to the character because it meant that she could swim but now the lake house merely makes her feel like she’s drowning, hence why the second image is darkened.

"You're so well behaved." I felt like I've heard this so many times, I don't even realize these are even words any more. I was one of few black kids in my class that went to a mostly white school; all white teachers for the whole nine years.

That one sentence... In the first few months of second grade, I distinctly remember my parents having to talk to my teacher, not because of my grades or bad behavior. In fact, he was trying to make it seem that I was the worst student ever when... I wasn't. It seemed like he was poking at me to find something that he knew I'd snap about. Like the time we had indoor recess… or art class – I don't know. Whatever it was, I was always first in line to get a piece of paper and utensils for transcribing my imagination from brain to paper. But then that teacher, adamant to break me, told me that I would have to complete some writing sheet. Apparently, I missed that assignment –  but I just did it, while he stood over me for the whole ten minutes it took me to complete it, while everyone else got to draw and build towers and such. He asked me why I thought the answer was right for each problem where a word was misspelled or the punctuation was wrong. I answered "because we learned this in writing class." I handed him the completed sheet.

He snatched it out of my hand while staring intently over his glasses at me, smirking, and I felt nervous, like I'd done something wrong. He read over it about five times. He told me that I'd passed. About time you'd say that. It was the same sheet he gave us three days ago in writing class that I remembered doing!

"Darn," he must've thought. "Still didn't break." I never would. He probably realized this after winter break – he did a complete 180 flip, complimenting my hard work and my "great behavior." Still unaware of his motives, I just said thanks.

Of course, I later realized what he was doing this for, and why all of my teachers told me "you're so well behaved." Sure, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but, scratch the surface, and – surprise! Mostly white school – so seeing a black kid probably was shocking. Especially when that kid smashes the stereotype of "getting in trouble all of the time."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

For the most part, I tried to make this sound like the character were telling the story rather than it being written down. To an extent, I drew some inspiration from Margaret Atwood's writing style – specifically the voice and the character trying to remember what happened. For example, Atwood has Offred asking herself where she was or what she was doing. I did the same, where my character asked which class this situation took place. But for the most part, I wanted this to sound natural, partly to give it more dimension, but also because the basic setup of the story is personal.

Anna will never be able to erase this memory, kicking it aside like it doesn’t bother her is her best solution. She lives her everyday life being happy over walking throughout the streets, that makes her skin crawl and her head drop to look down at the floor. She says hi to strangers pretending like she isn’t terrified of anything happening to her. She wants to be better, she actually does want to be genuinely happy, she doesn’t understand why she can’t but she always hears in her head, “I forbid.”

She was 17 years old, she felt like she was going down the right path,

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I hope you go wherever I go” He said.

She was head over heels, she felt the happiest with him, they would spend the last 2 years of high school just being within each other’s comfort. Her family never supported her when it came to him, they didn’t trust him and believed that he was going to be a bad influence. Anna was enraged, she would come home every night and lock herself in her room, not feeling happy or safe under her family’s roof. She could never forget this conversation, little did she knew, it was going to be the conversation that changed her life forever.

“Hey Ann.” Her dad walks into her room.

“Hi.” Ann said, looking down at her phone.

“We need to talk about your friend.” He says.

“My boyfriend? The person I love?” Ann says, putting down her phone.

“Your friend. I forbid you from seeing him.”

Anna gets up. “You will not forbid me from doing anything.” In a matter of a few minutes, Anna had her important items packed and she was out the door to be with her supposed love of her life. She never looked back and never cried.

Five years have passed since that day, that one day, now she shuts down, she sits in a small apartment, the walls are stained yellow, she sits lonely on a short bed. She looks around and does not feel happy, her belongings don’t feel like home, nothing she has feels like home. She finally understands why she’s not happy, she tries so hard to cover up and hide the most life defining moment and denies all of her emotions.

“Forbid”

The one word that drove Anna over the edge, the stuffing of her suitcase in rage and force. Her footsteps heavy as she leaves her room forever, remembering how many nights she spent angry, despising everything her family stood for. She moved on and believed this was her only way to be happy, little did she know, her being afraid of her own thoughts costed her a life  that was not full of regret.

Author’s note:

In this reconstruction of memory, this was a story that highlights a memory that I have experienced and feel like a lot of teenagers have felt during one point in their lives. It’s hard to identify and stay in tune with the emotions, when anger takes over one person. This story is about a girl who regrets something she has done, but one wrong move and she goes wrong.  To convey this memory effectively I wanted to reveal the character’s emotions to the memory using Kesey’s technique on being super descriptive and using descriptive language to tie the character’s emotions with the scene of memory. As well as revealing the character’s relationship to this memory and its significance using Atwood’s technique by repeating a certain moment or word that’ll point to its significance.

An image represents Anna in a spherical ball with holes it in, the air is leaking out of the ball and she is holding her breath, to symbolize that reality is hitting her, this memory is still stuck in her head, it’s not her choice to forget, this memory is not allowing for her to forget. She tries to build up this strong force around her and the image shows pieces of tape just attempting to patch up the holes and the damage.