Vanessa slipped quietly out of bed, trying not to wake her mate, and hopped into the shower. She hummed softly and smiled as she shampooed her hair, excited about the day’s events. She’d been exhausting all her efforts on a project at work that would determine whether she gets a promotion that has been right out of arms reach since she moved to Arkansas a year ago. The past few months had been very stressful, but today was the final presentation and she was ready. Today is going to be a marvelous day.
After throwing on her robe and slippers, Vanessa entered her daughter’s bedroom and watched her breathing lightly in her sleep. She silently wondered to herself how she could have been so lucky to be blessed with such a beautiful and smart little girl. Amira was at the top of her classes and so very pleasant, all of the time. Intelligent beyond her years, Vanessa couldn’t have asked for a better child. Although she wasn’t Amira’s birth mother, she felt a connection to Amira as if she was her own and wouldn’t change the situation for anything in the world.
Vanessa decided to let her angel sleep a few more moments and went to the kitchen to start breakfast. Opening the refrigerator, she decided today was the perfect day for heart shaped pancakes topped with strawberry glaze and whipped cream, scrambled eggs with cheese and sausage links. It was a breakfast sure to make her daughter happy and that’s all she ever wanted to do.
Once breakfast was complete, Vanessa walked back into her daughter’s room and sat down next her. “Wake up, sleepy head.” Amira’s long lashes fluttered as she squinted to adjust her eyes to the sunlight streaming through her mini-blinds. She reached her arms up to her mother and gave her a big morning hug. “Good morning, Mommy V,” she said in a voice so cheerful you couldn’t believe she had just woken up. “I’m hungry!”
Amira swung her feet over the side of her bed and into her Barbie slippers. She stretched her long arms above her head and a huge smile spread across her face as she smelled the scent of breakfast drifting through the house and into her bedroom. She rushed off to the kitchen and started piling pancakes and eggs onto her plate. Vanessa was so amused at how independent the child was and often wondered how much her young eyes had seen in the many foster homes that had hosted her over the six years before Vanessa and Taylor had adopted her.
Amira’s father, Eddie Phillips, had lost his job just a short while after his wife had given birth to their daughter. He tried very hard to find work but he wasn’t able to financially support his growing family and he fell in with a bad crowd. When Amira was three, a known thug Eddie owed several thousand dollars to, demanded payment. When Eddie was unable to make good on the loans, both of her parents lost their lives but Amira’s life was spared. Neither of her parents had living relatives so she was put into the foster care system where she spent the next six years of her life traveling from one home to another. Vanessa always wondered how they treated her and whether or not they loved her. Amira never really spoke much about the previous homes, but sometimes, Vanessa sensed pain behind her gray eyes and prayed that all those awful memories were being replaced with the love and happiness that she and Taylor provided for her now.
Taylor popped into Amira’s room while Vanessa brushed their daughter’s thick curly hair and gave them big hugs before heading off to work. The morning commute was about an hour and after eating a large breakfast, Taylor was running a little behind and in a rush to get moving. Oh well, thought Vanessa, we shall all catch up at dinner. Maybe we should go out tonight to celebrate the end of my project and talk to Amira about having a brother or sister, Vanessa thought to herself. Oh, it was going to be a marvelous day!
Vanessa watched Amira climb aboard the bus and waved to her once she found a seat near the middle. As the bus pulled away, Vanessa sighed to herself and closed the front door of their beautiful home, a home purchased with the understanding of adopting at least two children to make it complete. She glanced around the room at the photos hanging carefully on the walls. Photos of both Vanessa and Taylor’s families and friends were displayed everywhere to remind them how much love they had received in their lives. All the affection their loved ones had given to them growing up served as a guide on how to give love to Amira.
“Vanessa!” Taylor had been calling to her girlfriend for a few minutes and finally was able to pull her out of the daydream. “Vanessa, we will find a way, I promise you, we will find a way.” Taylor gently guided Vanessa to lay the newspaper down, the evil newspaper that reinforced the reality of the Arkansas Unmarried Couples Adoption Ban of 2008. It just wasn’t fair, Vanessa thought to herself. She and Taylor would make the perfect parents. They both had great jobs, a loving home and were fully stable. They had been together for nine solid years yet, that was not enough. The citizens of Arkansas had passed the law declaring it illegal for unmarried couples to adopt and since same sex couples couldn’t be married, Vanessa and Taylor would not be able to adopt that beautiful girl temporarily living in the home of their neighbor.
Not only are babies, children and teenagers being denied permanent homes, laws are also denying two wonderful people the chance to raise children. With thousands of children across America waiting for someone to love them, why are citizens of Florida, Utah, Mississippi and now, Arkansas, choosing to keep these children from being adopted because the couple happens to be non-traditional? How many of those people who voted in favor of this proposition are going to open their home to little girls like Amira since they’ve now decided Vanessa and Taylor just aren’t worthy enough?
(This is was my Argumentative Essay for English Comp I. - I scored 146/150)
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Dad & Those Sad Eyes - Final
Sometimes, if I concentrate real hard, I can hear him talking. His thick Nigerian accent, hard to understand to others, was a joy to my ears; the years of living in America never took that away from him. Sometimes, if I stare at his photos, I can feel his presence, like the king he was, simple and strong, humble and forgiving, courageous and brave. Sometimes, when he meets me in my dreams, a blanket of comfort surrounds me and I’m at peace.
“Get up,” I was screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get up, get up, please, get up.” I couldn’t move closer; I couldn’t stop yelling; I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t do anything except yell at him to get up. Why aren’t you moving, why aren’t you listening, why aren’t you getting up? His left fist lay tightly clenched at his side and his Accu-Check Glucometer was near, his right fist lay clenched in his lap. His head was propped up by the lower kitchen shelf where pots and pans would normally be. He was so still, so silent, so stiff. I stood yelling at him in the doorway before I ran back into the living room and called my best friend.
I don’t quite know why I was screaming at him to get up. My brother had called me only minutes ago to let me know my uncle had come to visit with my dad and found him in his current state. I already knew what I was walking into but I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to go through this, I didn’t want to let go of my father. Sure, he had a defibulator put in about three years ago and lately he had been sick a few times in the previous months, and we’d spent a few days in and out of the hospital but that was nothing, right? Doctors give you medicine, you get better and life goes on.
This life wasn’t going on. Fifty-two and life for Chukwuma was already over. He would never see me graduate from college, he would never walk me down the aisle at my wedding, and he would never meet my first child. He was dead, dead, dead.
The blur of events that happened next involved sirens and tears, and strangers and more tears, my close friends and even more tears. I kept walking back into the kitchen and staring at my poor father and cursed God for taking him from me. This just wasn’t right. Why was this happening to my family and me?
Why me, God? I’m not ready to let him go. Please do something that rewinds time back to the last conversation I was having with my father. Just this past Monday, six days ago, I had called him while lying in bed because I wasn’t feeling well. I could always count on him calling me the next day to make sure I felt better; he called me Tuesday at work to make sure I was okay. I want to go back to then, I want to hear his voice. I want to hear Daddy…my Daddy. My poor, dead Daddy.
No, there is nothing you can do, quit asking! No, he’s not in a better place, stop lying to me. His pain is gone, whatever! All these things I had told people in the past to help them through grief, they were saying to me for the first time in my life and it was all a bunch of crap. Nothing anyone says can take away the pain of losing someone so dear to your heart. Just hug me, let me cry. Just sit there and hold my hand and listen to my babbling. Quit with the positive talk cause I don’t need it right now. I need you to tell me how evil God is and if you can’t tell me that, nothing else is going to matter.
Then, a funeral home that I did not call stole my father. Yes, stole him from the morgue and then refused to give him back without payment for services they had already done. Services done without consent, mind you. What the hell was going on here? My dad is dead, Mr. Calhoun stole him and now this man is disrespecting my entire family by telling us that my dad was poor and he just did us a favor. Indigent, that’s the word he kept using to describe my father, like he was nobody. His name is Chukwuma; he’s my Daddy, quit calling him Indigent! I can’t take this, I can’t breathe, get me out of here.
Tuesday morning, I woke up hoping this had all been a dream but the Obituary section of the Akron Beacon Journal caused me to have a panic attack. My words, I’m choking, I can’t think and I can’t speak. I just keep trying to make my friends understand what I’m feeling. They do. One of them leaves work to come hug me. Damn, this just isn’t fair. Can you just bring me back my dad? I’ll stop saying God is evil and tarnishing your name, I’ll have happiness again and all will be well with the world. Please? Please?
A few days later, I stand over a casket with a man who only slightly resembles the man whom I called my father. The resemblance is so small that I don’t even believe it’s him. I’m able to pretend through the calling hours that he is not my Daddy. I laugh, I give people hugs and they look at me with sad eyes. Why are you looking at me with those sad eyes? That isn’t my Daddy in there, its some other man. Quit staring at me with sympathy. Stop with the sad eyes, I don’t want to see anymore sad eyes.
It’s almost noon, time for the funeral to start. They tell me they are going to close the casket, forever. “Do you want to give your dad a goodbye kiss?” And then it hits me. I look around and see at all those sad eyes. My friends, my father’s friends, my siblings, my mother, my father’s neighbors, even his landlord were sitting there, and I had somehow floated through the last few days pretending I was living someone else’s life. This wasn’t a dream, I was about to say goodbye to Daddy.
The journey to the cemetery was almost fun. We put a CD of African beats and Reggae songs in the CD player and started talking about how much we loved my father’s music. I wish that ride had lasted longer; I still wasn’t ready to let go of Daddy.
As soon as the graveside services ended, I threw my body on my fathers gray casket. I screamed “Daddy,” over and over again until someone, I don’t remember who knelt down beside me and helped me to my feet. I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready to go, I needed more time. I needed my Daddy.
Sometimes, when I look through his photo albums, I see a young man in a new world who was just trying to have fun. Sometimes, if I let myself daydream, I can see visions of him smiling at me telling me everything is okay. Sometimes, if I allow myself to let go, I can forgive God and accept the fact that life must go on.
Today, that’s not how I feel. Today, I want to call my dad and tell him I’m not feeling well. Then I want him to call me at work tomorrow to make sure I’m better.
(This was my Personal Essay for English Comp I - I scored 46/50)
“Get up,” I was screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get up, get up, please, get up.” I couldn’t move closer; I couldn’t stop yelling; I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t do anything except yell at him to get up. Why aren’t you moving, why aren’t you listening, why aren’t you getting up? His left fist lay tightly clenched at his side and his Accu-Check Glucometer was near, his right fist lay clenched in his lap. His head was propped up by the lower kitchen shelf where pots and pans would normally be. He was so still, so silent, so stiff. I stood yelling at him in the doorway before I ran back into the living room and called my best friend.
I don’t quite know why I was screaming at him to get up. My brother had called me only minutes ago to let me know my uncle had come to visit with my dad and found him in his current state. I already knew what I was walking into but I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to go through this, I didn’t want to let go of my father. Sure, he had a defibulator put in about three years ago and lately he had been sick a few times in the previous months, and we’d spent a few days in and out of the hospital but that was nothing, right? Doctors give you medicine, you get better and life goes on.
This life wasn’t going on. Fifty-two and life for Chukwuma was already over. He would never see me graduate from college, he would never walk me down the aisle at my wedding, and he would never meet my first child. He was dead, dead, dead.
The blur of events that happened next involved sirens and tears, and strangers and more tears, my close friends and even more tears. I kept walking back into the kitchen and staring at my poor father and cursed God for taking him from me. This just wasn’t right. Why was this happening to my family and me?
Why me, God? I’m not ready to let him go. Please do something that rewinds time back to the last conversation I was having with my father. Just this past Monday, six days ago, I had called him while lying in bed because I wasn’t feeling well. I could always count on him calling me the next day to make sure I felt better; he called me Tuesday at work to make sure I was okay. I want to go back to then, I want to hear his voice. I want to hear Daddy…my Daddy. My poor, dead Daddy.
No, there is nothing you can do, quit asking! No, he’s not in a better place, stop lying to me. His pain is gone, whatever! All these things I had told people in the past to help them through grief, they were saying to me for the first time in my life and it was all a bunch of crap. Nothing anyone says can take away the pain of losing someone so dear to your heart. Just hug me, let me cry. Just sit there and hold my hand and listen to my babbling. Quit with the positive talk cause I don’t need it right now. I need you to tell me how evil God is and if you can’t tell me that, nothing else is going to matter.
Then, a funeral home that I did not call stole my father. Yes, stole him from the morgue and then refused to give him back without payment for services they had already done. Services done without consent, mind you. What the hell was going on here? My dad is dead, Mr. Calhoun stole him and now this man is disrespecting my entire family by telling us that my dad was poor and he just did us a favor. Indigent, that’s the word he kept using to describe my father, like he was nobody. His name is Chukwuma; he’s my Daddy, quit calling him Indigent! I can’t take this, I can’t breathe, get me out of here.
Tuesday morning, I woke up hoping this had all been a dream but the Obituary section of the Akron Beacon Journal caused me to have a panic attack. My words, I’m choking, I can’t think and I can’t speak. I just keep trying to make my friends understand what I’m feeling. They do. One of them leaves work to come hug me. Damn, this just isn’t fair. Can you just bring me back my dad? I’ll stop saying God is evil and tarnishing your name, I’ll have happiness again and all will be well with the world. Please? Please?
A few days later, I stand over a casket with a man who only slightly resembles the man whom I called my father. The resemblance is so small that I don’t even believe it’s him. I’m able to pretend through the calling hours that he is not my Daddy. I laugh, I give people hugs and they look at me with sad eyes. Why are you looking at me with those sad eyes? That isn’t my Daddy in there, its some other man. Quit staring at me with sympathy. Stop with the sad eyes, I don’t want to see anymore sad eyes.
It’s almost noon, time for the funeral to start. They tell me they are going to close the casket, forever. “Do you want to give your dad a goodbye kiss?” And then it hits me. I look around and see at all those sad eyes. My friends, my father’s friends, my siblings, my mother, my father’s neighbors, even his landlord were sitting there, and I had somehow floated through the last few days pretending I was living someone else’s life. This wasn’t a dream, I was about to say goodbye to Daddy.
The journey to the cemetery was almost fun. We put a CD of African beats and Reggae songs in the CD player and started talking about how much we loved my father’s music. I wish that ride had lasted longer; I still wasn’t ready to let go of Daddy.
As soon as the graveside services ended, I threw my body on my fathers gray casket. I screamed “Daddy,” over and over again until someone, I don’t remember who knelt down beside me and helped me to my feet. I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready to go, I needed more time. I needed my Daddy.
Sometimes, when I look through his photo albums, I see a young man in a new world who was just trying to have fun. Sometimes, if I let myself daydream, I can see visions of him smiling at me telling me everything is okay. Sometimes, if I allow myself to let go, I can forgive God and accept the fact that life must go on.
Today, that’s not how I feel. Today, I want to call my dad and tell him I’m not feeling well. Then I want him to call me at work tomorrow to make sure I’m better.
(This was my Personal Essay for English Comp I - I scored 46/50)
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