A Piece for the Portfolio

        He simply stared at me. He had just come home from a long trip abroad and was standing in the doorway of the kitchen where I was pretending to eat cornflakes. They had gone soggy while I waited for him to come home. He hadn't even put his bags down before I sprung this information on him and he just stood there carrying them and staring at me. A steel ball slowly formed itself in the pit of my stomach and I felt like I was seconds away from throwing up bile into the sink behind me. My dread increased while I waited for a response or any small indication that he understood what I said to him. Usually so passionate about certain things, I expected a range of emotions to color his strong face and contort his features into something heartbreaking. But that didn't happen. He just stood there, staring at me. The clock on the wall to the left of his head made the only sounds. It's ticks seemed to keep time with the downbeat of my heart. I realized I hadn't been breathing when a dull ache started to form in my chest. I convinced myself to slowly exhale and then inhale. The cadence of my breathing joined the symphony of otherwise imperceptible sounds, the clock acting as metronome. And still he only stared.

       Fear, guilt, and embarrassment suffused my body with a heat radiating out from my scalp. I didn't deserve him and he damn sure didn't deserve what I kept putting him through. I moved toward him and stopped. He didn't budge. “David?” I asked. He twitched at the sound of my voice as it painfully invaded the silence, but he didn't respond. “David.” I persisted and took another step toward him. “I'm sorry, I'm scared, and I'm embarrassed. Can you please say something?”

“My um,” he started. He cleared his throat and tried again. “These bags are heavy.” he said very quietly. “I'm going to put them down.” He stood there for another beat before making his way to the bedroom we shared. I wondered if we still would after that day. When he left, I started to dump the congealed contents of the bowl and then I sat down at the table with my head in my hands. It wasn't long before I heard his voice behind me. “Where was he?”

       “What?”

       “Was he here? Was he in the living room? Did he eat here on this table? Did he watch tv in that chair?” he asked with growing intensity. His anger started to boil out, but by the time it reached his face it cooled into sadness and, what almost killed me to see again, betrayal. He paced the floor grinding his palms into his eyes. I put my head back in my hands praying that we would get through this again this time. But while I sat there, I couldn't even promise myself that it would be the last time. That was when the dam broke. Tears leaked from my eyes and snaked their way down my wrists before falling to the table and pooling at my elbows. “Why the fuck are you crying? I should be the one crying!” He shouted. When I looked at him, he had taken of his jacket, his tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up. A large vein protruded from his neck which had turned and ugly red and the color was crawling up his face. “I'm out trying to make a life for us and you're making a fool of me.” It almost sounded like he was pleading. “I have to walk around with this embarrassment and these pitying looks from my family while you go out cheating on me with Sean Lewis.” He emphasized his speech by ripping the microwave out of the wall and throwing it onto the floor. I had never been so terrified. “Where did you it? Answer me right now. Was it here?” I nodded. “Where?”I didn't respond. I looked away. “Where the fuck was he, Jason? The front room?” I shook my head. “The basement?”

       “No,” I whispered.

       “The bathroom?” I was silent. There was only place left that he hadn't mentioned. “I swear to God,” he muttered as the answer dawned on him. I could almost hear his heart breaking. “You guys were in that bedroom weren't you? You had sex in that bedroom with someone else even though that's the space that we made ours. Even though the memory of us there was still fresh in the sheets. But why should I have expected more from you? You spread your legs for him anytime he blows in your direction.” He made his way out of the kitchen and I tried to pull him back, but he just shook me off. He kept going straight out the front door. It was different this time, though. Almost like he wasn't coming back.

--

It still needs some revision, though. It has some unnatural dialogue

Part Three Explained

       I'm not sure if that piece is finished or not. It feels like it's missing something, but I don't know what. I don't know if I'm satisfied with it as a proper homage to Donovan's work or as a message to my friend...
       Don't get me wrong, though, I love it as a story. I don't usually write romances, so it's really good for a genre I'm not completely comfortable with. I just feel like I didn't hit the marks I wanted to. For instance, the last paragraph there is supposed to be repetition of when he first realized he'd be sitting with Harrison in class, but it kind of feels superfluous. I really want it to be there, but I don't know how to make it feel like it belongs there.
       Actually, though, upon reading it again, I think it does still have some of the innocence of Donovan's work. It's a bit more modern to keep up with the times (texting, facebook), but I think it's still there. There's still something missing, though lol
       Another good quality of it is the character development. I really like Harrison's character. He's surprisingly mature and confident for a high schooler. Especially for a partially closeted gay high schooler.And he's patient enough with Naldo to help him figure things out for himself, and he'd be friends with him either way, even if he would want him to eventually come around and be comfortable enough to go out with him regularly as a potential romantic couple. I don't think he would ever feel threatened by Naldo's uncertainty and I admire that about him. Also, I love his honesty and blatantness. He's not the type to beat around the bush and he's always forthcoming with his intentions. These are qualities that don't usually come about until you've been around the block a few times when you're older and are tired of playing around.
       I guess, though, I should stop talking about him like he's not a complete figment of my imagination, therefore can be perfect and it's unremarkable ha ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Conclusion?

In his Anatomy class, the tables had turned. He was scrambling to finish the assignment and Harrison was watching him. “Hot date last night?” Harrison asked.

Naldo smiled. “No. But I made one.” He looked at Harrison, then looked away. He finished the assignment. “Why is your homework done on time for once?”

“I, uh, couldn’t sleep last night. I got like three hours and I kept waking up throughout the night. Nerves, I guess.”

“Funny, I had the exact opposite effect.” There was a pause.

“So... Naldo’s an interesting name,” Harrison pointed out. Naldo could tell that Harrison was trying desperately to keep the conversation going. He decided to oblige.

“It’s not mine.” Harrison gave him a look that showed he was interested. “I just thought it sounded cool. So, everyone just started calling me that. My teachers don’t even mind that I put it on my papers.” He gestured to the name line of his assignment.

“So, what is your name?” Harrison asked. Naldo made a disgusted face before he answered.

He looked right at Harrison and said, “Dale.” Harrison considered this for a moment. Then a smile slowly invade his features. His eyes crinkled and then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Naldo looked around to see if anyone was starting and he tried to shush Harrison. When he looked back at him, he was doubled over with tears in his eyes. “Geez, remind me not to tell you anything else embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not that,” he said in between gasps. “It’s just Dale Daley has a nice ring to it.” He continued to chuckle until he finally settled down by the time the final bell rang.

At the end of the hour, they had some down time. “So,” Harrison asked. “You ready to be out, loud, and proud?”

“Oh. No, I don’t think so.” Naldo had just about come to terms with it internally. Coming out would be a whole other story.

“It’s so freeing, though,” Harrison persisted.

“Okay, how did you come out to your parents?” Harrison smiled a little.

“You wanna hear something ironic?” he asked Naldo.

“Sure.”

“My parents don’t know yet.” Naldo slowly turned to look at Harrison. A slow smile had already creeped onto his features. “I know, I know, Mr. Come-To-The-Dark-Side-It’s-Fun is not out to his parents. But it can be freeing to come out to other people, too.” Naldo considered that. He pulled Harrison closer to him and whispered in his ear.

“Um, I think I’m gay.” He stayed poised next to his ear for an extra beat, then pushed him back to sit upright in his chair. “You were right.” He looked up at Harrison and he was beaming. Then the bell rang to change classes.

Naldo prepared for another first date. He took an extra long shower, carefully brushed his teeth, and searched high and low for a clean pair of socks. He passed himself in a mirror and checked himself out in it. He was as ready as he would ever be for something like this. He got to the restaurant while managing to keep his breathing even and his sweat in his glands. He remembered this part well. He thought of all his first dates and this part where he had to search the room for his date. He searched the room looking for his new partner. It was a boy this time. Harrison Daley.

In-Class Assignment

Wednesday, February 13, 1909

I'm proud of my heritage. I was born on this island, and my parents were born on this island, and my grandparents were born on this island. My babouli (great-grandfather) was not born on this island. He came here from afar many years ago. Sometimes, when he's angry, he speaks in a funny language. It's almost like the language spoken by the men on the whaling boats, but it's different, too. I hate having to speak this new language. It's ugly. My mama still speaks to me in the creole, and I speak to my sister in the creole, but she doesn't understand it. She learned the expansionist language in school and refuses to learn the creole because they taught her to be afraid of it. My sister is a first generation. She was born a year after the law was put into place, so she doesn't know any better.

I have to speak the expansionist language when I am in public, but I still hate it. The older kids still speak the creole language, too, but not as much anymore. Once the school started making examples of kids, they kind of just stopped. Sometimes kids get suspended, if they're out, their parents might get fined. We only speak it with each other when we know for sure that we're alone. Since my sister and the other younger kids don't know the language at all, I'm afraid it's going to go away forever. I can't imagine never hearing my language again. Why do we have to switch over anyway? What are they trying to prove?

Explanation Part Two

       I guess I don't really know where this story is going. It's very loosely based on a story I once read called "I'll Get There, It Better Be Worth the Trip," written in 1969 about twelve-year-olds exploring their sexuality. The main character is still confused by the end and they never do more than kiss. It's very tame by today's standards but, when it was written, homosexuality was not written about, especially when preteens were the ones with the struggle.
       I want it to have that kind of innocence to it. With a climax that's just kind of a slow plateau. I'm not sure how to do it without being boring. "I'll Get There" is both very simple and entertaining. Obviously, this topic isn't as groundbreaking as it was 45 years ago, and my characters are a little older, but I'd like it to put a modern spin on  the same freshness of John Donovon's work.

More Meanderings

This was on Naldo’s mind all day. He didn’t know why he was so shocked, he had his suspicions. Admittedly, he’d gone through Harrison’s Facebook pictures, and they were just too carefree for a straight guy. He thought.

He went home that afternoon and turned on the drag race. He’d never seen an episode, and after a few minutes he knew why. That show was stupid. He turned the t.v. off and went to Facebook. Maybe that would give him the information he wanted. He logged on and searched for his profile. When he went to the information tab, his relationship status was single, but his “interested in” was missing. “Well, that got me a whole lot of nothing,” he muttered. He clicked the photos tab and saw a new one. When he clicked the thumbnail, he saw that it was Harrison at a party. He was off to the side laughing with some girl, but the focus of the picture was a group of guys surrounding what appeared to be a chick fight. He was, literally, the only guy not watching two girls rip the clothes off of each other. He has to be gay, Naldo thought. Unless that’s his girlfriend, another thought persisted. The uncertainty was irritating him. He went back to the information tab. His luck turned because he found Harrison’s cell number there. It’s not weird that I got this number. I mean, this is a public forum. He spent thirty minutes trying to think of what to send until he finally settled on a text asking about the Anatomy homework. After he explained who he was and how he got the number, they were able to have a real conversation.

So wyd, Naldo asked Harrison.

Drag Race Marathon, Harrison replied. Naldo wondered why every show was having a marathon. Do you ever watch that show? Harrison sent a new message without giving Naldo a chance to respond to the first.

I tried once, but it was stupid xP haha, he sent that message and was waiting for a reply when his brother Jeremy came in.

“Hey, Stonewall. Who are you texting?” Naldo’s brother Jeremy came in and snatched his phone. He tried to run away with it, but Naldo was too quick and clotheslined him.

“Stop calling me that.” He plucked his phone from Jeremy’s hands and stepped over his body to his room. When he closed his door, his phone vibrated again.

What?? Well, that’s fair I guess. it’s not for everyone xD

There’s that, plus my brother already calls me Stonewall. I’m not giving him anymore fuel.

Stonewall? That doesn’t offend you?

Why does he call you that? Are you gay? Naldo was taken aback. He didn’t know how to respond to such a bold question. “Are you gay?” it replayed in his head over and over. He’d never been asked that before. His brother had just assumed and he never offered any corrections. Sure, he had thoughts, but didn’t everybody? He just had to wait for the right girl to come along and make him forget about those thoughts. Right? He put his phone down and left the room. He got a glass of water to try to clear his head. He drank his water while thinking of ways to respond. He wanted Harrison to like him. He wanted that a lot. But how much did he want him to? He decided to go with honesty.

He went back to his room and picked up his phone. There was another message. Sorry. That came out wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be so brazen.

No, he replied. It’s fine. Um I don’t know about that question. I don’t have an answer. He waited for a reply.

He waited five minutes for a reply.

He waited ten minutes for a reply.

When twenty minutes rolled by and he regret the very day eighteen years ago that his parents procreated to make him, he got his reply.

Sorry about that. I didn’t know how to respond. Still don’t. Naldo waited for more to come. When it didn’t immediately, he started to type a reply but was interrupted. It’s cute the way you don’t know. I’d like to help you find out, though. If you want. Once again, Naldo’s mouth fell open. Now he was completely dumbstruck. What in the world did Harrison mean by that? He got up and started to pace around his room. His pulse quickened and he was having trouble breathing. Oh my god, he thought. I think I’m dying. What do heart attacks feel like? Okay, what are the facts? Harrison Daley just said that. But what does it mean! There’s only one way to find out. He went back to his bed and carefully sat. He read and reread the message. Then he typed his reply.

What do you mean by that? He sat back and waited.

Wanna know a secret? Harrison asked.

Sure.

I’m gay.

Okay.

Okay? Naldo wondered what he was supposed to say. What he was expected to say. He was just asked out. By a boy. He thought.

Okay I want to. I think.Had he really typed that? He was being controlled by someone else. he must have been.

Really?? I’m sorry if I shocked you. I just thought you were cute since freshman year and when you said that thing about being unsure, I thought that was my only opportunity. Naldo took a moment to be flattered by being admired from afar and having exceptional “gaydar”.

I am shocked. I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Naldo looked at his clock. It was almost five and he was exhausted. He went to bed, but stayed awake in it for at least another hour. He finally went to bed and didn’t wake up until his alarm rang the next morning.

Hubris v. Insecurity

       The paragraph on pages 56-57 of the Transformation really spoke to me. I have a weird thing in my psyche. The line
"They were not convinced that they deserved a job; but neither were they convinced that they did not deserve a job"
hit me the hardest. Going through high school and applying for college, I had both of these thoughts. I found myself in some middle ground where I felt that my grades weren't good enough to get into my top choice but, at the same time, I didn't think my grades were bad enough to not get accepted into that, or any other good school.
       My issues with assimilation are illustrated with the lines "One minute. . . they would say to themselves that there were so many idiots in this complex that they might as well be one . . . And the next minute they would think their work was good . . . at least decent enough . . . that they were as good as the idiots." It's easy to get through life being just as good as everyone else because you don't have to try to break out of the crowd or realize your full potential. It's easier because it could be painful to actually strive for something and then fall well short of it when you give 100%.
       And it's the same thing with my writing. When I write, and I finish a project, I think it's really good, the best thing I've written so far. But, as soon as I present it to someone else, I notice all of the imperfections that I hadn't before. "But then the next minute they would trip and look at their work with the clear eyes of disrespect, and they would notice the smallness of their ideas . . . " After I revise and everything, I go right back through the same struggle of whether it's good enough or not.

Some Explanation

       That piece started as a story for my friend. I had the idea rolling around in my head for a while, but never written it out. Anyway, my best friend is gay in a conservative household. He does get support from his family, but I just wanted to give him something that said I'm here for him, too.
       That's the way it started, at least. The direction the characters appear to be taking is moreso a reflection of my own feelings and insecurities about myself and relationship prospects. I find it very hard to stay true in writing from someone else's perspective. The problem with writing, I've found, is that you can only write what you know. And I only know myself. I know my best friend well, but I can't seem to shake the desire to put myself in my narratives. It's a downfall of mine. And a constraint I can never stick with. I can't tell if it's aversely affecting my writing or not, however.
       Should a piece of me be in every story? Or is it unhealthy to have this connection with all of my characters? I suppose it could be problematic further down the line if I am in every character like that. It's dishonest in a way. What if I come across a character I'm writing that has to do something I don't want to believe I would do? Would I change the story so that I could live with myself and have restful sleep? Or, would I use writing as a cathartic exercise to air out a few of my demons and allow those parts of me to live honestly in my stories?
       Either way, I don't see it being very healthy to my craft. If I only write about me, am I really growing as a writer?

Meandering

This is a story idea I've been playing around with for a little while.

--

There is not a more confusing time in a young boy’s life than his teen years. Or so Naldo would have you believe. Now, he wasn’t the most awkward teenager ever; he had a good personality and was able to have flowing conversations with others. He just didn’t like that he had to. He was perfectly content with being quiet all day, ignoring everyone around him. He couldn’t do that, though because then people would think he was weird, and as much as he would hate to admit it, he needed help with things from time to time. And no one wants to help the weird kid. You have to give to get. But he was still kind of awkward.

When the time came for a new seating chart, he would try to talk to his new tablemate , but she would be barely responsive, or it would go well for the first two minutes then lead to a long silence as the laughter died down and then they were forced to pretend to be really interested in last night’s homework. Then he would hate every minute of his life that he had to sit next to her.

On Tuesday morning, Naldo went into his Anatomy class to see a new seating chart projected onto the screen. “Great,” he muttered. He had just gotten into a comfortable rhythm with his last table mate. She would turn to the next table and talk rapidly to her best friend before the final bell while flipping her hair back, slapping Naldo in the face and irritating his eyes. When the final bell rang, they would quietly listen to lecture and then he would let her copy his assignments. That was their rhythm and he was okay with that. But now he had to start all over and he was not in the mood. He tried to decipher the chart even though it seemed physically impossible for that to be a visual representation of the same room. He eventually gave up and just looked around the room for his new partner. It was a boy this time. Harrison Daley.

Naldo kind of knew Harrison from around the school. He was nice, and had a lot of friends. His friends were mostly girls, so everyone thought he was a player. Naldo just thought it meant Harrison had some “left-leaning tendencies”. He didn’t know Harrison beyond that, and after closer inspection of him as he walked to his new table, he could tell that he wanted to. He changed his gait to more of a saunter and sat at his assigned seat. “Hello,” Joe said as Naldo sat. Naldo had his “gaydar” going at full operating potential. He had his suspicions about Harrison, but he had to be sure. (None of this made Naldo gay. He was just very interested in the sexuality of other boys his age.) He noticed that Harrison didn’t look up to greet him, so he figured that it was okay that he didn’t respond. He just sat next to him, calculating. Harrison was trying to finish the homework from last night. Had he been up all night watching a Sex and The City marathon, or had he just not felt like homework after a long night of banging his girlfriend? Did Sex and The City even still come on? How long would it really take for him to do some chick? Those were the thoughts that were going through Naldo’s head as he watched Harrison Daley and the final bell rang.

That is how it was for the next couple of days. They’d greet each other, Harrison would try to scramble to get the homework done, and Naldo would watch him, until the lecture started.

Finally, one Wednesday, Naldo asked, “Hot date last night?” Harrison gave Naldo a look that asked him to repeat himself. Naldo just pointed to the almost finished page.

“Oh,” Harrison looked at his homework and then chuckled. “No. I wish. I just wanted to eat, sleep, and watch t.v. when I got home,” Harrison explained. The Sex and the City theme started playing in Naldo’s head. Then the gears started to turn.

“Sex and the City marathon?” he wondered.

“Does that still come on?”

“I’m not sure,” Naldo answered truthfully. He decided that he was going about this whole thing in the wrong way. It doesn’t make you gay to watch Sex and the City. He’d seen his dad putting in discs from his mom’s collector’s edition DVD box set.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” Joe wondered which made Naldo remember that he was in the middle of a conversation. See? Awkward.

“Nothing. Just that I watch way too much t.v.” He was really starting to blur the lines.

“I have that same problem,” Harrison confessed. “My guilty pleasure is RuPaul’s Drag Race.” Naldo’s mouth fell open as Joe turned to finish his homework and the bell rang.

Poetry and I

        I hate poetry. I'm really bad at it, and I have no patience for it. When I start reading it, I stop almost immediately because I don't understand it. Sleeping With the Dictionary was no exception. Well, it was kind of an exception. I read All She Wrote and I thought this poetry book would be different. I really liked this one because I related to it on some level. When I am put into social situations (like all of life), I usually end up doing something weird. Or, in the case of teachers, I usually abuse their trust in my character by turning in assignments late or not at all. I try really hard not to, but it always happens. I'm not an awful person, so when I screw things up, I apologize for them. My apologies, however, usually come out sounding like excuses, and that's what this poem sounds like to me. It sounds like a lot of apologetic excuses. And I guess I relate to that because I'm a sorry excuse for a person. Ha.
        I thought I had good momentum after the next entry, but I hit a wall when I got to Any Lit. I hated it because I didn't understand why she thought it was a poem. I understood that the first part of the sentences started with a yoo sound because they started with the word "you"and the second parts started with an em sound because they started with the word "me." I suppose I understand its inclusion in retrospect. Ask Aden is my favorite because it was simple, I'm a simple girl, and it doesn't take much to entertain me. It reminded me of being a kid with a kind of wide-eyed wonder.
        The book lost me at Black Nikes. I got frustrated because after such smooth sailing, I didn't immediately understand this one. It didn't help that when I skipped it, I encountered Blah-Blah. And every entry after it seemed to have a more ambiguous meaning than the last. I put the book down and  I found out that she was an older lady. I tend to have more patience for older people because I respect their their experiences and hardships, and I think patience is the very least that they deserve. After reading the interview,with her, I picked the book back up, and I'm glad that I did because some were funny (Kamasutra Sutra), some hit home for ineffable reasons (Eurydice), and some were insightful (Exploring the Dark Continent). I think I"m better for reading these even though, for the most part, the meanings still elude me.

To Talk About Myself and Genre (x_x)

        I'm not exactly sure what to say about my writing. It's usually in the first person, though I've been forcing myself to use third person lately. I usually lean toward funny or romantic (or both) when writing stories. I only write short stories because I don't have the discipline or self-confidence to go any longer than that. I recently finished a short story entitled Almost There (after a groundbreaking 1969 novel titled I'll Get There, It Better Be Worth the Wait of which it's loosely based) that was surprisingly well-received. I'm being pushed to make that one longer, but I'm running into the aforementioned problems in my plight.

        I have enjoyed the Creative Writing program here so far. My last teacher was Aaron Burch and he was a great teacher. He had a laissez-faire approach to teaching this subject which was was great for me. I don't really think that this is a subject that can be micromanaged. He was open to suggestion and was easy to talk to and readily available. Those qualities were very helpful in a Creative Writing teacher.

        Genre, to me, is just the different categories pieces of writing go into. These categories can be defined by the topic or its similarity to other pieces of writing. Different genres like mystery or romance can easily be distinguished from each other because they don't cover the same topics or have enough similarity to be lumped together. The exact same thing should go for different genres such as poetry or prose, but there are certain types of poetry that read like prose (like epic poetry), so the lines are blurred there and it's not as distinguishable. (I didn't know there was a difference between genre fiction and literary fiction and I still don't understand the difference.)

        I honestly don't think I've had any experience with reading or writing transgenre or anything that falls outside of traditional genre categories. I don't read or write nearly as much as I used to and when I do, it's usually pretty conventional. I have no problems with reading outside of the box, I just haven't had many opportunities to do so. Like I said before, comedy and romance are usually what I write about in my works because that's really all that I have any experience in. I'm hoping that as I get older I can better write about other topics as I experience them.