Madame Holdsworth

I first met her in August of 1991. I was the epitome of puberty. It was my first day of junior high. Central Junior High: the school where racially motivated fights were more common than pep rallies; the school where thirteen-year-olds huffed paint in the bathrooms and on the bus; the school with a constant police presence eight years before Columbine. According to legend, the seventh graders were thrown over the balcony if they stepped out of line. I was 12 and dead shy.

I walked into the classroom and sat at the empty table in the corner. She stood by the chalkboard looking the students up and down as they filed in. The bell rang and she started calling role. “Let me know if you have a nickname,” she said. She would call Robert, and even though I went by Bobby, Robert would have to do. I would not correct her. I could not. I was stiff with a twisted gut.

“Robert?” I raised my hand and she looked over. She kept looking… and looking. Why wasn’t she looking for the next name to call? I looked away. I didn’t know else what to do. She put her spiral book and pen down and walked over to my corner.

“Robert, what do you have in your mouth?” Six days prior I had 4 teeth pulled in preparation for braces; “We have to make room in your mouth,” said the orthodontist. “Nothing, Ms. Holdsworth.” I wasn’t lying. My cheeks were swollen, but I didn’t want to tell her why. Not with all those nosey faces listening and studying. “Go to the bathroom and spit out whatever it is that you have stuffed in your cheeks.” “I really don’t have anything in my mouth. I swear.”

My face was hot. She ordered me out of the classroom. Finally I could tell her the truth. I did, but she wouldn’t believe me. “I know you have a dip in your mouth, now go spit it out!”

It was the first time I had a good look at her. Her face was thin and scarred. Her hair was sparse, frayed black wire. Shiny braces covered a mouth of twisted teeth. Her frail body limped along on skinny legs, one of them in a cast. She was a witch.

As I found out years later, she had been hit by a car while riding her bike through the streets of Paris early that summer. The impact sent her into a coma. Somehow she recovered enough to teach a few art and French classes that fall. She knew the students at that school and, considering her physical appearance, must have prepared for the worst: name calling, mockery – and chewing tobacco. I hated her. I knew she had used me to prove how tough she was and I hated her for it. I didn’t know about her accident and I didn’t care. I hated her guts. I wanted to stuff her in my cheeks and spit her out all over the dirty hallway floor.

The next year I wanted to take a French class but knew she was the only teacher. Against my better judgment, I signed up for the class. As it turned out, her wicked ways had lessened—almost ceased. Her hair filled out and softened. Her teeth had found their homes and lost their gleaming friends. The scars on her face had faded, revealing a soft, almost sweet smile. And best of all, I was invisible. I enjoyed complete anonymity while conjugating verbs. I was free to practice the front rounded tense vowel. We didn’t have to give her our nicknames the first day of class. We were assigned French names. I was the French Robert, pronounced “row-bear.” I don’t think she remembered my swollen cheeks, which helped me forget—so I slowly, and silently forgave her. My secret pardon. “Je vous pardonne.”

When I started high school Ms. Holdsworth transferred to the same school. They needed an art teacher and she accepted the position, presumably to get away from the tensions of Central. I took her class all three years. It was sometime during those years that I learned about her accident. I also heard that she had gone through a divorce the same year.

It made me think about the lives people live. I thought about the different turns people make and the places those turns lead—and how they stack up like an airplane hanger full of boxes, overflowing with mounds of paperwork. It’s impossible to wade through all the pages and understand them. They belong to someone else. They were built on experiences only one person can understand—miles and miles of tiny flashes, moments that make up someone’s life. Maybe those flashes were flooded with scenes of Paris in the summer, slowly peddling through the parks and streets. Maybe she stopped to buy a small framed painting from a street artist. Then on to the bakery for some fresh bread and herbs. She was going to make a beautiful dinner.

Indigestion

Before I even stepped in line for food, the sandwich man’s glossy black eyes climbed all over me. I pretended I didn’t see him, but I could still feel his gaze clinging to me, like a cloud of thirsty mosquitoes.

“Dude, I’m so sick of him,” I whispered to my roommate Paulie.

“Huh? Sick of who?” he asked.

“Sandwich Man!” I said in his ear. “He’s fuckin’ creepy. Don’t you think he’s a little creepy?”

“Sorta. I guess,” said Paulie. “You should just leave the poor guy alone.”

“Hey, fuck you. He’s the one checking me out every night.”

“Of course he is. Everyone wants to jump in your pants.” Paulie shook his head and walked to the soda machine. “Hey, save my spot, ok?

“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t plan on it. Two weeks earlier, when I told my roommate that the employee who operated the sandwich bar had been staring at me for a couple weeks, he called me a “homophobic conspiracy theorist.” But it didn’t matter. Sandwich Man, as I had so aptly dubbed him, was a predator posing as a friendly sub artist in my college cafeteria.

I could tell from the mayonnaise and mustard stains on his black apron that he was a dirty person. And his plastic gloves were always covered in fresh ketchup, making him look like a sadistic surgeon/scientist who experimented with scalpels on duct-taped victims. The most obvious expressions of his deviance, however, were his eyes. Black and bulbous, they were gentle like an infant’s, but nervous like an abused animal’s. And he licked his lips when he made the boys’ sandwiches. Licked them with his pale tongue.

As my turn for food came, I tightened my jaw muscles to make my face look hard.

“Hello! What can I put on your sandwich today?” asked the Sandwich Man, his eyes twinkling like dead stars.

“Uh, give me some roast beef, salami, ham and—”

“Hold on, hold on! I can only go so fast!” He laughed.

“Ok.” I took a deep breath. He was stalling, prolonging my visit to the sandwich bar.

“Roast beef and what else, buddy?” he asked slowly.

“Salami and ham.” As he was putting the meats on the scale, I noticed that my portion seemed extra large.

“Ok. Well, I got all the meat. Now what else did you want?” He had definitely given me twice as much meat as I normally got.

“I think you gave me too much meat.”

Showing a pair of sharp incisors, he smiled, leaned across the glass counter and said quietly, “There’s no such thing.” Then he winked. I don’t know what he was expecting in response. Maybe he thought I’d give a return wink, a smile of complicity, a giggle or two, a pat on the back? Instead, he got two millimeters of pure ice when my eyes narrowed to slits.

“You know what,” I said, “just keep the damn sandwich.”

Just then, Paulie came back sipping on his Dr. Pepper. “So, did you save my spot?” he asked. When he saw the glaciers in my eyes, he knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter, dude?”

“Nothing. You can have my sandwich. I’ll see you back at the dorm.”

I walked fast, but the smell of extra roast beef, salami, and ham followed me all the way back to my room.

Grandmother Grace

“If she heard you call her 'grandma' she would probably burst into tears,” my mom says matter-of-factly. “You know that right?”

The two of us are running errands in my hometown and my mom replies as so after I question the well-being of her mother. After my granddad Bill suffered a severe heart-attack a few weeks before, my grandmother, who usually possesses the composure of Cinderella’s fairy god-mother, has been troublingly frantic. With her desperate midnight calls, sobs pouring into the receiver, I cannot help but think of all the things that make my grandmother so special to me, so magical.

My grandmother—never grandma--Grace is, without question, the oddest yet most loving person I have ever come into contact with. My earliest remembrance of her involves the elaborate tales she would tell my sisters and I about the boyish mouse Herkimer who lived under her staircase. Whenever a glass of milk was spilled at the dinner table or one of her ornate, glass birds would turn up with a broken wing—she would wipe away our tears and simply explain that perhaps Herkimer was thirsty or that Herkimer must have been playing ball in the house with his brothers and sisters. My aunt Nancy, the third of my grandparents’ four daughters, has been taking care of her parents for the last few weeks through my grandfather’s recovery. The day before I left home, my mother and I exploded into laugher as my aunt relayed to us that when she confronted my grandmother Grace about some cheese that had been left out over-night, my grandmother burst into tears, saying she had left it out for Herkimer’s son, Cheddar.

Other than her fantastical tales of Herkimer the mouse, I admire my grandmother Grace's overwhelming sense of appreciation for the seemingly insignificant aspects of life. Just the tone of her “Heellooo?!” each time we step inside the same four walls my mom grew up in excites within me such a sense of belonging. She always flies into our arms, adoring our faces with modest-pink-lipstick kisses, exclaiming “How WONDERFUL” it is that we have arrived in her home.

A beige-colored sheet of construction paper on which my sister and I created wax art when we were six and eight still adorns her wall of pride-- newspaper clippings and crayon scribbled papers surrounding her vanity mirror. She once told me how much she admired my “beautiful cursive handwriting” and sure enough, the next time I passed her vanity, she had cut out my signature from the bottom of a letter I had written her and had taped it to her wall.

Even as a child, I remember watching her regard the simplest moments of her life with absolute delight and a constantly thankful spirit. Every gift she received, every compliment, was so extraordinary, so wonderful. Throughout my childhood, I witnessed her unending forgiveness and her insistence to “Never let the sun go down on your anger,” her stead-fast faith in God, always pouring over us with prayers and bible verses and the unwavering love she had for us, just in the way her eyes sparkled as we fell into her arms.

---

A True Friend Stabs You in the Front

I’m not one to judge people at first glance; I tend to give everyone a fair chance and allow them to prove themselves. However, I do have gut feelings that I so often ignore.

Nikki and I met at a party three and a half years ago, shortly after I had ended a long-term relationship. I needed a pal and we instantly clicked; as it turned out, we had a lot in common. Our mothers were in the same profession, we were in our relationships for the same amount of time and bore the same scars, hung out with the same crowd, liked the same music, even had the same taste in guys.

We made plans for that coming weekend to hear our favorite local band at a bar. I had not been out of my cage long and I had a lot of partying to get out of my system. A fifth of vodka, a half-gallon of orange juice, getting sick, passing out, and her leaving me would take care of this. She still swears to this day that she looked for me. Apparently she forgot to check in the restroom. This should have been the final straw but I just did not see it.

Then I met Nick. He liked all the things that I liked and was generally nice, which was something that I was not used to. He was the rebound. We hung out for a very brief moment and decided that I was not over the first guy, so we parted ways. Nikki obviously felt the need to pick up where I left off and soon began dating Nick. I was hurt, but hid it well. Come to find out she dated Nick to get back at his best friend whom she had been secretly sleeping with for the past two years that called it quits. All at my expense, like I would understand that she had to do this to make the other person mad. Ultimately, I forgave her. After all, Nick and I just dated for only a week or two. In addition, she said that we shouldn’t let a guy come in between our friendship. She should have said GUYS because she tried to pull this stunt on more than one occasion.

That’s when I had had it the first time. I received a phone call from a mutual friend of ours. She started with the small talk, like they all do, and gently dropped the bomb. “She said what?” That was it. I called Nikki and told her that I needed my jacket and space heater from her house and I would pick it up on my way home. She wanted to know what was wrong, I politely told her to grow a friggin’ brain, and figure out what was wrong. I told her that I knew what she had been doing behind my back and I didn’t appreciate it. She then said that I wasn’t getting my belongings until I told her who told me. Frankly that was none of here business. It didn’t matter who told me, it mattered what she said. My friend Candace and I decided to nip this in the bud. We trekked to her house that rainy Friday. The agreement was for her to leave my belongings on the steps so it’d be a clean break. Drive up, get my things, drive off…wrong. We arrive only to find that my things are not on the steps. So, we walk in and she starts at me.

Nikki: Who told you what I said?

Me: I didn’t come to talk I came to get my stuff…where is it?

Nikki: You’re not getting a damn thing until you tell me who told you!

Me: I just want my stuff.

Meanwhile, Candace walked to Nikki’s bedroom and retrieved my space heater and jacket. When she came back to where we were, we start to leave. We get to the door only to discover that my electric space heater is dripping with URINE. Hell breaks loose and it came to blows. Months later, she apologizes and says that one of the people there did it. They were drunk and thought it would be funny if when I plugged in my heater it made my room smell like pee. Hilarious.

It doesn’t stop there either. During this past year’s turkey hunting season, she had the nerve to ask me if my boyfriend would take her hunting with him. I told her that he already had a hunting partner.

To this very day I am still dealing with her spreading rumors, engaging in gossip about me, and lying about it all. I should have listened to Candace, my mom, my sister, Bill, and myself about that girl. Nevertheless, I saw it coming…every single bit of it. After all, a true friend stabs you in the front.

Laugh Every Day

I walk out into the sun of a summer day. I am twelve years old. My hair is in a ponytail and I am going to help my daddy build a pitching board for my little brother. He lets me use the hammer and teaches my how to use a tape measure. We laugh when he warns me to be careful with the nails and then promptly whacks his thumb with a hammer. He stands up and I see just how tall he is. At six foot three inches tall he looks to me like the giant from “Jack and the Beanstalk”. He has a woolly face and when he hugs me it tickles so much I have to giggle. He is sweaty from head to toe and smells like a mixture of fresh cut wood and Gain laundry detergent. All of my friends think my daddy is handsome and all of my boyfriends think he is scarier than Rambo on steroids. He kisses my mom everyday like they are still kids in high school and tells my brother and me that he loves us when we go to bed. My daddy is perfect.

That was eight years ago and only a few days before my dad had his accident.

He was hunting with my brother and fell off of the back of his truck, hitting his neck and injuring his spinal cord. He was declared dead three times. My world stopped. I felt like I was the one dying. Today my father is paralyzed and only has limited use of his hands, but he is alive. My family changed and we are still adapting.

The only good thing about the accident is seeing my dad come through it all. He came through the injury, the recovery, and the emotional trials to adapt to his new life. He went from being the strongest man I knew to having to have his food cut up for him. One day he was racing with me and my brother in our backyard the next he was learning to drive a motorized wheelchair. My dad was perfect and he isn’t perfect anymore - his body isn’t anyway. But he is still the best dad I have ever imagined.

Dad still sings every morning, mainly off key and always song he has made up. Sometimes I have to beg him to stop because our dog is howling at him and my dad is drowning out the dog. He laughs more than anyone I know and laughs with his whole body. It starts in his mouth and throat and spreads until his whole body is engaged in a laughter that he cannot contain. He is a trustee in our church. He even taught my brother to pitch from his wheelchair. He takes pride in my academics and in my brother being a college pitcher. He still kisses my mom every day. He always says, “Laugh every day and always say 'I love you'.”

I never leave my dad or anyone I love without reminding them how I feel, because I may not get another chance.

My Best Friend

My first year of college was a big change for me; I’d never been away from home. Although it was exciting, I had to adapt to unfamiliar surroundings and take on more responsibility. But I didn’t realize how these things could become too overwhelming for me. It was the worst week of my life. I was struggling in a my classes; I never had difficulty with school before. For some reason I was homesick and an absolute wreck. I found myself daydreaming about old friends and how easy life was in high school. I’d picture tasty home cooked meals; no comparison to the questionable casseroles at Wagoner. My boyfriend and I also were having huge problems, which just added to the mix of distress.

I dragged myself to the school mailbox to look for any real mail. While looking through the stacks of credit card applications I came across one from my mom. Anxiously, I opened it and it was a funny card about keeping my head up. Inside she wrote a long note about how hectic life can be and she was always there. The card also included a twenty dollar bill, telling me to treat myself to a real dinner. It made my day—no, my whole month. I had barely even talked to her that week due to the stress and agony of schoolwork. Somehow she just knew I was having a rough time. From that moment on, I went about my week with optimism and faith.

My mom does these reassuring things all the time. It is a daily routine for her to brighten my days. Daily I receive a phone call from her to see how my day was. She always remembers when I have an exam, project, or even meetings, and I always hear the supportive words “You’ll do great! Don’t stress yourself out.” If I do have a major problem—and I have them frequently—she reacts like Superman to a Lois Lane kidnapping. When I overdrafted on my checking account, I frantically called her not knowing what to do. Rather than being angry and frustrated at me, she calmly straightened everything out. I dodged a huge panic attack (and a fine). My brother gives her a lot of practice with handling random chaos, but she always helps in the most caring and patient way possible.

Not only does she take care of things well at home, she is an incredible worker. Most people assume legal secretaries don’t have a demanding job; well she does. The first time I visited her office, I met her boss who is a much respected attorney in Cary.

“We are so glad to finally have your mom with us!”

I had no idea her former boss had begged her to stay, despite his personality of road kill. She refused an increase in pay and did what she felt was right. Obviously, her hard work was well known, and in demand. I’ve always been proud of her determination and proficiency, but it was refreshing to know others noticed as well.

With such a busy schedule between home and work, it amazes me how she keeps a social life. Her friendships mean enough to her to find the time. Every few weeks you can find her and five other lively women at Olive Garden, spending most of the meal laughing rather than eating. Every Sunday, you can find her in Dunn visiting my grandma. She makes a point to do this, regardless of how long her list of errands is. Whenever I go home, we do at least one thing together. Shopping is a talent of hers, and she teaches me how to spot sales from miles away. Before I leave, she asks about thirty times if I want anything out of the pantry—which I usually do. I curiously watch as she puts together delicious plates of leftovers from the nights before.

"Mom, are you already fixing lunch for tomorrow?"

"No, these are for you. I won't let you eat Lean Cuisines all week!"

My mom is remarkable, all around. I measure myself to her in all aspects of my life. It is not just one area she goes above and beyond for; she is the greatest wife, mother, daughter, worker, and friend anyone could hope for. Caring is something she does naturally, without hesitation. She is my best friend, and I just hope if I have a daughter she looks at me the way I see her.

A little longer than a few weeks

My stay was only supposed to last a few weeks that day that my mom dropped me off at my aunt and uncle’s house when I was 4-years old.

Armed with just my Ninja Turtles overnight bag and a few toys, my life was transplanted from a dingy, brick apartment building near downtown Durham to a suburban split-level.

It was a different world away from my old, blood-smeared front door where a man had lost his life in a drug deal gone-bad just a few months before. The pile of broken bricks near the center of the courtyard were more than just crumbled clay -- the brick cemetery buried hopes and dreams. The empty expressions on the faces of the single mothers hinted at the desperation of their lives.

The inhabitants of the lifeless buildings were all once bright eyed 4-year olds at some point, with dreams bigger than the tall oak tree that sat in the middle of all the buildings. Now, they toiled about in low-income housing with their only hopes being to one day get off welfare and praying for their children to end up better than them.

When I arrived, my aunt and I grew close quickly, but it took longer for my uncle an me to build a bond -- I wasn’t used to having a male figure in the house. As the few weeks grew into years, my uncle Bob became my greatest friend in the world. Every evening, it would be me and him sitting in the recliner, watching Inspector Gadget with a plate of cheese and crackers never too far away.

I spent my afternoons playing football or basketball with all of the neighborhood kids, without the worries of being pushed off the court by older kids. Many days were spent swimming in my backyard pool or decked out in camoflage playing capture the flag in the woods. There were no more sirens at my new home.

As I grew older, our bond grew stronger and I began to realize why I was so captivated by my new dad. I could see him go out of his way to make a pan of cornbread for someone or spending his last dollar on lunch of his work crew.

He made sacrifices on the larger scale, too. When I first moved in, he was 52-years old and nearing an early retirement. He had just bought my mom a Porsche (which was later traded for a Toyota van) and their only daughter had just graduated from college. Instead of spending weeks on the road renovating hotels up north, he was working around town. He no longer had to deal with the pressure of raising a child and making sure there was food on the table.

That all changed the day I moved into his house and he again signed up for at least 18 years of service -- monetarily, mentally and physically. On top of having to pick up more work in the anticipation of one day sending me to college, he now had to figure out how to raise a little boy during the years he was planning on spending time with my aunt on vacations. He had to drag his tired, worn down body out into the yard and toss the baseball with me.

He did all of those things, without complaint.

More than anything though, he believed in me. When I told him that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be a sports reporter, he got angry at me. He knew that if I did anything else, I wasn’t following my heart. There were so many times he convinced me that I could do things that I knew I couldn’t, but had to try anyway so that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

When I moved to college, I found an emptiness that couldn’t ever be filled. He would call me at random times during the day, just to tell me he loved me or tell me about his day at work. It was great to hear his voice, but those midnight conversations on the back porch could never be replaced.

Bob had the choice of whether or not he wanted to be my dad, and he took the opportunity and put everything he had left into it. Only because he gave up his early retirement in exchange for 10-hour days am I able to sit at this laptop and write this. Without him, there’s a strong likelihood that I would have never made it to college. I wouldn’t know what a sunset looks like over the San Francisco Bay and I wouldn’t understand what it is to love someone so much you’d give up anything you had so they wouldn’t feel an ounce of pain.

My stay in his house lasted about 14 years longer than two weeks and I wouldn't have had it any other way. He tried to make a beautiful thing of my crumbling bricks.

Baby Mountain

Growing up surrounded by different personalities has made me realize how much my mother has affected my life, and those around. I may not be sure why these diverse personalities in my family led me to understand my mother better. But one theory I can try to use; is that I am able to connect the insightful guidance she has instilled into each of my siblings, even though our personalities pass through all extremes: the daddies’ girl, the neurotic do gooder, and the hell raising local twin sports stars. Because of this nurturing ability and others, I can see her better than I can see myself. I can see the many ways she has helped people throughout her life. The society she grew up in has benefited from her kindness since the day she was born. Volunteering in organizations such as; Red Cross, local hospitals, PTA, school programs (volunteer teaching, helping disabled children). Beyond the accolades she is simply my mother, and a point from which I can always reflect.

She grew up in the rolling green hills of the historic Delaware Brandywine Valley. A place where all four seasons spend their respected months before passing on its climactic duty to the next.

Filling her childhood days playing with her best friend and Sister Jamie, who was only a few years younger. On more than one occasion they would conjure up different adventures offered by their surroundings.

After moving from their first house, located close to an interstate, and into the “Meadows”, the two would become adventurous. The "Meadows" was a more inviting habitat for a group of children.

She was close to them all, but mainly, her Sister Jamie.

While exploring their unfamiliar surroundings the two came across a mountain, or just a really big hill. In their imaginative eyes was to be coined and recognized as Baby Mountain. A hill that would guide them to see the woods below and a small incessant creek flowing halfway around the bottom before disappearing into a thorn bush. A mountain that would teach her mind how to recognize the beauty of visualizing new perspectives. A retreat for when the days stress wore out on her, or life interjected more harshly then expected. She could lie at the hilltop and fill her journal with and about the day’s offerings, a place she would explore the realm of love with her first childhood crush, or confide in after JFKs death. Even though she would not fully be able to explain the death of a National Icon, she understood her mother was upset and that was enough. She could explore.

A home away from home. She would later recall, “The Baby Mountain hill had the burden of listening, unexpectedly and without much of a choice. But after all, it was only a hill.” This was a special place, it would nurture her young mind the way she has fostered many individuals, including myself.

It’s hard to tell how much she had grown and matured during her decade long run with the piece of earth, but I’m sure this hill had trouble grasping some of the most significant childhood babbling during the mid 20th century. However, as the 'hill' had listened to her, she listens to me. As the 'hill' served as a reflection point through trying or triumphant times; I reflect likewise, through her.

Right Time Right Place

My hero hasn’t changed since the last hero/villain assignment we had. It’s my friend Becky. I met Becky this past summer just after my year long stay in England. She manages to keep high spirits even thought her husband is in Iraq. I, too, am in a long-distance relationship. She is someone that I look to for inspiration on how to deal with loving someone so far away. My boyfriend in England isn’t in a way putting his life on the line and I know exactly where he is and I can visit him when I can. But she cannot do these things. She handles it so well it makes me feel like I can handle anything. I met her right when I had returned from England and I was having such a hard time dealing with being without my boyfriend, but with her I laugh, have 3 hour phone conversations, and go out together.

Recently her husband got to visit her for two weeks out the year and as she watched other couples around her in Jacksonville, where they live, fall apart, they stayed together with no problems. Every once in a while Becky will tell of yet another married couple that lives around her area that has split. I can't imagine what that must be like to have relationships around you fall apart so much at a time when she has to keep so strong. Her "Keep on Truckin" attitude is an amazing attribute that is hard to find these days. She won't be able to see her husband for another five months, possibly seven now. But I know that when I visit my boyfriend in England she won't be jealous or mad about it, she'll be happy for me.

Just tonight we are going to go out with some of our friends and dance the night away downtown. I know we’ll end up talking about my boyfriend and her husband but instead of conversations with tears and complaining, it will be conversations of laughter and reminiscing. With friends like Becky, it’s hard to imagine the life I would have led if I had returned to America with no one to talk to about life, love, and what makes us laugh.

Keeping It Really Real At 45

My friend and hometown neighbor David Verhaagen is my hero, because he is the most well rounded and interesting person I have ever met. From appearance alone you would not guess that he is intelligent and has a sense of humor, because often times he has a stern and distant look. He has a scar under his left eye which streaks across his face almost to his ear. The first time you ask him about the scar, he will not tell you how he got it and will claim that he will never tell anyone, including his wife, until the day he dies. However if you ask him more than once, on another occasion, then he will make up an elaborate lie, that you will probably believe until you overhear another completely different and ridiculous story coming from the mouths of neighborhood kids.

Dave is the richest person in our neighborhood. He has a 3 story house, with a flower garden in the front yard, a pool in the back, an old school mustang, and tons of weird gadgets which he loves showing off. For example, he has a boat which has a glass bottom, night vision goggles, a massage recliner, a pool table with blood red felt, a set of Atari video games, and a large snack vending machine in his basement which he teaches kids how to scam. It only works on this one kind of snack machine, but they are still in circulation so it comes in handy sometimes. If you press the letter, and then press coin return, and put your money back in and press the corresponding number, then it gives you the snack and doesn’t take your money; you can either get another snack, or get your money back.

Twice a year he hosts a barbeque in the cul-de-sac at the very end of the neighborhood where his house is, and he invites everyone from the neighborhood and then some. He does it for the “candy holidays,” which is what he calls Halloween and Easter. On Halloween there’s a haunted house in his garage, and on Easter there’s an egg hunt. Anyone who can guess everything that is in the “brains” while blindfolded gets a jar of bloody teeth (different colored candy corns), and whoever collects the most Easter eggs gets a giant chocolate bunny. I’m usually one of the only ones between 16 and 30 who attends, but it’s worth it because I rarely get to hang out with him and I like catching up. Dave is cool to talk to because he gives great advice that is never condescending, knows a lot about new music, is a classic rock encyclopedia, and he also has over 1500 DVD’s in his collection.

Dave is a psychologist at Southeast Psychological Services, and aside from case study reports, he also writes novels on the side. Although he has never published anything, he has written three fiction novels. I admire him because I would like to write novels someday, but do not know if I want to do that as my sole profession. Also, he is a complete Halo addict/expert and a pathetically dorky Star Wars enthusiast. He made the paper one year for dressing up as Darth Vader for the opening night of Star Wars III, and there is a quote from Dr. Verhaagen about the impact of Star Wars on film culture. I guess Dave is my hero because he is such a movie and video game nerd, who has strange obsessions that most other adults cannot relate to, and yet somehow he is respected and loved by everyone. Dave’s life is the kind I would like to have when I am middle aged, and his situation is how I picture the American dream: a rewarding job, a large house, tons of money, many friends, and a hot wife. That and I think he’s happy.

You asked me to write about a hero?

When I think of the word hero, I think of how generic that is nowadays. I think of the lack of real people that I hear of being called hero, and how many other people truly deserve that title.

Hero? I do think of my dad, when I think of the word hero. I think of the years that he put food on my table, and clothes on my back. I think of the support that he has given me all through the years. I think about my mom and all the mornings that she got up to cook me breakfast without ever being thanked or even asked to. I think about my grandpa and how many nights he spent in a tent in Germany fighting in a war that I didn't thank him for. But what about everyone else? What about everyone else's mom and dad? Whatever happened to real meaning of a hero.

A hero should be every man that wakes up early in the morning to earn an honest day's wage. He's that butcher who lives on the corner in an Irish neighborhood, and gives old lady O'Connell a free roast because she's a little short this week. He's that man who works in the ship yard, and fixes the hulls of boats that he will never ride. A hero is a man who wakes up at 5 in the morning to go to a factory, to build automobiles he can never afford. He's that man who puts on a bulletproof vest and straps on a gun to protect our streets. He stands tall on the fact that his happiness comes from seeing his family grow. He stands on his ability to do his job properly, whatever it is. This hero has the audaciousness to get up every morning and go to a job that he is not appreciated for. Sure there are retirement parties, and Labor Day...but truly what thanks does he get for his deeds?

Women are heroes too. Women do a lot of things, that men can't. Women do a lot of things that men wouldn't do if they could. Women bear our children. They rear them in the best way that they know how. She comes home from work, and begins a second job. She cooks supper for her family, and doesn't complain at all. She starts a load of clothes at the same time she puts the roast in the oven. Her husband comes home and unstraps his gun. He changes out of his uniform, and the look of hurt is in his eyes. She listens as he tells her of the terrible things that he has seen that day. She tears up, but remains strong...like a rock...for her husband to vent on. She finishes the laundry, loads the dishes in the dishwasher, and puts her kids to bed. She lays down in the bed with her husband, who has helped around the kitchen that night. He's fast asleep, and she follows quickly behind, only to realize that she has to wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

These men and women are working class heroes. There are more like them. They are shadows. They live behind and in the world. They may not stand out, or even have their names in lights but they are heroes. I don't know their names. I don't know where they live. All I know is that when they strap their shoes on, just like me, they go out into a world who doesn't appreciate the job that they do. They build our buildings, birth our children, run our stores, protect our streets, cooks our meals, wipes our asses when we're babies, and a million other things but we don't think of them when we think of a hero. I did get the idea for this essay by a Beatle's song; but I will admit that but my purpose is genuine. "A working class hero 'is' something to be." Its something to be proud of. This working class is the definition of a hero: "a man (or woman) of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his (or her) brave deeds and noble qualities".

My Hero

“Christina Joy Borowiec! You get yourself down here this minute, young lady!” screeched my mom one afternoon. I was in trouble for forgetting to make my bed. Oops. At the time I could never understand why my mom made big deals out of trivial things. I mean, it is just a bed that later you have to sleep in again so what is the point of making it? I did not realize that in every situation whether it be making your bed or having family time, my mom was lovingly preparing her children with qualities we need later on in life. Looking back now, I realize what a hero my mom truly was.

My mom has had eleven children. Some of us are in college but the younger siblings still live at home. She has always put us first. She home schooled the majority of us until middle school. I remember going on trips to the park and the zoo. My mom would prepare a picnic with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, cookies, and juice. We would get to pet the goats and rabbits in the petting zoo and play on the playgrounds they always had. Later on when my parents divorced, my mom had to work two jobs to support us. I don’t know how she found time to spend with us but she did. We would have family nights every Friday night. She would buy ice-cream and we would all gather around and watch a Disney movie.

As I made my way into high school, I started running. My mom was always my biggest supporter. She and my siblings would surprise me with good luck cards and goody bags before my races. I started having my friends over on weekends. My mom would have a table full of chips and salsa, brownies, ribbon Jell-O, homemade cookies, and soda for us. She would spend her time in the kitchen just for my friends and me. During my first college years, my mom would do my wash for me. I started working two jobs and would come home late at night. In the refrigerator, there would be a plate of food with a note that said,” Hope you had a good day. I love you.”

What makes my mom so special is that she willingly gives and blesses everyone around her. She makes it her goal to serve others and not herself. She would surprise people with homemade meals. She would mow our pregnant neighbor’s yard. We would all make the elderly in nursing homes cards and puzzles for their walls. My mom spent more of her time thinking about others then she did on herself. I don’t even live close to her but I find myself calling her if I ever need advice. She is the first one to give a listening ear and not to judge. My mom has impacted my life in such a way that I hope one day I can strive to be the kind of person she is. But I am only one person. If she has blessed me so much I can only imagine what she has done for others.

You So Nasty...

Spending the summer in New York City last year was an experience from heaven with the devil as my sidekick. I began my excursion with an acquaintance from work; we'll call her Nasty Mac. Nasty Mac and I decided to save money by taking a train to New York. Smart idea until we wound up in the station for well over 20 hours, waiting on a delayed train. During those first few hours, I had a bad feeling about her. We didn't know each other well, but I figured a two-month-long trip into the greatest city in the world would be worth it. We had many mutual friends and I started out admiring her free-spirited attitude and honest opinions on the world. She seemed like a cool hippie without the drugs and patchouli oil.

As we waited on the train, she opened my suitcase and took out my bottle of champagne that I was planning on opening upon our arrival into the city. After gently taking the bottle from her hands and telling her my plans for the bottle, she ripped it back with her claws and popped the cork with her teeth, proclaiming "If I have to be stuck in a train station in Fayettenam I sure as hell ain't gonna be sober." Upon that classy remark, I took a deep breath and filled a paper cone cup with the bubbly. If Nasty Mac was going to crack my bottle, I wasn't going to let her drink it without me.

The first week in New York City, I came home one afternoon to find Nasty Mac wrapped in my quilt, naked. I had known she hadn't showered for a few days--she liked that greasy, dirty, "I don't care" look. When I walked into the apartment and saw her wrapped in my favorite quilt given to me by my grandmother, I gagged and asked how her day was. Upon later inspection, her hair, her greasy and stinking hair, had actually left an oil mark on my quilt. It was revolting and it was then that I knew she was a devil.

The next day found me rummaging through my suitcase, which had mysteriously been nearly emptied. All except for a pair of dirty underwear wrapped in a shirt. The shirt was mine. The underwear were not. My weak stomach got the best of my and sent me gagging all the way to the bathroom.

Nasty Mac was disgusting. I once saw her eat her lunch while she was using the toilet. I saw this because the door was wide open, of course. I learned she was an atheist and hated everyone and everything. She hated sports but loved to argue about them with me. She was disgusted by peanut butter but ate half of my jar with her fingers. She showered once a week and when she did, she used my razor and soap, even going as far as to leave hair all over it. She picked her nose, walking down the street in Manhattan.

On average, I gagged three times a day due to Nasty Mac. My weak stomach was no match for her and I think she knew it. She was a loner and enjoyed having the place to herself. I think she knew that if she made me gag, I would leave. So that's how my trip went. I would wake to find her dirty naked body sprawled on the sofa, gag and be on my way. When I would get home from lunch, I would find Nasty Mac wrist deep in the toilet fishing for my toothbrush. Gagging ensued and I would be out the door before I even ask why. Night was no different. I would eat dinner out, and come home to find her biting off her toenails in a skirt with no underwear on. Gag. Gag. GAG.

Eventually, my vacation with dirty Satan ended and I moved back to Wilmington, thankfully alone. My stomach never did recover from Nasty Mac. I haven't spoken to her since.

Johnny Should Have Come Marching Home Again

My tears flowed as I looked down at perfect bone structure, the honey maple skin and the perfect uniform. He looked serene on the white satin, his body resting under a new American flag. Thunder rumbled as mourners shuffled by the mahogany casket. The reverend stepped to the podium in the high school gym in rural North Carolina and a hush fell over an audience of more than a thousand people. They all had turned out just as I had, to say good-bye to a local son, a fallen hero, Corporal Mark Anthony Bibby. As I listened to the songs of the choir and the eulogies presented by military personal, friends and family, I was thinking how grateful I was to have my own personal memories of this young man.

I had met Mark as a gawky freshman at try-outs for basketball where my husband coached. Mark stood out immediately. It wasn’t his ball handling skills -- at that point it was questionable if he would even make the JV squad -- but he had an adorable crooked smile and a contagious laugh that delighted everyone. He was a good looking kid but a bit clumsy from his rapid growth the prior summer. His looks were only matched by his likable personality and impeccable manners. His head would drop shyly when I spoke to him and he was always quick to respond with a “yes ma’am” as his Momma had taught him that was the way to speak to women.

For the next four years his face was familiar me. Mark had a younger sister, Christina, who had become one of my daughter’s friends. As a chauffeur to the middle school crowd, Mark often ended up taking the girls to the mall, movies or the beach. Not to say he always liked it, but he carried out the duty with endless energy and jovial teasing.

That positive attitude earned him a place as class president and the title of “best all around” his senior year. He was an athlete, a scholar, an artist and a favorite among his peers and teachers. He was an aggravation to his sister and a fan to his brother away at sea in the Navy. Most pointedly he was a young man of honor and great patriotism. Upon graduating high school, he immediately joined the Army.

For years we just saw Mark occasionally when he returned home for a holiday, vacation and his sister’s graduation. After serving four years in the US Army, he left the military to pursue his dream of an engineering degree at NC A&T. When Operation Enduring Freedom was declared, his feelings of honor and patriotism overflowed and he volunteer to return to active duty, providing the Army with his skills as a nuclear and chemical decontamination specialist. That was January of 2003.

Six months later, on the day that our nation cheered the news of the elimination of Saddam’s two sons by coalition forces, the American death toll in Iraq officially passed that of the Gulf War. The death that set that morbid record was that of Corporal Bibby. With the strike from a rocket-propelled grenade, Mark became an official footnote in a conflict that would continue on to present.

Any man, woman, son, daughter, wife, father, or friend who dons the uniform and chooses a way of life most of us could never imagine – to live and work in defense of our county – is a hero in my book. Mark added even further depth to my philosophy with his own words that were read at his funeral. In an e-mail to his family just a day before his death Mark wrote:

“Life is short. You have to make the best out of every single day that you have
on this earth. Remember the only thing in this world that is guaranteed is that
there is 23 hours, 59 minutes and 59 seconds in every single day. The day will
end and a new one will begin. It is up to you to make that time useful...
Remember that we are a very lucky and blessed culture. So don't ever take
anything for granted. Love yourself. Love the person that you are with.”

With those words, his funeral was concluded and an American hero was then laid to rest. Whenever I have a bad day or things seem to be too much to handle, I remember Mark’s words. I am alive; I have a wonderful family and many advantages. And I am blessed to have had the brief privilege of knowing a true American hero.