Here is a memoir I wrote back in high school about my sister Cassie... My views about history being in history for a reason has developed for a reason. Here's a slight insight of my journey to where I am now. I can read this now and state that although I may be independent, I have began to let others into my life in terms of trust and support. I may be just as stubborn as the next mule, however, one must remember that everyone is the way they are for a reason.
I never saw the use for writing until these past few years. It's helped me for personal growth in order to look back and realize where my views were and how they've changed (if any). I really do recommend writing down your thoughts and personal insights while you have them in order to develop into better individuals down the road as we all aspire towards our goals.
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“The Same Shirt Is the Last Sight”
Here I sat on an old-style European
bench you’d find while wandering in an ancient attic; an emerald green, quilted
satin atop seized the old store-bought leather once abroad. I witnessed the
entire occurrence, not questioning anyone, or anything that had occurred. Minutes
of the struggles of keeping him down had passed before she ran into the family
room to my right, screaming, begging, and pleading. And there she stood, those
rounded glasses, tears and all, screeching “Get off of him! Leave him alone!”
“Let go of me!” Chris muttered in
response.
I could not understand why she was petrified. Her
tears were falling quicker than that of a hyped-up hamster running in a ball.
Her shrieks of “Stop it!” and her continuous bawling pierced the air leaving an
everlasting squeal pounding against my ear-drum for days to come.
“Get off of me!” is all that Chris was
able to belt out, gasping for air with my parents’ weight on top of his to keep
him down. My parents were to the left keeping a once-rebel brother of mine down,
for he was trying to escape the security of our home to work for some yahoo
down the dirt road of ours. My parents, his biological mom and step-dad,
holding him down, like an old German sheppard does, lying about, protecting her
new carefree pups from the dangers of the unstable world. My parents continued
to grapple him. Cassie continued to wail before running back into her room. I
continued to watch it all. No one was hurt, other than emotions and feelings;
the day continued on like any other day at my house, including a cold shoulder
from Chris, and her.
Cassie’s hair falls just below her bust,
creeping its way down her body with each passing year. In the winter, her hair
screams for the sunlight, for her hair holds a dreary paper bag color; flat,
with no array of tones. In the lights of the summer, the sun sharpens her once
dull hair into a splash of autumn galore. Her eyes are that of a combustion of
a wide variety of greens and browns. Around her pupils, a subtle olive-green;
an olive that isn’t quite ripe and remains attached to the vine. Speckles of auburn
fall leaves dwindle onto her eyes with each unwanted glance. She shares that
generic smile, made only by braces, with every fake grin she presents. Her one
dimple on her face, on her left cheek, proved her to be real for her
imperfection. Her skin, so refreshingly washed-out all year, for it doesn’t
scorch or tan in the suns glare, comes alive by the pigmentations that are
gained by the blushing of anger, and enjoyment she prevails. Pearled, powdered-pink
satiny skin is one of which any could admire. Not an inch past five-foot, her
head stands tall. Muscles on her man-legs acquired by many years of dedication
to burdensome cross-country; calves so pronounced it is impossible to distinguish
them compared to a mannequin. Her awkward, gangling arms do not fit the excess
of her hourglass-physique. Not one crevasse lies on her face from years of
stress. Her bust still lies higher than her waist that resembles one of a
petite frame. She does not hold a crooked stance, for she stands tall; feet
planted firmly to the ground, standing like that of a warrior ready to go to
war. She holds her own, for her back isn’t a rude visitor when passing others.
She walks with a horse’s prance; picking her legs up further than need be, as
her arms swing to an inconsistent cadence, bouncing as if gravity ceased to
exist. The turn of her head is far from graceful; she wishes death upon you by
that stern, fierceness, and quickness of her glance. She carries an aromatic
essence wherever she situated; one of the pre-determined “ocean mist”. Far
from, this fragrance was of fresh and earthy-rain combined with cut grass in
the summer days that tempted the nose, as well as that of a sandy resort
without the stagnant water. The everlasting whiff of clean linen presides above
all, while the Snuggy fabric-softener stains her clothes forevermore. Every
time the over-priced fabric-softener is in my nose’s range, I’ll always
remember the irony of our last connection.
“Why are you wearing that shirt Steph? I
had mine on first! Take it off and put a different one on! I’m not going to
wear the same shirt as my 2nd grader sister!” she exclaimed with an
annoyance in her voice, as if it was degrading to have me as her sister. My
grandmother tried calming her down; it was no use. She stomped away out of the
family room into the outdated kitchen that belonged to my grandmother, and out
to her bus. I changed my shirt, grabbed a heavy, but pleasant jacket, while dragging
my feet across the titian linoleum that rested creakily on the kitchen floor,
and continued onto my bus. I didn’t know that this would be the last time I saw
her; besides, it was her fault. She was the one who insisted on letting the
lies become the reality.
The day following the holding-down of Chris,
my family at the time (consisting of myself, my twin brother Jacob, my half
brother Chris, and my four half sisters, Cassie, Lizzy, Cindy and Angie) went
to the lake with my Aunt Jan, my mom’s sister. The summer day could not had
been more perfect; splashing in the water, time with the family, and drama had
refrained from existence. After all the swimming we could tolerate, off to
grandmas we went and spent the night in a home that reeked of pipe-smoke and
moth-balls. During these twenty-four hours at my grandparents, lying was a
constant reality.
...For the next week, I remained at my grandparents.
I didn’t make anything of it. It was already the summer of 2002 and we hadn’t
spent very much time with them that year. The following week, my grandmother
took me to an odd building. It was next to the police station, no bigger than
an average-size farm-house. Albion, Indiana didn’t need a large police station;
it was only a small town of two-thousand, where everyone knew everyone. It was
a tight-knit community; family-owned shops, one high school in the county, and
farms were everywhere. This out-of-place building was meant to be white, but
after harsh years in the weather, the white faded to that of a filthy gym sock,
remaining at the bottom of the laundry hamper. I entered through the black
rimmed glass doors, and sat waiting for what I thought was a dentist
appointment.
“Now you two, if they ask ya what had happened
the day before ya went to the lake, ya know, ‘bout Chris, so just be honest. None
of your silly made up stories, ok?” my grandmother told Cassie and I both. She
leaned over and whispered something into Cassie’s ear, I made nothing of it.
Cassie went on in into an intimidating woman’s room. She had black rimmed
glasses, messy pulled back hair, with blond and brown and every color in-between
streaking through it, and unpleasant rolls begging to be released from a skirt
two sizes too small hugging and exposing every no-longer-hidden dimple. Cassie
came back after what seemed like a year to me, and she grinned. That’s the same
grin she had when she lied to my parents about her grades in school; eyes
partially squinted, generic smile, and a firm grip to her shirt, clenching it
with all of her might. I went in next. This lady resembled a city skyscraper,
hovering over my eight-year old body for an infinite distance. I sat down.
“Steph. Did anything unusual happen last
week?” the strange woman asked.
“No.” I said, hiding behind her name
plate. She folded her hands and continued.
“Last week, your parents were in an
argument with Chris, correct?”
“Mhmmm” I muttered.
“Now Steph, sweetie, what were you doing
while they argued?”
“Well…” I was nervous. Things didn’t
seem to add up. I lied. “I was asleep.” I responded hesitantly.
“The entire time?” the woman continued.
“Yes. I was sleeping on the green bench
the entire time and didn’t hear nothing” I exclaimed. “Can I go now?”
And so I left, very awkwardly. Why did
the lady ask so many questions? Why was this stranger making me feel the need
to lie? Why did Cassie grin when she came back, there was nothing to grin about,
this lady had meant business. After an hour sitting there in the waiting room,
full of outdated TIME magazines, my
grandmother explained to me that I’d be staying at her place for awhile. I just
wanted my mommy.
So months passed, and I stayed at my
grandmothers. Cassie and I had to share a room. It was my Aunt Jan’s old room
before she moved out. Two beds, the new one hers, the old one mine. An old
black and white television was in the corner of the room, with crooked wires on
top, connecting that box to the breaking news of the day. There was tension
bursting with every breath in that room. I wanted the light on, she wanted it
off. I wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune,
she wanted to watch Jeopardy!. She
commented about my parents about how awful they supposedly were, and I
disagreed. We were arguing about everything; the only thing we seemed to agree
on was that we both wanted our own room.
Before moving into my grandmothers,
Cassie and I shared quality time together that can never be replaced. We played
Barbie’s, doctor, and even tag in the yard. But that was all when she was still
in elementary school, not middle school. She would start middle school that
fall when we were living at our grandparents. A few weeks before the “Chris
incident”, Cassie and I had just finished cleaning our rooms.
“Steph, I’ll pay you a buck to get my
crayon from the bottom of the garbage can.” She asked cunningly.
“OK!” I answered with my excited,
squeaky, high pitched voice. So off I went onto an adventure to earn a profit. I
went through the struggle of climbing a garbage can four times the size of me.
It had a burnt, rusty color on the outside. I opened the lid, and a rush of a
stagnant, rotten, stench penetrated my poor little, rounded-off nose. The inside
was lined with a scum, which had been growing for years. Struggles of getting
that crayon prevailed; I had finally reached the crayon! So, I let her know.
She just started laughing, and called me names.
“Dumpster Diver!” she shouted in joy, as
if I was supposed to know what that meant. I got a dollar; I wasn’t concerned
that in reality, she was making a fool out of me.
After I got onto that bus, I
attended my third-grade class at my new school. I went to the Counselors’
office, and sitting in the room were my aunts and uncles and grandparents. They
were all crying. I wasn’t sure why, it was just another school day.
“We’re going to miss you” bawled my
Aunt April, who married my mom’s brother Butch.
“I’ll see you next weekend April!” I
said, not knowing that it was all a lie, and that day was the last day I’d see
them. I left the room, and standing at the end of the hall in the main office
stood my parents. They finally came and got me and my twin brother Jacob! Oh,
how I was relieved to go back to my real home, with my parents.
Celebration came to a halt. We moved
within the next few weeks, down to Northern Kentucky, to be closer to my dad’s
family. I declared my life as ruined. I was away from the family that I grew up
with, and now I only had my twin brother to play with, no longer any sisters.
Who was I to look up to? My life had officially restarted.
It’s been eight[now ten] years since the
move. Eight years since I’ve seen my old family. I’ve lived in three different
houses. I’ve attended three different elementary schools, two different middle
schools, and one high school. I’ve lost relationships, and I’ve gained relationships.
I didn’t want to live here in Kentucky, “state of the hicks” as my old family
would commonly say. They always frowned upon Kentucky, which is why I resented
this state for majority of my naive years. I reflect back to my snafu of a
childhood on a daily basis, constantly with the “what ifs”. What if Cassie had
seen the entire incident? What if Cassie had told the truth? What if Cassie was
actually a sister? I even ask “Why did Cassie lie?” To this day, I don’t have
the answers. I’ve been faced with many opportunities that I would not have been
granted if I remained in Albion, which I have here, in Northern Kentucky—of all
places. Cassie today, she remains in Albion, Indiana, four hours driving
distance away. She and I have tried to work through our disagreements and our remote
relationship within the past few years via cell phone and social networks. The
results have been unsuccessful, and the third time was not the charm. Trying to
mend family relationships is in the past, as is she; the moment you start to
build a relationship, it’s torn away and torn into pieces. I continue to live with
an emotional guard set in stone, not letting anyone in, and not giving any of
my valued trust away. I trust myself, I support myself, and I will succeed by
myself.
