Freshmen in high school
what are your thoughts on this?
Individuals in modern times are classified by race, ethnicity, financial status, appearance, and many other detailed categories used to apportion individuals into sects. However, with these classifications also come stereotypes; generalizations that everyone in their certain sect looks, behaves, and carries themselves the same way. My name is Martin William, and to a bystander, I grew up your average black “thug”, living in the ghetto. However, I made something of myself; I defied the odds and tarnished the stereotype I was given. My childhood will always linger with me; it will haunt me for the rest of my life. Although from my dad’s sudden absence to my diagnosis of Autism, I never gave up on life, unlike my brother had on that Sunday night in June. I kept progressing, excelling in my studies, and keeping my head up when things became amiss. Now, I sit here, on my deathbed; Martin William, first African American president ever to govern over our wonderful country, with three bullets in my body, waiting to die. I lived life to the fullest, soaking in life lessons, overcoming challenges, and deciphering life’s mysteries. Before my soul leaves my body, to be with god for eternity, I want to tell you all of my childhood, my experiences that changed my life, and made me the man I am today.
My mother and father met during high school, in the midst of racial slurs and bullying at its pinnacle. They went to a school that was generally populated with white children, because their parents believed they were more intellectual; another stereotype. Their parents being martinets, they ultimately had no freedom, causing them to become more rebellious. The influence my grandparents attempted to instill into my parents was unsuccessful, and even backfired on them as my parents ran off to the Bronx and got married. At first, marriage life for my parents was blissful; my dad was able to make a steady income at the local dry cleaners, whilst my mom worked part time at their favorite diner. They were truly in love, and graciously enjoyed each other’s presence.
My brother, Lawrence, was born one year later. My parents welcomed him into their one bedroom apartment with open arms. The night he came home, my mom wrapped him up in a blanket, and set him down on the table to sleep. They were not able to afford a crib, for most of their income went to the purchase of diapers. My parents stared at him in awe; they had just brought new life into the world, and they promised him a remarkable and fulfilling life, a promise short-lived. When the joy and admiration of their newborn wore off, my parents returned to work, leaving my brother at home. My mother would come home day after day to a crying baby, covered in feces and urine, desperate for food and water. Her tear-filled eyes and guilty conscience proceeded to give him a bottle and change his diaper. These are the squalid actions my parents executed for a few extra dollars. My mother sat up in her bed at night, sobbing, pondering her choices in adolescence, and contemplating the future. The only thing that was able to put her to sleep was the thought that Lawrence would soon be okay, once he was old enough to take care of himself.
Although he was neglected at such a young age, the disdain and insolence he endured had a major emotional effect on him. From scolding his teachers to scuffing other children, he faced constant suspensions. My parents grew worried, and conversed with the principal of his school about possible options for counseling. Although it seemed like the perfect idea, they did not have enough resources to fund the sessions. My father brushed it aside, attempting to convince my mother that it was a phase, but my mom was determined. She knew she had to make up for the neglect he faced as a young child, and set him on the right track for his future. My mother’s determination, while inspiring, was put on hold, for she was became pregnant with me. My father became irate, and went on a rampage about how I was to be aborted immediately. He and my mother could not afford a second child, especially if they were to invest in counseling for my brother. One of the hardest things I had to endure for the first seven years of my life was a father who hated me. I had never harmed him in any way; my only goals and aspirations in life were to please him. He was my father, the man I admired and looked up to, despite his disdain for me. My mother tried to convince me that his job had decreased pay, and he was taking his anger out on me, but I knew the truth. I could tell by the way he looked at me, with such disgust, that he didn’t want me in his life, much less the world.
Despite my father’s hatred, it seemed as though my parents had learned from their mistakes, and made a strong attempt to raise their second child more efficiently. They used my brother’s suspensions to their advantage, and made him take care of me when they were at work. However, when I was seven, I was diagnosed with a slight form of Autism. My family was in shock; we sat around the kitchen table, stunned, depressed. I sat there, an innocent child, unable to comprehend the major news that had just been delivered. My dad then stood up from the table, and walked out the door. My mother starting bawling; releasing her anguish and hurt she had been enduring for so long. Lawrence took me to my room, so my mother could be alone. However I was too curious, too intrigued as to what had just unfolded, that I left my room and peeked through the doorway as my father came barging through the door.
“I told you, Regina, I told you he was a mistake. Do you see the expense for this medicine? We don’t
have enough money right now to afford a month’s worth of this crap! You should have listened to me you pig! I’m out of here; tell Lawrence I love him, and tell the other one to go to hell!”
He then ran to his room and took his small duffle bag from the closet. In it, he put about half of his clothes, and the cash lying on the dresser. He returned to the kitchen, and told my mother that he was leaving. Tears formed in her eyes as he slammed the door behind her, and she fell to the floor and cried. She cried because her lack of education, the absence of money in her life, and because the only man she will ever love walked out the door for the last time. Lawrence came into the kitchen without noticing my innocent, shaking body. He put his arms around my mom, and consoled her.
“He will come back, mama, I promise.” Another empty promise, “We’ll get through this together; me, you, and Martin. Dad was a weight pulling us further behind by the day. We don’t need his money; you can work over
I was just wondering out of interest what the most beloved photos you have are and why it’s important to you … Mine include