Baseball

Bulging bubbles of pavement burst underneath her feet as she makes her way across the playground. The sun came down hard that summer afternoon at the corner Elementary school. The wired fence slowly bends over to show its defeat to the unbeatable heat. The uneven earth tilted the batting area to one side. There is no pitcher's mound just a chalked-written "X" to mark the spot. Bases are flat, worn-out mats seeming to become one with the melting concrete beneath it.

One bat. One ball. No grassy knoll. The game is Baseball. The year: 1990.

A bunch of 10-year old kids sit on the splintered, wooden bench chained against the batting cage, anxiously awaiting their turn to hit a home run. The young girl, wearing stone-washed jeans, a light blue shirt with a faded heart on the upper right corner walks beyond the crowd, hovering near the monkey bars dreading on being called up next.

A watcher, not a player, she prefers to dangle upside-down, the ends of her dark brown hair almost touching the sand, observing others play a sport she so desperately wishes she could understand well enough to play herself.

"Pitcher throws ball to batter. Batter hits ball with bat. The ball flies high. Bat is gently tossed to the ground. Batter runs to first base, to second base, to third base, to home. Score! (That is of course if no one manages to catch the ball in time to tag the batter out)," she thinks quietly.

Yet though she knows the mechanics of the game she never makes it passed “Strike 3!”

Sometimes the young girl would daydream of hitting the ball so far out that not even the boys who play this game religiously can run fast enough to catch it. Sweat beading down their faces trying to grab onto the force that pushes it farther and farther away from their grasp. The crowd cheers as she grazes pass each base, excited and out of breath, but as she almost touches home base...the teacher, rotund with an ash-brown, mushroom-shaped haircut and red lipstick on her coffee-stained teeth cackles for the next batter, snapping the poor girl back to reality.

A skinny, short kid with a dusty baseball cap, dark jeans, and a black t-shirt, struts up to the plate. He is one of the best players in the school and he knows it. His fingers grip the aluminum bat so tightly that his bone-white knuckles show through his charcoaled-colored skin. He tips his cap, bends his knees, squinting his eyes to gain better focus. The ball curves towards him. One swing and it is long gone! The kids all stood up, jaw-dropped in amazement as the ball disappears into the sky. The young girl flips off of the bars and dusts the sand off her knees, watching in envy as her dream slowly becomes his reality.

The teacher quickly kills the excitement, lecturing as if what had just taken place is a specific lesson plan rather than a fun-filled game of sports with unpredictable circumstance. She picks the bat off the floor and starts to explain how important it is not to let it fly out of control. The young girl slowly backs away and by doing so, gets called up next.

The kids know she can’t play well and begin nagging to have someone else go instead. The young girl agrees, insisting on sitting this one out. She has a bad feeling in her heart that she would do just the opposite of what is to be expected of her. She would strike out. . .again.

The teacher ignores the young girl’s plea and as if enjoying the power she has over them, argues that everyone has to play to get credit for the activity. Afterall, kids should want to participate in such an “easy” game.

The young girl imagines the teacher up at bat as the kids throw lots of baseballs her way.

Suddenly, the young girl finds herself at the worst case scenario: Bat in hand, kids booing. As the teacher calls for the pitcher to throw a fast ball, the young girl is caught off guard and nearly tumbles over.

“Strike 1,” the teacher screeches as the kids point fingers and laugh.

“You suck,” they holler as the young girl prepares for another failed attempt.

"I'll make this one a slow ball just to show you guys how bad she really is," teases the pitcher as he simply tosses the ball.

The young girl just keeps swinging miserably wishing someone would get in her way and give her the pure luxury of hitting them instead.

“Strike 2,” the teacher belches again, slapping her knee, causing an uproar of laughter from the surrounding classes.

The young girl starts to turn beet red. A hot tear rolls down her cheeks. She wipes them away leaving a smeared dirt mark on her face. This is her last attempt to at least hit the son of a bitch. She gets into the stance she observed just moments earlier and blocks out the bickering, the insults, the heartache. She clenches her small hands around this iron giant of a bat, bends her knees, squints her eyes, and waits for the inevitable.

Bat meets ball.

She hit it! Her eyes spring open and for a second she loses herself and forgets what to do. An eerie silence consumes the crowd. And then she hears, "Run!" She makes it to first, second...wait...something is not right. What happened to all the cheering? Why does she feel like she is the only one playing the game?

She stops somewhere in-between second and third base. Everyone is looking at someone else. There. Sitting on the splintered, wooden bench is a girl wearing a blue jogging suit, holding her mouth closed. Blood seeping through the gaps.

The young girl suddenly comes to and realizes she does not know what the hell she did with the bat! She recalls it in slow-motion to help her piece the puzzle together. "Oh my...," she whispers in disbelief when she sees the bloody bat near the other girl's feet. What appears to be little, white stones are scattered everywhere.

One girl screams. Another rushes to the nurse's office. The teacher grabs the young girl by the arm and drags her face to face with the startled girl. The other kids form a circle around them. The teacher demands the girl removes her hand from her mouth. The girl refuses at first, but in fear does as she is told. A mixture of blood and saliva pours out of the gaping hole.

These are not stones. These are her teeth.

The nurse comes running out with a towel and escorts the girl back into the school.

The teacher bends down, picks a bloody tooth up off the pavement and looks at the young girl with disappointing eyes.

"You did this," she said sternly.

THE TOOTH

The young girl stood motionless, staring blankly into the teacher’s cruel, beady eyes. She could see the jagged red lines zigzagging across the eyeballs as if it’s cutting right into her reflection. The teacher, tooth in hand, hovers over the young girl’s small stature as if preparing to swallow her whole.

“Wish it were your tooth…” mumbled the young girl.

“What did you say,” the teacher replied, cupping her hand over her ear.

The young girl wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, “This wasn’t my idea! I didn’t want to play because something bad might happen! This isn’t my fault, you stupid monster! Can you hear me now you fat cow?!”

And yet, even with her mouth open, nothing managed to escape it. She just bowed her head in shame, knowing that what she did is terrible but never intentional.

The teacher tosses the tooth back onto the pavement, creating an unnerving clatter against the rest of the broken pieces huddled at her feet. She dismisses the rest of her students to return back to the classroom and orders the poor girl to sit at the splintered, wooden bench…alone.

The sun blares down on the young girl, but she hardly feels its hot breath against her sweaty back.

Weight of the World

Another fight over nothing really. Another temper tantrum. Another nagging session. Another piece of bullshit. I am tired. Worn out. Stressed. I feel as though the only release I can give myself comes in tears and leaves me drained. I stare at my puffy red eyes in the mirror, feel the heat of my swollen cheeks, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink in an attempt to control my breathing through my mouth since my nose becomes useless. I stand there in front of me wondering how in the hell did I get in this shit again and yet all I can remember is the past; the times before in which I stood the way I am standing, cried the way I am crying, trying to catch my breath. Lost in the moment of everything gone wrong. No need for tissues. Just rinse with water every few minutes.

I was told something that night. Something I knew before, but never let sit: “You carry with you the weight of the world.”

Meaning everything is a big, fucking deal. Everything is. Everyone’s problem becomes my own. They are mine. To me, it is all a domino effect. And as we know, shit rolls downhill. I feel I have to do something, anything to carry the load off their shoulders. I know I do this to help them realize how much I can do and have done for them. To give what I expect back. So that they will not turn their backs on me. So they won’t walk away.

Then again, this I did for people who are no longer in my life.

People come and go. I’ve said this countless times. Memories linger. Staining my mind with endless possibilities of it happening all over again. A boyfriend cheats = all men are dogs. A best friend stabs you in the back = all girls are bitches. A close friend wants more then you can give = friends are temporary. Life sucks = Life SUCKS. Nothing is guaranteed. No matter what, shit happens. And like my Ate says, “In the end, we die anyways.”

Just stop

Sometimes I literally want to pull myself out of my own body, stare at what the hell I'm trippin' about and slap me back into reality. Seriously. Have you ever noticed what you are doing while you're doing it and want to say to yourself, "Hey, just stop!" I do, but then again since I already dug myself into a hole I can't get out of I just wallow in it for awhile and wonder how I got myself in this mess in the first place.

It all started when I first became an official "girlfriend." The real deal. Holding hands, writing love letters, pet names, the whole shabang. I was 14 for fuck's sake. Naive, infatuated, unaware that shit happens...in other words an optimist. The worst kind. The ones that actually believe nothing and no one can touch them if they're "in love." What did I know? I was your typical adolescent teenager dating someone older than me, someone just as crazy about me as I am of them and for some reason it felt good to be cheesy and overconsumed with each other. That is until I lost myself in the process.

All I knew how to be was this "girlfriend." Whatever he wanted to do was cool as long as it was with him. It didn't even occur to me how strange it started to become when his own mother would accompany us on dates and want to hold his hand too as we walked in the mall. She would buy me these hideous dresses and say, "It's about time to get out of those baggy pants and be a lady." (Come to think of it, I liked those baggy pants. They were comfortable and in style back then to be wearing stuff twice my size. And who said I was ready to be a "lady" anyway.) But there I was. Wearing dresses that itched with curlers in my hair.

We did have our good times. Afterall I was his FIRST everything too. But then I realized as the years passed (a whole 7 years to be exact) we were turning into the couple from Hell. The ones who pretty much had a fight scheduled every 15 minutes. When we'd hang out because it's what couples do. And as we sat across from each other at a restaurant the only thing we'd say was, "Pass the bread."

A routine. A planned relationship with unfortunately nothing in common. This is when we ventured out with other people doing other things. Finding interests of our own that just didn't include each other. It came to a point where when his family and I attended one of his award shows, I was surprised at just how many clubs he had joined. I just nodded my head as if I knew it all along. I suddenly thought to myself, "Holy shit I don't even know the person I am with anymore."

We tried to get back to the old days of when the only thing worth doing was being with each other. When doing nothing was exciting because we'd be in the same room. But that got old quick. I'd often find myself sitting up in his bed with my arms crossed while he slept next to me thinking, "Why am I here?" He got so comfortable around me that even a shower would be too much for him to do. Brushing his hair would be a plus. There was this one year where he would spend hours on end in front of a computer, where if you listen real close you could hear the static cling of his pants pulling away from the fabric of his computer chair.

He had his good points. A genius really. I could ask him anything, just throw a random question at him and he knew the answer almost instantly. This was before the Internet became so easily accessible and popular to use. It didn't matter what topic it covered or how long ago it took place. He was a library of information and I enjoyed picking at his brain just to see if he would fuck up. Never did. He could tear a computer apart and put it back together like child's play. And do this because it was fun. An amusing character who if you knew him couldn't possibly hurt a fly.

Then again...this is why it became even more difficult to argue with him. People would automatically assume it was always my fault because well...I could hurt a fly. Especially if it was buzzing in my face. (I'm not insect-friendly by any means.) And he slowly began to transform into one. The ones just constantly crawling all over me. Seeing how far they could go before I snapped. It became a game, "Try to snap, I dare you" game. And he became my fly.

It drove me insane. Why did I put up with it for so long? The same reason why he did and why anyone would. It's a routine. A plan. A comfort zone in which you don't want to pull yourself away from and do all over again with someone else. The whole first encounter, getting to know each other, discovering the dark side, the good, the bad, the oh shit...The whole, "What was the point in all this if it were just going to end?" Until you regret it and start to regret each other for having it last as long as it did.

There's this thing called, "Happiness" when it comes to love. A desire to want to be with another person to share your intimate thoughts and ideas about anything. A spark of interest in what they think and have to say in return. This connection, a buzz, moments that really make life feel worth living. And yes it's corny, an emotional high that you just can't get enough of, but so what? The euphoria is what people, whether they want to admit it or not, actually want. It's what I want. It's what he and I lacked in the end.

I am well aware that nothing lasts forever and that after a while, two people will eventually know each other pretty well that things become predictable. However, it is not "love" that moves in phases. It's the people. And once we start to forget why we are even in this relationship to begin with and what actually makes us click, we should ask ourselves, "What's the point?" And if the answer is "Routine. Plan. Comfort zone. Convenience" rather than "Happiness. Love. Desire. Connection," then we have moved on. Maybe even unconsciously. So pull yourself out of your own body and just stop.

Simple Pleasures

I forgot myself again. It's my day off and yes, I got up early this morning with a serious desire to be productive, but what for really? I mean, I work enough so why not sleep in an extra hour or so? What's the sudden rush to do something if it means getting out of these warm comforters? So I lay there, deep in thought about "thinking too much" if that makes any sense and fell back asleep because well, I could.

Later that day my older sister rang me awake for our weekly lunch date: sweet passion fruit iced tea and then some. We met this interesting waitress (curly hair, pale skin, and black-rimmed glasses) who seemed to act more like a long-lost friend than a server with her sly, sense of humor and easy-going attitude. A bright blue Band-Aid covered a newly burnt part of her right hand in-between her thumb and index finger.

"Aw, you poor thing...what happened," I asked.

We hit it off immediately. Then there was this bus boy that made one of our most favorite restaurants extra special this afternoon. He kept making it a point to come by and say, "Hi." We paid no attention at first. I mean, afterall it's only common courtesy. But after the third "Hi" we began to blush. Hmmm...

He came by again later to say more.

"You ladies working after this," he asked with a smile.

"Nah, we're off. Why," we both said pretty much at the same time.

"What do you drink," he followed turning his smile into a grin.

My sister shrugged her shoulders and combed back her luscious brown hair behind her ears. "Pina Colada, I guess," she answered.

He looked over to me. "Um...I don't drink," I said honestly.

He nodded his head and was off. My sister poked me,"You could've said you drank something."

I thought to myself what for? I really don't drink.

A little while later he came back sure enough with her Pina Colada. She smiled with delight. How sweet?! (She must've thought that out loud because it was written all over her face.)

"Do any of you like cake," he asked.

"Uh..." we said, looking at each other in disbelief. He followed by saying, "I feel bad because here I got you a drink (looking at my sister) and well there's nothing for her (he turned my way)."

"It's cool really," I began to answer.

"She likes that raspberry thingy..." my sister interrupted.

We couldn't believe it. We've been coming to this place since '97 and it's the first time ever that we were getting extra spoiled.

The simple pleasures in life: Gourmet food, cold drinks, great company and awesome customer service.

Intuition

It hits me. Always with the same energy. This sudden, gut-wrenching pain that warns me something bad is about to happen. Maybe my instincts are wearing off. Whatever the reason, it lets me know that I’ve been lied to. No matter how I try to brush it off like it’s no big deal, I know without a doubt that I’ve been deceived. The worst part is that I don’t let it go. I carry it with me like all the stress in my life. I feel like hiding underneath the covers forgetting the day as the sun comes and goes.

The lil' Van that could

Have you ever had a moment in time that you wanted to remember? There is no real significance to it, but there it is. I was in my dad’s van. The van: brown and beige with gold trim lining, velvet curtains and carpeted floors, and a mini TV right at the center where everyone would hit their head at least once as they entered. We went on several road trips in that old Mitsubishi yet it’s the trips back home that I think about the most. Everyone would fall asleep. It felt so safe, so secure, so soothing with my dad behind the wheel. No sharp turns or high speeds, just by-the-book careful driving for hours. The soft, rumble of its engine, the gentle breeze cooling the window as I press the palm of my hand against the glass. Flat desert planes for miles, mountains, and the ever-changing, colorful sky to keep me company.

My little black book

The following are a few entries I had written in a black velvet journal with a spiral, red dragon stitched on its cover. They speak on lost love or moments of despair because I found myself stuck in an endless cycle of bullshit. A lot has to deal with me growing up, getting in and out of a bad situation, and with every word I finally came to my senses. I never thought of sharing it until now:

"Cry"

The cold wind swept through the broken window

and lifted the curtains up

like ghostly figures glowing in the dark.
The thin branches of the old oak tree clattered against the wood frame.

The dying leaves wet from the rain showers flew in and soaked their lives into my carpet floor.

I sat there, in tears, and did the same.

I wrote this on Jan. 14, 1997 as part of a creative writing exercise. The teacher would give us one sentence, "The cold wind swept through the..." and we were supposed to expand on it. She thought I could've added a little more, but to me for what I was feeling at the time this was just right.

"Please Look at Me"

I walk...by you slowly.

Hoping you will see me.

Holding my breath with every tiny step.

I walk...straight ahead.

With my arms crossed.

Trying my best to enhance my features

(and hide my many flaws).

Maybe then you'll notice me.

But...

I walk...away.

When I see that your eyes are following someone else.

My mind constantly uttering the words:

"Please look at me."

I was inspired to write this while literally walking by this boy I had a crush on. He didn't even know me, but I would purposely walk by him just to see if even through the slightest curiousity he would glance at my direction and say, "Hi." He never did.

"A Place to Put Yours"

I space out...daydreaming about something else.

Something better.

Anything but this.

I realize that when I wake you will still be at it.

And I will wish for more sleep.

We do not talk anymore.

No 'sweet nothings' are whispered in my ear.

We do not hold anymore.

Your embrace remains cold and insecure.

We do not create love...

This is not love.

I space out just to keep my sanity;

to pretend to feel.

Something...anything at all.

Until now.

I realize that I am simply

just a place to put yours.

This is what it is. I was actually thinking these very words during...well...

"Painful Love"

I stay with you for reasons.

It's not just because of love.

Yes, I love you for reasons.

But it's not just out of love.

I feel like I can do whatever I wanna do with you.

Be silly, act like a baby.

Burst into tears or laugh out loud.

I feel comfortable to be around you.

To eat, sleep, and bitch because I want to.

These are my reasons.

My everyday, ordinary reasons

of why I can't leave...

Even when your words can shatter me.

And your force can abuse me.

And your mind can forget me.

And your heart can control me.

We were together for reasons.

And I took your pain ONLY because of my desire to have love.

I was crying when I wrote this. I cut a heart out of tissue paper and put a bandaid over it and placed it next to this entry in my journal.

"END"

I needed someone who needed me.

I thought you were the one.

I tried to keep you like you kept me.

Whenever I needed you,

I'd just take you out of my little hiding place and tell you all of my secrets.

I wanted someone who wanted me.

I thought that someone was you.

I tried to reveal what I felt,

but you'd just runaway and hide.

I wished for someone who wished for me.

You made a wish for something else.

I tried to make you change your mind.

But...I'd just wait.

I longed for someone who longed for me.

I thought for one moment it seemed it was you.

But you fell too short and still hid.

I hoped for someone who hoped for me just as much.

I opened my eyes too soon to see you.

But you just closed yours so you can't see anything anymore.

So now your blind and alone.

The next time you realize that I am here...I won't be.

And if you miss me, when your eyes can finally see...

Just close them again.

Nice and tight.

And dream.

This is the very LAST entry. I fought with him that morning and he just left me there in his house. I didn't know how to drive at the time and I had too much pride and not enough common sense to find another way home. So...as I was waiting there in his living room I wrote this on a piece of scratch paper and left it on top of his mantle. When he came back, I brushed him off and had his brother take me home instead.

A New Orleans Moment

I hate flying. I know it sounds childish, but it feels surreal to me that such a heavy machine is floating in air. Nothing above or below it is holding it up and every now and then it would shake and we’re supposed to remain calm? Think happy thoughts: “Away from work, away from work, away from work.”

We squeezed our way down the narrow aisles to the very back row and sat next to someone we would later refer to as ‘Jasper’. Dressed in a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and topped with a black leather vest, he had shaggy brown hair and a rugged face. “Take me home!” he hollered as the captain prepared us for take off.

It was hot and moist when we first stepped off of the plane. Hand in hand, my boyfriend glanced over his shoulder at me to say, “Finally, a vacation.”

The smell of history, the taste of the Old South, a place I had never been to before is staring me right in the face and welcoming me to explore. He was calmly excited as we walked through the airport to the baggage claim area. As we got our bags, I made my quick phone calls home to tell them we arrived safely still in shock that I got away for the first time in a long while. As we were about to exit the airport, an elderly African-American man with a black, driver’s cap came up to us asking us if we needed a ride. There were no cabs around and he had an air-conditioned Suburban. No hesitation there. Little did we know that this man would be our tour guide. He knew the ins and outs of this city and began giving us a history lesson as we drove alongside the highway. The streets dipped slightly and in both directions a Cemetery stood. I held my breath as we crossed.

The hotel looked nothing like the pictures: small, squished building in the heart of the city with a heavy glass door and brass handle. It smelled like a new car, a refreshing change from the heat. The lobby had a Victorian motif, a vintage sofa with olive green cushioning, large mirrors with gold trimming and marble floors. A refurbished, decorative gate hung against the back wall. We hopped onto the elevator and made our way up to our room. A comfortable and quaint setting tucked away in the corner. A shear, white sheet was neatly pinned as the backdrop against the bed frame and the television set conveniently hid within a tall, wooden dresser. A wall of windows was draped with thick, green curtains. A writer’s desk with a glass top overlooked the city. Across the way, graffiti marked the perfect word for our adventure, “ESCAPE.”
A sour stench of fresh garbage thrown onto the backs of rusted trucks, a mixture of overcooked seafood lingered in the air. Sewage water spilled beneath 17th century Spanish-style homes where the front displayed the back, large shutters against a stained wall. Horse manure lined the cobble-stoned paths of the French Quarter as the carriage made its way around this battered city. The dampness of New Orleans displayed an overcast of misfortune, but it was here, under a new sky, in the midst of strangers, that I found my heaven.

Alone and Disoriented.

She sits. Alone and disoriented. Unable to move her frail body. Trapped in a steady wheelchair, watching the world pass her by. She remembers very little. Faces of loved ones long gone. Faces she sees, but can no longer recognize.

Why are they so sad? Some in tears, looking down at their feet. Why are they so angry at each other? Others yelling at the top of their lungs, stretching their vocal chords to a range she has never heard before. She knows how they are feeling, but cannot find a reason for their pain.

Seven children. Two boys and five girls. Raised by one woman, proud to call herself a true mother. Never perfect, but present in their lives by her own willful strength and determination. She taught them how to cook, clean, and care for themselves. She enforced strict rules and regulations that they all must abide by to maintain proper order in the household. To avoid any bickering, she gave each child their own things by labeling items with their names. Everything. From bathing products to underwear, branded with their initials. Missing the fact that although this teaches independence, it fails to show the importance of teamwork and the willingness to share.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning the reason comes to her. It pierces her heart and pulls her downward causing her to hunch over. She stares at her scrawny legs and pencil-thin arms helpless in her physical condition to fight back the memories lashing out at her. She closes her eyes as moments of their childhood play in her head. She did not allow them to work out their differences. They never had to achieve great communication skills to get their points across. They never had to learn how to deal with the drama in their family because she was always there to protect them. Her solution had always been her.

Now she was too weak to even stand up; too weak to tell them all to shut-up.

With their calendars and notepads, itineraries and checklists, each highlighted square indicating who will be at her dying side. She can't help, but think back to her struggles and how extremely easy it would've been if she could create an agenda where six other mothers could her care for a single child.

She shakes her head at the thought of this. What happened? Why is her weakness causing those around her to weaken? Why, as her mind falls to pieces, are they losing their piece of mind? She blames herself. Even though her eldest son tries so desperately to defend her. "Remember what she used to say?" he asked. "Kapag binato mo na bato, ibato ng tinapay (if someone throws rocks at you, you throw back bread). But it fell on deaf ears. Fire fought with fire. And in this case, everyone burned.

She watched as one-by-one, her children fled. Running away from the rubble that once felt like "home," a disasterous mess that used to be called a family. Wondering why it is so complicated for them to come to an understanding with one another. She knew she raised them well, but their stubborn independence has caused them to act selfish. Rather than brainstorming together to resolve something so simple, they created numerous other challenges to make things worse.

"You disrespected me!" one daughter screams.

"It's my house!" the other stormed back.

"You're not listening!" the youngest retorted.

Round and round they go, stuck in a whirl of anger. Unable to break free and like their mother in a wheelchair, they are stuck.

Alone and disoriented.