justin

autobiography

My computer's finally unbroken and since i said i would
put up some of my autobiography, here it is. well at least
a part of it. it starts off kinda slow, but it gets
better. if ur bored, u could read the whole thing. if not
oh well.

Usually when people start an autobiography, they start
from their birth and go through their childhood,
highlighting important moments in their lives that have
helped shape their personalities today. Honestly, I did
not have many memories like that in my childhood. In
fact, I hardly have any recollection of my childhood at
all. Many of the memories I do retain are terse and
estranged from any context that would provide clues as to
why I still remember these images ten or so years after
they had occurred. For example, I remember pulling weeds
on the landscape during the summer when I was
approximately ten years old and my neighbor, Sean, biking
by, asking if I wanted to do something, but I said no
because I was pulling weeds. I was still in that age
where parental praise was everything, even if it meant
hours of backbreaking work under an unforgiving sun. But
that’s all I can discern from that memory that is so
vividly branded into my memory.
Ironically, one of the greatest things to happen to me, my
gift for baseball, takes up only a very minute, miniscule
portion of my early memory. I know, not from memory but
from many of my dad’s short anecdotes, that when I was
four years old I began playing baseball with my duct taped
wiffle ball bat and tennis ball in our garage. That he
used to underhand the ball to me and I would hit it out
onto the driveway and our 4 year old German Shepherd,
Thomas, of whom I have not the slightest recollection of,
would hunt the ball down and bring it back to my dad. I
do have a few scattered images of little league baseball
but I am not sure if they are my memories or creations of
an overactive imagination.
However, as I continued to grow, my memories
became somewhat stronger and more cohesive. I remember
the first day inside Media Elementary School in third
grade, the first time any student had stepped into those
halls after its’ renovation. The virgin wood of the cubby-
holes was a bright white and smelled vaguely of some kind
of cleaning detergent. I recall with fondness, my
teacher, Mr. Stezack, with mullet and his gregarious style
of teaching. It was that vociferous, yet friendly style
that captivated so many of the students in my class and
compelled them to memorize their multiplication tables.
After overcoming the shock of changing schools and the
sordid feelings of being estranged from many of my Rose
Tree friends, everything settled down and my memories
become choppy and dissipated.
During my fourth grade year, the O.J. Simpson
trial was in full effect. Controversy proliferated
throughout the entire community but seemed to go straight
over my head. Being a regular nine year old, I had
created my own little utopia and was not overly concerned
with the happenings of the outside world. I vaguely
remember the day the verdict was to be announced in court,
Mrs. Brown gathered us on the S.S.R. carpet around the TV,
anxious for the long awaited decision. I’d like to say
that the tension was palpable in the air and the silence
filtered throughout the room as we watched in quiescent
awe, but that really wasn’t the case. If it wasn’t for
the infamy of the case, I probably wouldn’t even remember
the outcome.
Fourth grade finished rather quietly and time progressed
rapidly through the summer and into another year of
school. But this year was going to be different from all
the rest. I remember, with the utmost clarity, the
majority of 1997 because of the roll it played in shaping
the rest of my life. This, my fifth grade year, was the
year my hormones began to kick in and, effectively, lead
me on the path of emotional instability usually reserved
for older kids. As if this new trauma wasn’t enough to
burden the slowly maturing mind of a ten year old, the
news of the suicide of Ryan Grant only exacerbated
things. Why did he do it? Was that all life was going to
grant him? How could he paint a picture of life, as bad
as it should seem, to the point where he thought he had no
other alternative? In retrospect, Ryan Grant was the stone
tossed into the placid waters of Rose Tree Media that set
off innumerous ripples that are still being felt today.
But hindsight is always seen with 20/20 vision and during
my struggle to come to grips with his death, I lost my
innocence. The airtight bubble that encased me in fourth
grade had suddenly popped, giving way to an inundation of
unprecedented emotions.
As the questions conflagrated, I began to feel more and
more isolated from my free spirited peers. And with this
isolation came the self-questioning and soul searching
that seems to follow solitude hand in hand. Being a
naturally shy child, I didn’t have a hard time masking my
inner turmoil, but the tenacious affections would not
subside. Their incessant qualms of self doubt began to
overwhelm my fragile mind and I plunged, head first, into
the turbulent sea of depression.
The day and all of its inhabitants seemed drugged into
believing that their world was real; that their
tribulations of lost action figures and sleepovers were
tantamount to the unspeakable pain of standing amidst a
crowd yet still feeling alone. I watched the passing of
each sedated day with the slow, rooted pain of watching a
loved one pass and I prayed each night, asking God to save
me from the inner demons that tormented me. As days
turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, my once
staunch faith began to falter.
As my metamorphosis to decadence worsened, my
questions of why and what if began to evolve into more
grotesque questions about the macabre. The answers no
longer mattered and hope had all but evaporated from my
seas and burned in the atmosphere upon reentry. I turned
to God, as I did every night since Ryan’s suicide, and
prayed, demanded, screamed for that miracle, that panacea,
that would cure me of my ails and return me to sanity.
For the time being, that magnanimous angel did not appear.
Desperate for mitigation from my nefarious demons, I came
upon the only path I had left. Now I understood what Ryan
had felt, now I understood his choices, now I understood
WHY. But none of this cured my insatiable appetite for
release. I came to the stark realization that having the
cure for cancer doesn’t help an AIDS patient. Haplessly,
I ventured my way down the dark, tangibly contrite path,
still fresh from the footsteps of Ryan Grant, but that’s
when it happened. That is when Gabriel embedded himself
into one of my classmate’s soul and took the guise of a
charismatic, yet reticent ten year old. Arion (whose name
has been changed to protect his identity) swooped down
from the highest tiers of heaven and took me under his
wings. He taught me how to play football, he introduced
me to my innumerable peers, but most importantly, he
instilled an eternal flame of hope in my soul, which
continues to flicker to this day. Every night I thank God
for this second opportunity and I try to, somehow, go out
of my way and make someone’s day a little easier.