Author Archives: joegoncalves

Capitalism and Social Disorder in Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower

Abstract

There are several themes that reoccur throughout the genre of sci-fi and particularly dystopian fiction. One of these themes is the presence of capitalism in the dystopian world. In several pieces of fiction in this genre, capitalism is extrapolated to its extreme, exemplifying the real world’s economic policies and how they would affect a society when brought to their farthest level. We see in these works how as neoliberal economics leads corporations to become the main source of power within society, they become the de-facto governing faculty while government transforms into an almost passive body that serves only the purposes of maintaining order that serves the interests of these massive corporations. While this is a theme present throughout the genre, I will focus particularly on Octavia Butler’s novel Parable of the Sower.. Butler’s novel shows a world where neoliberal economics have begun a societal death spiral leading to a dystopic future.

Neoliberal Economics as a Corrosive Force

All dystopian fiction is rooted in the troubles of the society the work is written in. In some sense all portrayals of society depicted in this genre contain some amount of commentary on the real-world conditions that are present at the time of the work’s creation. Considering this we should understand that few factors affect our real-world society more than economic policy. Thus, one important aspect to consider in the worlds presented in these fictions is their representations of economy and government.

Considering this, it is easy to see why Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower has become so well regarded in the realm of dystopian fiction. It’s depiction of a near-future has been called prophetic by many reviewers (Leo) for the way it extrapolates modern day American politics and social conditions to their logical extremes. The story revolves around a girl named Lauren Olamina who lives in a walled village named Robledo in what remains of the United States after years of internal turmoil. The world Butler has crafted for us is one where social order has fallen apart. Rampant violence and discord has taken over most of the country, and in many ways Lauren’s position, while not enviable by most modern standards today, is a privileged one in the world she inhabits. However, the protection of the walls is not iron-clad. Several times in the story these walls are breached, whether it be by the “street poor” outside or stray bullets. (Butler, 50) Despite this moderate level of protection Lauren’s village is eventually destroyed and most of her family and friends killed in the process, where she must then begin a long journey on foot with two other characters in an attempt to survive.

In the early passages of Parable of the Sower we get glimpses at the ways that America has become the dystopian setting Butler has penned. The first glimpse comes when Lauren’s narration tells us that “Dad says water now costs several times as much as gasoline. But, except for arsonists and the rich, most people have given up buying gasoline.” (Butler, 18) This quick line explains to us how the market present in the world of the novel has affected the ability for people to acquire the necessities for life. The rise in the price of water can only be due to its commodification. It has been viewed not as a necessity for life, something that should be valued and preserved for distribution to as many as possible or at the very least subsidized, but a commodity to be sold for the highest price one is willing to pay. This is an astute understanding of the real world today, as there is a lucrative market in betting on future water scarcity according to Michael Lewis’ The Big Short. Lauren’s narration speaks more about the privatization and corporatization rampant in her society as the chapter continues

“Donner has already said that as soon as possible after his inauguration next year, he’ll begin to dismantle the ‘wasteful, pointless, unnecessary’ moon and Mars programs. Near space programs dealing with communications and experimentation will be privatized—sold off. Also, Donner has a plan for putting people back to work. he hopes to get laws changed, suspend ‘overly restrictive’ minimum wage, environmental, and worker protection laws for those employers willing to take on homeless employees and provide them with training and adequate room and board. What’s adequate, I wonder? A house or apartment? A room? A bed in a shared room? A barracks bed? Space on a floor? Space on the ground? And what about people with big families? Won’t they be seen as bad investments? Won’t it make much more sense for companies to hire single people, childless couples, or, at most, people with only one or two kids? I wonder. And what about those suspended laws? Will it be legal to poison, mutilate, or infect people —as long as you provide them with food, water, and space to die?”

(Butler, 27)

This section of narration gives us an thorough overview of how neoliberal economics has been implemented in the world of Parable of the Sower in a general sense. We see the ways that space exploration, a program that historically has always been a federally funded entity organized towards scientific and national initiatives is now considered wasteful and those parts that are considered worthy of keeping are being privatized. Again, we see some real-life parallels here with the current day privatization of space programs with companies such as Space-X and Blue Origin. Another real-life parallel comes in the form of political and cultural theorist Mark Fisher’s comments on the rise of privatization in his book “Capitalist Realism.” He says,

“It is worth recalling that what is currently called realistic was itself once ‘impossible’: the slew of privatizations that took place since the 1980s would have been unthinkable only a decade earlier, and the current political-economic landscape (with unions in abeyance, utilities and railways denationalized) could scarcely have been imagined in 1975.”

(Fisher, 17)

Fisher here is referring to the trend of privatization that began in the 1980s in America and continues more voraciously to this day. The novel extends this even farther as characters have to pay a fee for emergency services such as fire and police. (Butler, 32) Continuing this same trend of a world catered to corporate entities, we see the suspension of laws that protect workers and the environment with the intent of “putting people back to work.” This proposition is an in-book version of trickle-down economics, an economic system that was created with the idea that if the company makes more money it will inevitably “trickle down” in the form of wages. However, this idea doesn’t really take the human propensity for greed into account, and we see this in the passage. When Lauren begins to question just how little will be given to these employees now that these protection laws have been stripped away, she is concerned because she understands that those that run these companies will want to maximize their profits by any means possible, which includes depriving their employees of basic necessities. This all becomes even more shocking when we consider that the novel tells us that the currency has become incredibly inflated and that a thousand dollars is barely enough to feed someone for two weeks. (Butler, 312) The strongest line in the entire passage is when Lauren says “And what about people with big families? Won’t they be seen as bad investments?” The classification of families as “investments” perfectly sums up the commodification of the human being within the world that Butler has created in the novel. As far as corporations in the book are concerned, human beings serve only the purpose of labor (investment) or liability (debt). Parable of the Sower’s world is one wherein everything is commodified.

This commodification of the human body extends beyond the level of corporations into the realm of sexuality and gender. In the world of the novel prostitution and sexual slavery run rampant, and it’s for this reason that Lauren decides to travel as a man. Clara Escoda Agustí speak on this in her essay “The Relationship Between Community and Subjectivity in Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower” saying,

“…Butler dramatizes and overcomes the exploitation of the female that ensues from such a form of capitalism. In her novel, sexual slavery and prostitution are inherent tendencies of a system that favors profit at the expense of human well-being.”

(Agustí, 351)

Mention of women having to sell their bodies to survive is sprinkled in throughout the book. In chapter 11 Lauren talks about how she believes her brother Keith who goes outside Robledo’s walls and seems to come up with money for their mother without giving an explanation is likely involved with crime and prostitution. Later on in chapter 15 she speaks about how when walking on the freeway they see prostitutes and desperate peddlers of food or water along the road trying to either sell themselves or thieve to survive. We see in these segments not just the human body as a commodity, but sexuality as a commodity.

Another critical element of how neoliberal politics has been extrapolated in Parable of the Sower is the presence of company towns. In chapter 11 the reader learns that there is a company town opening up near Robledo named Olivar, created by one of the mega-corporations that hold de-facto control over the United States, KSF. We hear about these towns through more of Lauren’s narration:

“Room and board. The offered salaries were so low that if Dad and Cory both worked, they wouldn’t earn as much as Dad is earning now with the college. And out of it they’d have to pay rent as well as the usual expenses. In fact, when you add everything up, it’s clear that with the six of us, they couldn’t earn enough to meet expenses….Anyone KSF hired would have a hard time living on the salary offered. In not very much time, I think the new hires would be in debt to the company. That’s an old company-town trick—get people into debt, hang on to them, and work them harder. Debt slavery. That might work in Christopher Donner’s America. Labor laws, state and federal, are not what they once were.”

(Butler, 120-121)

Here Lauren explains to the reader exactly how these company towns function. They lure desperate people in through the prospect of employment and housing, with the caveat of having to pay rent to the company for said housing. The salaries the companies pay will never meet the cost of living and thus the workers are always indebted to the company and become literal slaves to the organization. Gregory J. Hampton draws a parallel between this system and sharecropping in his essay, “Migration and the Capital of the Body: Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower,” saying,

“The community members are forced into trading their freedom for protection from hostile urban forces. The salaries offered by the KSF would eventually force any and all of its laborers into debt slavery, much like sharecropping did in the rural south during the Reconstruction era…Thus, both Lauren and her father understand that if Olivar succeeds, more privatized cities will be established. Like a virus the KSF will divide America into sources of cheap labor and cheap land for the sole purpose of profit.”

(Hampton, 65)

We see this idea Hampton puts forward of the company cities spreading like a virus in the novel, as we see Lauren respond to dialogue asking if there will be more privatized cities, “Bound to be if Olivar succeeds. This country is going to be parceled out as a source of cheap labor and cheap land.” (Butler, 129) The reason that Lauren believes there will be more privatized cities is that, given the chaos of the world they are living in, they provide a security that those that are truly desperate will flock to. In a way these company towns can represent a kind of utopia, representing a reprieve from the chaos of the outer world, but for the reader looking at them from a type of detached lens we understand them to be anything but.

This idea of company towns may seems a far stretch of the imagination by today’s standards, but there is some precedent for the idea even in the modern zeitgeist. A 2014 op-ed from The Guardian entitled “Google has sleep pods, Yelp has beer—why don’t we just live at work?” proposes the idea of people living at their offices. Granted, the article speaks about the luxurious offices of tech giants such as Google and Facebook, however the idea of being housed by your employer is still there. In fact, one section of the article says,

“It’s only natural I suppose. As the industrial age, at least for us in the west, puffs its last climate-punishing puff, we can throw off the yoke of the commuter and choose to work where we live, or live where we work. Just as we did in those fondly remembered days when we were all serfs.”

(Moran)

While the idea of this can be seen as hyperbolic by today’s standards, the allusion to serfdom does bring to mind a certain comparison to the company towns presented by Octavia Butler in her novel.

Social Despotism

The societal and economic hardships that those living in the world of Parable of the Sower face have larger effects than creating financial difficulty. The world Butler has penned is marked by constant violence, distrust and tribulation. Even in the early sections of the novel where much of the story is taking place within the walls of Robledo we are still exposed to the violence outside. The first instance is when a young child, Amy, is shot by a stray bullet and killed through the gate of the village. Butler leaves the reader with the looming sense of chaos just outside the walls until Lauren must go out and face it for herself. In these early segments of the book we notice the psychological effect that this has on the characters. They crave for the past, for a time not so violent and where they did not have to struggle so hard to simply survive. We see in the adults of the Robledo a nostalgia, hoping for a past before the corporatizing of America and before the subsistence living that they are now subject to. There is a shared sense among this older generation that if they simply wait things out long enough and retain hope it might one day return. Paula Guerrero speaks on this in her essay “Post-Apocalyptic Memory Sites: Damaged Space, Nostalgia, and Refuge in Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower.” She says,

“For the older generation, home is a fantasy from the past that ought to be kept, and nostalgia is the means to maintain it, to preserve hope that this past will one day return. Their nostalgia is, in the words of Svetlana Boym, ‘restorative,’ aimed at rebuilding ‘a home that no longer exists.’”

(Guerrero, 29)

We see this demonstrated in the novel during a conversation between Cory and Lauren. Cory, Lauren’s stepmother, pines for the times when the city lights would brighten the darkness that comes with nightfall, while Lauren disagrees with her, appreciating the natural beauty of the stars. Here we see the difference in the generational ideas of what they hope for. Cory hopes for a return to the former economic prosperity that society used to have, while Lauren can only appreciate what little they have and cannot hope for more simply because this is the only life she has known. The older generation hopes for the past, and the younger generation simply cannot afford to hope. In many ways this makes Lauren more apt to survive in the adverse conditions of the America that Butler has presented us with. Her inability to feel nostalgia for this past allows her to be prepared for the future chaos to come. Jerry Phillips speaks about this in his essay “The Intuition of the Future: Utopia and Catastrophe in Octavia Butler’s ‘Parable of the Sower.’” He says,

“In contrast to the residents of Privatopia, who seek to avoid the realities of the world, Lauren genuinely transcends the “chaos” without, because she understands that only by working through the contradictions of the world does only move beyond them.”

(Phillips, 303

As the novel continues we see more of the destitute conditions of the country. People are constantly stealing from one another. Lauren and her traveling companions come across corpses on several occasions, sometimes mutilated or burned. Everything outside of their protective bubble of Robledo is a free-for-all, with everyone looking out for themselves. There is no sense of social cohesion. Lauren knows this well and it is this that accounts for her survivalist mindset. We see it on display in a piece of dialogue where she says, “Nothing is going to save us. If we don’t save ourselves, we’re dead.” (Butler, 59) And again when she says

“I am one of the street poor, now. Not as poor as some, but homeless, alone, full of books and ignorant of reality…there’s no one I can afford to trust. No one to back me up.”

(Butler, 156)

It seems that in this world the social breakdown has also extended to racial and gendered violence, as Lauren travels as a man for safety reasons. They speak about how rapes and sexual violence occurs often in unguarded areas. Laws are in place, they are simply not enforced and the police in the novel are privatized, working for fees. We see an example of this towards the end of the novel when police speak to Bankole regarding a fire on his sister’s property

“The deputies all but ignored Bankole’s story and his questions. They wrote nothing down, claimed to know nothing. They treated Bankole as though they doubted that he even had a sister or that he was who he said he was…They searched him and took the cash he was carrying. Fees for police services, they said.”

(Butler, 316)

They don’t investigate crimes, they are shown simply showing up where they are called, taking some notes, collecting their fees and taking their leave. The violence is not just against women but also has its roots in race as well. At one point the character Zahra, who is traveling with Lauren, says “Mixed couples catch hell whether people think they’re gay or straight. Harry’ll piss off all the blacks and you’ll piss off all the whites. Good luck.” (Butler, 171-172) What this implies is that a sort of racial tribalism has taken hold of the country. This makes the group that Lauren assembles by the end of the novel even more transgressive, as it represents both gender diversity and racial diversity.

Another significant social issue that the novel describes is that of the pyros (also occasionally called paints), a group of people that are addicted to a psychoactive drug that makes the users mesmerized by flames and start fires. These people are rampant throughout the country and pose a massive problem for the society. They are almost a Mad-Max like version of a drug addict gone mad in their own addiction. Butler describes them in the novel with the following,

“Crazies did that. Paints. They shave off all their hair. Even their eyebrows—and they paint their skin green or blue or red or yellow. They eat fire and kill rich people…They take that drug that makes them like to watch fires. Sometimes a camp fire or a trash fire or a house fire. Or sometimes they grab a rich guy and set him on fire…I heard some of them used to be rich kids, so I don’t know why they hate rich people so much. That drug is bad, though. Sometimes the paints like the fire so much they get too close to it. Then their friends don’t even help him. They just watch them burn. It’s like…I don’t know, it’s like they were fucking the fire, and like it was the best fuck they ever had.”

(Butler, 110-111)

In this description we see how tight of a grip this drug has on the populace. With how much of an effect we see the pyros having on the social stability in the country, we can imagine that, at least to some extent, this is a systemic issue. It is also notable here that the pyros seem to be disproportionately targeting the rich in their attacks. This frames their violence in another light. What the pyros do in the novel is undoubtedly brutal, however when we consider the idea that there may be some methodology or reason behind it, it dissuades the idea that the pyros are simply addicts that have lost control or a scattering of lost savages. They may be instead a group of people that have been neglected by the world, like many of the characters in this novel have, and lashed out in a more dramatic fashion. So we see this level of chaos and disorder not just in the form of theft, violence and rape, but also of hedonistic drug use, possibly caused by the systemic issues inherent in the world of the novel.

With all this social disorder also comes alienation from one another and a more general air of fear that can drive some such as the debt slaves to accept the status they are given. This is mentioned in the novel

“She decided then to run away, to take her daughter and brave the roads with their thieves, rapists, and cannibals. They had nothing for anyone to steal, and rape wasn’t something they could escape by remaining slaves. As for the cannibals…well, perhaps they were only fantasies—lies intended to frighten slaves into accepting their lot. ‘There are cannibals,’ I told her as we ate that night. ‘We’ve seen them.’

(Butler, 289)

Conditions like these can lead those who are living in the company towns as debt slaves to not look for other opportunities for life because it is too much of a safety risk to go out on your own. There is a tight and rigid power structure in place that reinforces the hierarchies of the society. All this social chaos and disorder in the world of Parable only serves to prop up these structures created by the exaggeration of neoliberal economic policies.

Conclusion

Octavia Butler’s novel serves as a harrowing look at how a future completely overtaken by neoliberal politics and privatization may look. Daniel Clausen was not too far off when describing the government in the novel as, “a logical ad absurdum version of small government ideology, having atrophied to the point where all that remains are taxes that seem to do nothing more than legitimize land ownership.” (Clausen, 274) Butler foresees a government beholden to the whims of massive corporations, curtailing of laws that protect workers and the environment, privatization of every service that can be privatized and ultimately debt slavery to employers. This inevitably leads to a world of widespread violence, social alienation and destitution across the country. It is a pessimistic look at America’s future.

The end of the novel contains seeds of hope, with Lauren’s ideology being steeped in the idea that small grass-roots organization can create something new for humanity. While she never intends to overthrow the prevailing powers that be, she works in small community-based movements. The tone at the end of the novel is best described as wary hopefulness, with this passage leaving us off towards the end.

“‘You know, as bad as things are, we haven’t even hit bottom yet. Starvation disease, drug damage, and mob rule have only begun. Federal, state, and local governments still exist—in name at least—and sometimes they manage to do something more than collect taxes and send in the military. And the money is still good. That amazes me. However much more you need of it to buy anything these days, it is still accepted. That may be a hopeful sign—or perhaps it’s only more evidence of what I said: We haven’t hit bottom yet.’ ‘Well, the group of us here doesn’t have to sink any lower.’”

(Butler, 328)

Multiculturalism in Education

**This was written for a college class I took in the Fall 2020 semester.**

American classrooms are more diverse than they ever have been and like many institutions in America, the changes have not come without controversy. Some of the nationalist rhetoric we have heard in our political discourse over the past four years (and before) has bled into conversations over our education system. The pushback against multiculturalism in the classroom and the curriculum changes that come with it have been fierce, with President Trump going so far as to lambaste The New York Times’ 1609 Project that attempted to reframe America’s history in a more factual context rather that emphasized the role of people of color rather than the sanitized version of American history that has pervaded for the majority of the country’s history. While multiculturalism can be beneficial to the whole of a society; in the modern world it is inevitable. Diversity and multiculturalism should not be feared or resisted, it should be embraced and America’s education system as well as its people will be required to adapt to it in order to thrive. 

To begin talking about multiculturalism in education we must discuss the intentions of education. This is a conversation that, in recent years, many Americans have been either reluctant to speak on, or when it is discussed it typically becomes mired in political dogma or American exceptionalism. These disagreements make perfect sense in the context of the broader American society. The institutions of a society will always reflect the values and ideologies of the dominant force within that society. Therefore, America’s pattern of exceptionalism conflicts with the ways the world is quickly changing. These are not new debates or conversations, rather, they are ones that have been changing and evolving throughout the course of the nation. 

In 1934 John Dewey, an American philosopher and education reformer, stated, “Any education is, in its forms and methods, an outgrowth of the needs of the society in which it exists.” He argued that education is a “social and interactive process, and thus the school itself is a social institution through which social reform can and should take place.” This sentiment, largely meant to be an ethical design for a fluid and ever-changing schooling paradigm, has been hacked by some ideologues who would have American schools become a tool for forceful assimilation. Modern curriculums that have changed their history curriculums to include more narratives of minority groups and women while acknowledging some of the unethical practices in America’s past have come under fire by those would-be populists that think that these changes are “Anti-American.” These voices that speak of education in puritanical terms prevent us from seeing its true purpose.

In finding an ethical and sustainable definition for the intentions of our education system, I would like to take an idea from Arthur Foshay, the former president of the Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development. He states, “The one continuing purpose of education, since ancient times, has been to bring people to as full a realization as possible of what it means to be a human being.” He also criticized the idea that schools should exist to prepare students for the workforce or simply to contribute to the economy or promote any sort of political doctrine. In this I agree with him, and believe that our schools should focus on providing our students with the ability to not only live in our current society and the broader world, but also give them the tools to influence that society in a positive and constructive manner. Working with this definition, multiculturalism becomes an integral part of the future of our education system. 

The demographics of the American classroom are changing and it doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon. The estimated number of foreigners in the US quadrupled from 9.6 million to 41.3 million from 1970 to 2013. (Alismail 1) Given the refugee crises going on in the Middle East and Central/Southern America, America’s demographics will be come much more ethnically and nationally diverse. While some, such as political commentator Patrick Buchanan see multiculturalism as “a cancer eating away at the fabric of American society,” American students and the American populous have much to gain from this increasing diversity. However, American educators must be prepared for the changes necessary to properly teach a multicultural classroom. 

One important hurdle that educators face in the integration of multicultural students in their classroom is tailoring the curriculum and presentation of material to reflect those students. While most Americans think of the country as being a “melting pot,” conjuring up images and sounds from School House Rock and the wholesome teachings of American education in decades past, we must recognize that this ideal has rarely, if ever, been met for many sects of our society. Those images of cultures coming together and creating something new has all too often turned into an assimilation process for immigrants who arrive to America, forcing them to conform with pre-established ways of living without recognizing their cultural traditions.

Forcing assimilation upon people with a different culture and different norms not only serves to destroy the identity of an entire group of people simply based on where they move to, but it also sets a precedent that a modern American definition of culture is the only correct one. I doubt that an American who moved to another nation would be ok with the premise that their host country’s way of living is the only way of living and that they should check their American identity in at the door. For many people, their cultural backgrounds and history are very important to them, therefore it is morally wrong to force them to assimilate under some misguided premise of “national unity.” 

Unfortunately, our country’s education system often perpetuates and enforces that same flawed and morally backward precedent. Notions like Donald Trump’s attack on the 1609 Project serve to undermine the ability for America’s teachers to teach in a way that all their students can relate and empathize with. In a 1999 study referenced in the article “Multicultural Education: Teacher’s Perceptions and Preparation” by Halah Ahmed Alismail, researchers found that 90% of preservice teachers are middle-class Caucasians, and that a significant number of them display a type of unconscious racism towards certain ethnic groups and nationalities. These unconscious biases not only serve to inhibit minority and ethnically diverse students in their classroom, but it also sets these students up for a life in which they will always be seen as “foreign” or “other.”  

This paradigm can too be seen in our media, and has been for decades. Tara J. Yosso speaks on this in her article, “Critical Race Media Literacy for These Urgent Times.” She brings up the formula used by films such as Blackboard Jungle and others in the “urban high school” genre of film, wherein a white educator manages to “turn around” a group of Latina/o or Black youth to acclimate them more towards the American vision of a “good citizen.” She goes on to state, “This formula amplifies a distorted and incomplete view with a patronizing narrative characterizing Black and Latina/o high school students as delinquents dependent on the benevolence of a (usually) White teacher.” It is a recurrence of the “White Savior” myth that has persisted in the Western ideology since the days of colonialism. While we may think of these instances of being restricted to the realm of media and film; the reality is that media, especially in the modern era, serves as a form of pedagogy in itself, but in a way that affects not just the students, but also the teacher. These patterns reflected in film and fictitious narratives are indicative of the realities of the American classroom, and these must change to meet the sociological and philosophical demands of a multicultural world. 

The question that some have in regards to shifting the American education system to a more multicultural approach is “What do we stand to gain from it and what do we stand to lose from it?” I admit that in introducing a more diverse curriculum and environment certain things will change and arguably be “lost,” but much of what will be lost is mired in antiquity and exceptionalism and serve no use for the future of America and the modern world, meanwhile what we stand to gain is a more educated society that will be more prepared to mesh with the diversity that will inevitably come. 

Working under the definition given above for the intentions of education, having teachers and students that are more prepared for coexisting in a multicultural society will help them achieve the goals of being able to affect society in a positive and constructive manner. Students that work in an environment where they feel represented tend to be more engaged with the work that they are doing, therefore as educators it is our responsibility to supply an environment that fosters that. We are doing a disservice to minority or foreign students when we do not include their culture in the curriculum. Evidence has shown that representation is important to the psychological growth and wellbeing of a child and an environment that constantly reinforces that the child is an “other” will never be able to teach them effectively. 

At the same time a multicultural classroom not only helps to serve minority groups and ethnically diverse students, it also serves white American students by instilling in them a respect and tolerance for diverse peoples and groups. This will allow them to not only feel more connected to their peers in a more meaningful way, it will also help to remedy some of the de-facto segregation that commonly exists in American schools. At the same time it will also prepare students to have the interpersonal skills to work within an ever more diverse workforce and collaborate in a more meaningful way. However, the most important thing that white Americans stand to gain from embracing a more diverse classroom is learning how to respect one another’s place within society. 

In 2020 we are seeing what is possibly the most polarized American society has been in decades, perhaps even centuries. This occurs along political lines as well as racial and ethnic lines. With an increase in diversity and a decrease in the tolerance for foreign members of our country, chaos and anger are all but inevitable. In 2016 the Southern Poverty Law Center published a report called The Trump Effect: The Impact of the Presidential Campaign on our Nation’s Schools. The report surveyed 2,000 teachers, the vast majority of which said that they “felt profoundly troubled by the racial rhetoric of the presidential candidate and the almost immediate impact on their students.” Over two-thirds of the teachers reported “their students held visceral fears about what might happen to them or their families after the election.” Several teachers also said that they saw some students feeling emboldened to engage in hate speech or hostility toward peers they considered to be immigrants, Muslim, Mexican or Black. It is important to note that these chaotic and angry sentiments towards minority groups, while reaching a boiling point in the last several years, have been simmering for decades due to America’s inability to embrace an ethnically diverse populous. 

The coming crises of civil unrest and quite possibly even civil war can be remedied in significant degree by changing the pedagogy of the American classroom to be more multicultural. As people we should always strive to leave this world a little bit better than when we found it. This is a noble sentiment and one that perhaps people in the modern age have lost touch with somewhat. The nationalist movement in America is often rooted in antiquity and frameworks of thinking that do not translate to a multicultural world. While many will try to fight tooth and nail against a multicultural world, it is inevitably where we are headed. By changing pedagogy to prepare students for that world, we serve not just ourselves but all future generations to not only be more tolerant of other peoples, but to have respect for other cultures and their way of living. America is not an island unto itself and no one in this world can stand alone. As small, warring tribes, the American experiment will fail. 

With multicultural education we seek not to destroy the American ideology, but to let it change as it always has and blossom into a new, hopefully more enlightened state. Schools around the country now have the task of rising to the occasion and I hope they succeed, not just for myself, not just for foreign students, not just white students, but for every single student that will grow up to become a fully participating citizen in our American society. 

I can’t recall the darkness

When I stare out my bedroom window
in the haze of insomnia

I expect a smooth and ever
twinkling oblivion,

as if Jackson Pollock had
painted with light upon the sky.

But I am met with a dusty dissipation.
Sulfurous synthetic light.

Part of my heart wonders if
darkness still exists.

If somewhere on this glowing Earth
exists a dome of black speckled with

twinkling corpses of long dead
stars and a band of translucent

milky space matter. I hope when my eyes
close for the final time, we are reunited,

as the dark wraps its cold
and glittering arms around me 

like a mother holding her
long lost child. 

11:22 pm

Today I saw a fly.
A poor little housefly
writhing in utter agony
on my kitchen counter. 

Blended into the black stone,
knock off onyx,
invisible but for an incessant
and futile buzzing. 

I stood there and
watched it struggle.
Its enormous eyes crying
tiny housefly tears. 

I felt like a farmhand
preparing to put down a
prized steed, simply because it
had outlived its usefulness. 

A solemn little creature
screaming into a void
deprived of hope
deprived of dignity. 

I whispered a prayer while
crushing it under my bare
thumb. I could have sworn that
as it left for heaven, it whispered back.

At The End

Inside my withered and
brittle bones, there stands
a man. 

A lonely man atop a hill,
watching quietly as the
world ends.

Fire turns the twilight sky
a deep shade of ashy crimson.
Oceans drown monuments of
stone and steel.

The sounds of death and decay,
flooding the man’s ears.
The sights of tragedy and torment
burning his retinas.

Across his face, his
lips curl into a
peaceful smile.

He knows that very soon,
all will finally be
quiet. 

It will be so quiet, and
the silence will be so beautiful.

Long Island’s Rising Cost of Livings Leads to Residents Losing Homes

(This piece was done as a capstone project in my senior year of college.)

In a sequestered area of Medford, New York, a neighborhood is riddled with “For Sale” signs. Dilapidated homes with vinyl siding peeling away, door handles hanging off their frames, and house numbers spray-painted on the front of the houses. From the street you can hear the sounds of children inside, some laughing and some crying. The driveway is overflowing with cars, despite the home being no more than three bedrooms, and it being 2:15pm on a Tuesday. This home is in foreclosure, and at some point in the future the family inside will likely be evicted. Dozens of homes within five miles will be in foreclosure in the coming months. 

These scenes have played out all across New York in the last year, particularly in Suffolk County. The state and county have been outliers in the national trend of plummeting foreclosure rates. The rate of foreclosure and delinquency in the United States are at their lowest in levels in 10 years, according to real estate news publication Think Realty. While that trend holds true nationwide, six states have seen an increase in the number of foreclosures between 2016 and 2018. New York had the third highest increase in foreclosures during this period with a rate of 9%, being beaten only by Vermont with 27% and West Virginia with 33%, according to Attom Data Solutions. 

“There’s no way they (foreclosure rates) can’t go up. People can’t hold on anymore,” said foreclosure attorney Catherine Laviano when asked about the excessive business she’s seen in people trying desperately to avoid foreclosure. 

Homeowners come to attorneys like Mrs. Laviano when they’ve been served foreclosure notices by their mortgage lender, usually a bank, for failing to make their mortgage payments. They will typically request a mortgage modification, which functions as a “re-negotiation” of their mortgage contract, allowing them to set up a period of very low interest for several years, with interest increasing on a yearly basis. It allows people to try and catch up with their payments and prevent the banks from proceeding with the foreclosure process. Laviano has several clients that have defaulted several times and come to her for a second or even third mortgage modification. 

When most of us think about foreclosure, we imagine after not making mortgage payments, the banks go up to a delinquent homeowner and kick them out of the house right then and there. They put signs on the windows and board up the doors and that’s that. This does happen in some states, but New York is what’s referred to as a “judicial state.” In a judicial state, the homeowner has a legal right to fight the foreclosure process and attempt to keep their home. Often they will go through mortgage modifications. A mortgage modification is essentially a re-negotiation of a mortgage contract to a lower interest rate for a period of time with the intent of making the loan more affordable. Sometimes they’ll declare bankruptcy. Often they will do both. 

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Laviano and dozens of other attorneys provide a necessary service to those struggling with keeping their homes. Often they’ll reach out for those services after their third missed payment. After the third missed payment, most mortgage lenders won’t allow the homeowner to pay any partial debt, it becomes all or nothing. If a homeowner owes $10,000 and they have $9,500 in their account, it doesn’t matter. The bank moves forward with foreclosure. 

When the bank decides to move forward with foreclosure, they sue the homeowner, and the case goes to court. This begins an often lengthy process of dragging out the trial for as long as possible. Often, that involves the homeowner declaring bankruptcy. If the home is owned by a couple, one will declare bankruptcy to delay the trial and then the other will follow suit. In these cases homes can stay in the foreclosure anywhere from 3-7 years. 

During this time the residents can live in the home, and no mortgage is paid until the case is settled or the homeowners are evicted. Some homeowners will rent out the the house in a last desperate attempt to save their home. Andrew Owad was one of the tenants that lived in a home that was being rented out in an attempt to save it. 

“I think it started with a nasty divorce,” Mr. Owad said. “That was enough for them to nearly lose their home.”

POTENTIAL FOR PROFIT

While the rise in foreclosures has been a nightmare for homeowners and those in poor financial circumstances, house flippers have been swimming in a sea of cheap real estate and potential investments.

Kyle Clark is one of those making use of the lucrative situation. He is 22 years old. A tall and thin young man dressed in slightly baggy jeans a grey hoodie, he doesn’t quite have the look that comes to mind when you think “real estate shark.” He went to college for about a year before dropping out, deciding that school was never for him. His day job is at a printing company, but he started flipping houses for extra money three years ago. He is currently working on a house he bought in Mastic, one of the harder-hit neighborhoods in terms of foreclosure. It was sold at a bank auction for $230,000. It is expected to sell for around $400,000. 

The house he is renovating is in shabby condition, with mold in the kitchen, antiquated windows, plumbing and electrical problems and in need of a cosmetic re-design. The two-floor home is fairly large compared to others in the area, but much of the inside is antiquated and isn’t up to Town of Brookhaven code. Despite the unsightly conditions, Clark says that this house is in the best condition of those he has purchased. 

“I probably need to put around 70 to 80 thousand worth of work into the place, which is a lot but still nets me about 100 thousand in the end,” said Clark. 

In the case of this home, the homeowners left the state several months after beginning to default on their mortgage. They had renters in the home when they left, and when the owner stopped paying their mortgage, the tenants stopped paying their rent. They lived in the house without paying rent for seven years, riding the wave of the foreclosure machine. After finally being evicted, it was repossessed by the bank and sold to Mr. Clark, though it wasn’t a simple purchase. 

“There are usually around 10-15 people bidding on the same houses. Everyone from professional investors or people with extra money are jumping to invest,” Clark said.  

While Clark stands to make a substantial amount of money from his investment, the seven people that lived in that home were forced to find a new place to live, just some of thousands in Suffolk County that will be evicted from their homes in the next several years. 

THE “WHY” OF FORECLOSURE

The most significant cause for this regional rise in foreclosures is the cost of living on Long Island. The average cost for property taxes on a $400,000 home in Medford, NY is $8,876 annually. This is a rate of 2.219% of the home value. The national average is 1.211%. The statewide average for property tax is 1.65%, according to smartasset.com‘s property tax calculator. 

Property taxes don’t seem to be getting any lower in New York. The average property tax has increased for the last three years, according to data taken by ATTOM Data Solutions. 

The Long Island Housing Partnership is one of dozens of non-profit organizations set up in New York to aid in keeping homeowners in their homes as well as helping find affordable housing and providing counseling on first time home buyers. These groups have subsisted off of funding taken from the settlements from lawsuits involving the nations largest banks after the 2008 housing crisis. 

Butterfly

Turning a key
half way,
counter-clockwise.

A slow revolution
of rusty hinges,
screaming me a warning
upon thoughtless ears.

Slow and silent steps
along a cold hardwood floor,
as snow skitters inside.

The wooden chair on the floor,
the rope hanging from the ceiling.

And the tape rewinds.

I drift out with the winds
and meander up the dusted walkway.

I turn the key,
clockwise.

Peering inside I see the chair,
upright by the kitchen table.

In it I sit,
drinking my morning coffee.

Forgiveness Rarely Granted

Outside a cold and foggy window
the rain is pouring upside down.
On the wall sits the shadow of a willow,
like you sliding on your nightgown.
The floor creaks under bare feet,
and fire has become cinders.
Sweat has soaked through the sheet
with dreams  of a former winter.
My heart is full of holes
patched with poorly applied plaster.
My mind is full of lost souls
that can’t remember the sound of laughter.
 
I hope when I reach heaven’s gate
God will forgive me for showing up late.

Overdose

For the second time in my life, I found someone overdosing while I was working. Tonight it was at Barnes & Noble. We had just closed for the evening. It was about five minutes after nine when I began to do my end-of-day tasks, which consisted of making sure there were no customers left in the store. I strolled over to the bathrooms to see if they were clear.

I squatted down to check under the stalls and saw a man about the same age as myself lying on his side on the filthy tile floor, a small pool of urine at the base of the toilet near his sneakers. His face was a pale blue and his eyes had rolled back into their sockets. After pausing for a moment to see if he was breathing I ran over to my coworker while calling 911. I told the operator what had happened and paged for my manager over the headset slouching off of my right ear.  

I returned to the bathroom where the man was making ferocious grunting and snoring sounds. They were the same sounds I heard emanating from the last person I had discovered having a drug overdose. It was the unmistakable howl of his body gasping for air as the drugs stifled his nervous system and lungs. 

My manager and I got the bathroom stall door open and stepped inside. The man at my feet was still heaving and choking. His pants had fallen down to the bottom of his rear and his sweater was wet. I told my manager to go wait for the cops and fire department to come while I waited to make sure he didn’t stop breathing. 

Just a moment after he left, the room mall security arrived. It was the same two gentlemen that had always worked mall security. A hispanic man in his early 30s and a stout, average looking white man several years younger. As they walked into the stout one said, “Shit. It’s this guy again.” 

“I’m guessing you two know each other?” I asked him. 

“Yea he O.D’d in the mall bathroom last week.”

“Fuck,” I sighed. 

They walked past me and began to roll the man onto his back. The hispanic security guard patted his chest a few times and called to him “You alright man?” He started to open his eyes, but only slightly. In the process of rolling him over they revealed two syringes under him. This made three, including the one that fell into the toilet. 

The scene was uncannily similar to the first man I had found overdosing. He had been in a Walgreens bathroom, also heaving near the toilet, with a syringe floating in the water. An oxycontin bottle sat on the tank of the toilet bowl. That gentleman didn’t make it. 

I stood and watched in pitying silence as they began to pull the man up to a sitting position, leaning him against the faded yellow and green striped wallpaper. It was around then that the police and paramedics entered the room. The color had started to slowly return to the man’s face, and his eyes opened progressively wider, yet he could muster no words, only garbled groans and mumbles. 

The paramedics, police and mall security joked and caught up with one another while they tended to the man. The paramedic sat him up against a wall and began to administer Narcan, the medication used for reversing a drug overdose. They began to ask him the basic cognition test questions. What is your date of birth? What is your full name? 

While the paramedics saw to him and checked his vitals, the mall security and police filled me in on their history with the man. They told me he had either been caught using or overdosed several times in the mall before. He was homeless. He had been banned not only from the mall, but also from Barnes & Noble. He had OD’d once before at the store, before I had begun working there. 

My attention shifted back over to the man as he began to recover. The paramedic asked him to remove his soaking sweater so he could check his blood pressure. As he slowly pulled the sweater over his head it took his dirty white t-shirt with it, exposing his chest and arms. There were track marks all along both of his arms, as well as several on his hip and upper thigh. His hands were inflamed from numerous failed at attempts at injections and were stained with dried blood. Likely an infection. Likely one he’d had for a while.

The crew of paramedics had gotten him to his feet and began slowly walking him to the ambulance waiting outside. The police spoke to him with malice and disgust. Their tone wasn’t totally unwarranted for there is something selfish that can be seen about drug use, but for some reason unbeknownst to myself I felt a strong pity for him. He couldn’t have been much older than me. He was someone’s son. He was probably someone’s best friend at some point. Someone probably loved him in the past. Perhaps someone was wondering where he was at that very moment. 

After the ambulance had left I went back to my work as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just found a man on the brink of death. As if I hadn’t just watched a man nearly kill himself for what may have been his dozenth time. My coworkers expressed their frustrations at having to stay later to accommodate him. I couldn’t be angry. I couldn’t think about the selfishness of his actions or the inconvenience it placed on everyone in that room that night. I could only think of what could have been for this man, and what a crying shame it was that his life had ended up like this. 

I thought only of my friends and former classmates whose wakes I had gone to. I thought of my best friend crying to me as her sister had stolen $7,000 from her parents to pay for heroin. I thought of the news segments showing the facebook pictures of kids I knew of high school that wouldn’t make it to college. I thought about his family. I wondered if anyone would pick him up from the hospital. I hoped that someone would be there for him. I hoped he would be alive this time tomorrow. 

Hiding

There are an infinite amount of indignities that come with being a morbidly obese teenager. The obvious ones are the constant bullying and being gawked at by all of my peers as I walked by, but there was another side of it that wasn’t so obvious that hurt considerably more. You become so embarrassed that you force yourself into hiding. 

To be 300 pounds at the ripe age of 17 means being constantly uncomfortable. Everything that makes high school awkward and terrible is exponentially more torturous. Having to undress in front of a group of boys every day, all at the age where they stop having the slender or puffy bodies and begin to form carved chests and defined shoulders, only to forcefully pull off the sweat-stained XXL shirt that has been stuck to my back since the morning bus ride.

As I took off that moist shirt to unveil the gut spilling over the waistband of my chafing-to-the-bone jeans, I began to feel like a zoo animal locked in a cage. I was no longer a human being, not a peer of these people and certainly not a friend, but a sideshow attraction. What followed would be considered the pubescent, emotional form of waterboarding. There came the slaps, the jokes about my jiggling man-breasts, the stealing of my clothes so that my moments of involuntary near-nudity were prolonged. There’s a part of me that blames those boys for the immense discomfort I feel at being touched by another human being. I apologize profusely to all past and future girlfriends.

By the time I’d managed to get my clothes back and waddle out onto the gym floor, I was too emotionally spent to participate in anything, and I knew that whatever game started was to be just a more well orchestrated version of what had occurred to me in the locker room, but with the added risk of taking a basketball to the glasses. More often than not, I would put my sneakers back into my locker before I came out in my dirty black boots to feign stupidity to my teacher, saying I simply forgot my sneakers at home. He would respond with an angry and heavy sigh, give me a zero for the day, and I would sit along the sidelines next to the girls on their periods.

The cafeteria was the other location where I’d experience most of my indignities and embarrassment. My fat ass looked forward to the opportunity to inhale my school’s horrendous food, so it was excessively bittersweet. I would order more food than most of my classmates, as expected from someone of my particular girth. I would hear snickers and jabs at my expense from behind me as I paid for my two slices of pizza, Snapple and over-sized brownie. 

Then came the process of actually getting somewhere to sit. In the highly competitive world of high-school life, where you sit became a display of power as well as a social experiment. I went to a high school dominated by cliques and social stratum, and I never quite fit in to any of them. That was mostly intentional. It was easier to stay separated than to risk the embarrassment of attempting to make friends.

The tables in my cafeteria were built like picnic tables, with the benches attached to the sides. This presented a problem for me, as my bulbous legs had trouble getting over the bench and into the small gap between the table. Thankfully, there were rows of wooden benches along the side of the cafeteria. Usually, I would sit there and keep my head down as I tried to eat as inconspicuously as possible. It rarely worked, as I once again became a sideshow attraction for the student body. 

As I sat on that bench, unsuccessfully attempting to hide myself, I would inevitably have insults yelled at me throughout the 40 minute period. Fat ass, fat fuck, tubby, etc. By the middle of my sophomore year I had become so used to it that they blended in with the chatter of the crowded cafeteria. They were the sounds of my every day. 

What I never quite got used to was getting food thrown at me. That always hurt more. Physically and emotionally. There is a unique kind of indignity that comes with being pelted with food or garbage. It makes a person feel as though they are less than nothing. Less than the trash that now stained their clothing or gotten in their hair. Not to mention the Scarlet Letter-esque punishment of walking around school the rest of the day with a splotch on your white shirt from the pizza thrown at you or the brown stains on your backpack from the chocolate milk a senior had poured in it. Despite my most valiant efforts at occultation, I was never left alone, not for a single day.  

Those cafeteria experiences are likely the basis for my immense phobia of eating in public that I deal with to this day. I’ve always detested going out to eat, and given the choice I will always go for take-out. The fact that it saves me money is only a happy side effect of my self-loathing and embarrassment, though that has always been my excuse. I’ve always seen people eat by themselves in a cafe or a small restaurant and never thought much of it, but the idea of eating by myself brings me right back to those experiences on the side benches in my high school cafeteria. In my delusional mind I may as well be in the center of the restaurant on a podium with a spotlight blaring over me. I’ve taken many a depressing lunch break in the seat of my car over the years, in the bitter cold or brutal heat, simply to avoid being seen. 

It only got worse as high school went on. By the time I was a senior I had engorged myself so horribly, I had to start shopping in the “big and tall” sections of stores, if I could find anything that fit me at all. I stopped going outside most days, with the exception of my forced paradings around school, and only saw the few friends I had on the rarest of occasions. I didn’t go to the prom because the idea of asking any girl shook me into the core of my being. From time to time, I’d imagine that if I was asked by a girl I might go, but needless to say I never was. 

Throughout all four years of high school, I never had a girlfriend. I had never kissed a girl or had one show any interest in me whatsoever, other than the interest shared between a spectator and an exhibit at Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I was almost 19 years old before I had held a female’s hand in an even somewhat romantic fashion. 

I went through the worst depression of my life during this period, becoming suicidal around my junior year. I never had the nerve to kill myself, but it was a constant thought. For better or worse, I survived my high school years. I filled the frame of my senior photo in an astounding fashion. I made the unfortunate walk at graduation, baking in the heat on a too-small folding chair, surrounded by people I didn’t much care for and whom hated me, my chub rub growing increasingly disastrous. 

After the unfortunate graduation and even more unfortunate photos —which I made sure were wiped from existence later — I went home to begin my life as a high school graduate. A feat which seemed unlikely at best between my suicidal tendencies and my piss poor grades. 

Later that night, I stood in my bathroom and stared at the mirror in a catatonic state. I’d gotten in the habit of doing this over the past year or so due to my heartbroken bewilderment at my size. I would stare, shirtless in front of the mirror, tracing the blue and pink stretch marks that lined my stomach and inner arms like lightning strikes. The way enormous belly flopped down over my belt. How my thighs squished down together down to my knees. 

In that moment I had decided that I was finished with all of the misery and indignities of the past 17 years of my life. I stared myself in the eyes, fighting back tears, and decided that I wasn’t going to do this to myself any longer. I was going to get healthy. None of that January 1st, new-year-new-me bullshit sentiment. This was genuine. 

The next day I told my parents I was signing up for the gym. They were overjoyed; they hadn’t enjoyed seeing my spiral into obesity and self-hatred either. My parents said they would pay for my membership, which was necessary since I had no job at the time and the money from my holiday job the previous winter had long been spent. There was a gym within a ten minute walk from my house, so I walked there and signed up. 

From then on I started walking everywhere. (Part of this was also because I had no driver’s license, but let’s pretend I did it for the good reason.) Every day I would walk to and from the community college near me, about 20-25 minutes each way, change, walk to the gym, work out, then walk back home. It was exhausting, but it didn’t seem as though I had any other option. 

The next five years were filled with stress, varying successes and failures in weight loss, some health issues, flirting with an eating disorder, and many, many pairs of pants in various sizes. Regardless of all the tribulations of those years, I had finally managed to lose what I believe doctors refer to as “a whole shit-ton” of weight. 

I went from approximately 315 pounds to 178 pounds. I went from a size 42 in pants to a size 32. XXL shirts to mediums. It was liberating. I didn’t have high blood pressure anymore. I didn’t have so much trouble breathing. I could even fit into those godforsaken picnic tables that stymied me all those years ago. 

The one thing that remained of my old, fat self was all my mental problems and insecurities. It turns out that if you hate yourself when you’re fat, you’ll probably hate yourself when you’re thin too. Despite all that work, over 100 pounds lost, I was still hiding.

The most surprising effect of my ludicrous weight loss was gaining a form of invisibility. Everyone who lives in a normal suburban town deals with this situation at some point in life; while you’re out doing whatever it is you do every day, maybe at work, maybe out to eat, you’ll see somebody from high school that you haven’t spoken to in years. Sometimes, it’s someone you truly hated back then. Sometimes, it’s someone you simply knew of but never really bothered to get to know. Sometimes, you’re at a bar and the bouncer threw a meatball at you in the 11th grade. 

There is always this gut-wrenching moment when you both realize that you recognize one another. You both question in your head if you should acknowledge it or not. I never even liked them in the first place, why do I have to say hi? Have they noticed me yet? Can I just leave? They’ve made eye contact. That’s it. It’s been acknowledged and now you are both locked in this social quantum where you both know and do not know each other until one of you just leaves the room. 

Thankfully, since I’d lost the average weight of a Rottweiler, I got to sidestep this horrible scenario more often than not. When nobody realizes who you are, you get to hide in plain sight. It’s like wearing a mask at all times. After so much time trying to blend in, I was finally the wallflower I always wanted to be. I could finally be left alone. 

Just the other day, I was working when I saw a girl I had a fling with several years ago. I had gone to high school with her as well, but we had reconnected several years after. It was a slightly uncomfortable situation, as those always are, but we were on good terms so it wasn’t so bad seeing her. After a moment of polite, catching-up chit-chat, a guy I remembered from high school walked up to us. His name was Chris, and I distinctly remember several instances of being berated by him which included him “scooping” my man-boobs to further humiliate me. 

He stirred something in me that was halfway between fury and nausea. I gave him a divisive, side-eyed glance. I remembered from her Twitter that she had been dating him for the past several months. The poor bastard had a pot belly, a bald spot, and a tragic hairline, all by the ripe age of 25. Karma was sweet like honey and smelled like fresh peonies. 

“It was nice talking to you but I really gotta get going, I’m a bit busy today,” I said, trying to dodge any further conversation.

She gave me a hug goodbye, and Chris turned to me and put out his hand. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said. 

Nice to meet you. I was floored. This guy had made me feel subhuman for years of my life and he didn’t even recognize me. It was an uplifting feeling. It reminded me of how much I have changed and how I am no longer tethered to the person I was back then. I smiled a self-satisfied smirk and shook his hand, not saying anything. I parted from the two of them, and shuffled away quickly, keeping up the illusion of a hectic work day. 

As I walked away I heard her say to him, “Chris, we went to school with him.” 

“Really? I didn’t remember him at all,” he replied.

I smiled while I thought about the idea of her showing him a picture from back then, to realize that the fat kid he berated those years ago had actually turned out just fine, or so he thought.

By no means has losing weight made me a perfect person, or even a happy person for that matter, but it has certainly helped ease my constant embarrassment, put behind the indignities of my adolescence, and made my life more tolerable in so many ways. And if nothing else, at least I get out of an awkward situation from time to time. 

In many ways I am still hiding, and I will probably be hiding forever. But I don’t believe I am hiding from shame, or hiding from embarrassment. Not anymore. I’m hiding because I’ve chosen to. And that choice is all that mattered.