I begin young. I was probably three or four. I remember my first image, or scene. I was carried down a stairwell in Downtown Chicago. My mother and father were both with me. We entered a room through a doorway to the right, and there were countless mailboxes. They opened one and retrieved some documents. I don't know what these were. I can't even remember anything unitl the next moment.
We were home. Relatives were over. I don't know how accurate this depiction of time is, but i do remember what was playing on the television in our basement. "Alice in Wonderland."
I sat and ate a pastry. It was the first time I'd eaten anything, for all I could remember, even then. I do remember that my sister came and accompanied me for a short period. I don't know how I knew she was my sister.
The peculiar thing was that even then I used to think back to that moment. From the stairs, to the house, to the basement. They all coincide like the beginning of my conscious life. I can't remember anything before those three moments.
Life jumps ahead to moments where I'd play with my father. He'd be handing me a Fred Flintstone bottle with some strawberry milk. We'd be in the house's second story. He'd play with me. Most of my memories jostle around with these types of moments.
Significance only began, I guess with Kindergarten. It was here that my memories solidified. The first day of registration. Is it appropriate for a 14yr old sibling to enroll me? Or was it? I don't know, but she did.
The greatest moment was when she told the representatives my name. I had been Danish for so long... but she, she told them I was Mohammed Syed.
"That's not my name." I said.
"Shutup" she said, agitated.
Danish is my middle name. In Pakistani cultures you are known by such. Mohammed was the title and Syed was my bloodline.
Peculiarly, only I was named Syed in my family. From my dad, to my mom, to my siblings, they were all last named Rizvi.
I don't know to this day a story worthy of remembering. The basic knowledge is that some time in Pakistan my Grandfather was a doctor. There were many doctors named Syed in the hospital. to avoid confusion some doctors changed their names. Thus my dad and his kin were affected in to the name Rizvi. To keep our legacy going, I as the heir to our bloodline and name, being the only boy amongst my kin, was named Syed.
The story then changed to, I don't know, ask your mother.
I don't know, ask your father.
Maybe they gave up because of a language barrier. I often muse at the nature of my psychological impact. How do you explain the unexplainable? Am I adopted? Am I really just the heir to a legacy name? Am I just a random act?
The answer is not as important as the impact I've grown to learn it had on me.
I was subconsciously detached from everyone I seemed to know. They were always something different than I was. I always cherished my name... Syed. Syed. Even in to my teens... Syed. It was something that i alone carried. I even began feeling pride. I'd write my name anywhere and everywhere. As if I was belonging to a secret. Ironically, my name remains' a secret. I still don't know why.
In Kindergarten I learned how to tie my shoe. I forget her name. It started with a G. She used to tie my shoes everyday. Then she taught me how.
Obviously I learned to read and write. I also learned that I had an attraction to oddities. I was always distracted by my teacher's feet. Ms. Kersek was her name. I was also strangely distracted and cognitively attracted to a girl named Nadia. She was a booger picker. Don't ask! Cause i don't know.
But I think my best memories of even having a slight imagination came from the innocent romances someone of my age could have had. I romanced the thought of being with them. In Ms. Kersek's case, being her shoe.
No lust. Just attachment.
I can reference my history through school. Outside of school my existence until about fourth grade is a blend of memories. In school however...
First grade was Mrs. Mckernan. Mrs. Mckernan got to witness my untrained bladder. My fondest memory, hated then, was this...
My mother is your typical third-world woman. Still acquainted and biased to her Pakistani lifestyle she thought it was highly impractical that they did not make panty hose for boys. I mean, duh, weren't they just thinner and cheaper versions of leg-warmers? If my sisters could where them under their pants, why couldn't I? What did I know? I just went along. They were actually quite uncomfortable.
Box Top Day. As the whole class was readying themselves to deliver Box Tops to the teacher I raised my hand and asked to go to the restroom. Ms. Mckernan must have been PMSing cause she kinda snapped at me and told me to wait.
I was a good kid.
It was my turn to take up my box tops. I remember almost every step. I got up. Bladder screamed. i clenched my legs. I started using my toes to guide me forward sliding my left foot and then my right, clenching harder and harder with my inner thighs. but it was too late. The warm stream began soaking its way into the panty hose. The material in my jeans began turning dark blue and Mrs Mckernan saw the puddle form underneath me.
She laughed at first, but then she hurriedly ushered me out of the classroom to go see the school nurse.
I waited in my soiled clothing for about fifteen minutes. My mother arrived at school with a fresh pair of pants, a new shirt, and a fresh pair of pantyhose. Despite my plea not to wear the panty hose, I was returning to class twice as embarrassed as when I left. Especially since the nurse saw the panty hose in my mom's hands.
I don't remember if I changed shirts.
School was half a block away from our house in Summit. It was an easy walk and you'd be sure my five year old self learned to do it.
I remember more names. Veton was an Albanian kid. He was a good friend, and I remember his finest moment in Kindergarten when he puked what looked like scrambled eggs onto the clasroom floor. We could even smell the eggs as though they were just cooked and placed before us.
David Johnson was a giant. His mom and dad were extremely tall and all throughout grade school, he loomed what seemed measurable in feet above all the other kids. His finest memory was that he was the only kid that cried when being dropped off by his mother everyday in kindergarten. He was also the first kid to punch me in my stomach, not cause we were fighting, but cause I was teasing him when he was having a bad day. I deserved it, and did not retaliate. Nor do i think I could have at that time. He was a giant. And it hurt.
Second grade I made many friends and began liking girls on a new level. Ashley Dibiase. Ashley was the kind of girl that all guys wanted. She was also the kind of girl that helped you realize how much you didn't have going on. She made you want to be cool. Her best friend Jenny Janners was a nut, and it wasn't until the year before Jenny moved away in fifth grade, that I realized she was what honest men call the personality winner. And Jenny liked me. Ashley was a dime a dozen.
My first best friend, or hang out buddy, was Javier Tiscareno, code name, Baby Face. He literally looked like a baby in a grade schooler's body. He introduced me to my lack of physical ability. He ushered me onto a community baseball team that loathed my handicapped, game and score crippling ability. He also showed me much later that friends aren't always there when you need them. His cousin, an older kid by a year or two, thought my name was funny and liked to pick on me.Javier's cousin had thought it was in his best interest to whip the basketball at me during what was known as a "check." I repeatedly missed catching it and was more than once hit in the mouth.I was growing nerves and tried at my own attempts to retaliate. But Javier wanted to impress his cousin. He stood up for him and began bullying me during an alleyside Basketball game between the three of us. Javier and I got into a wrestling match. My first fight I guess. The wrestling match ended with scraped knees and a kick or two to our stomachs. Neither of us won, but Javier sure fell out of my trust as a friend.
He after that day was a passing conversation or a spontaneous and random hang out.
My sights turned towards... Damien Klepser.
Damien was a corner stone in my life. Damien's story is this:
Damien and his brother were kin by their mother. But their father, it would be surprising to know which one of the seven men they called uncle he really was. "I have seven dads." He meant what he said. One, "Not my real dad," was nice. The rest were drunks and abusers, and they all shared his mother, and a piece of the rent in their two bedroom apartment. Damien and I spent long afternoons together, and I believe he was one of my greatest friends. He was one of the nicest kids i knew.
He was part of my window into imagination games. He and I would spend hours imagining we were both fearsome warriors fighting to free Chun Li (Street Fighter. Yeah we infatuated after her) from whatever danger she was in. We had a cardboard house, belonging to a mattress that lay up against a dumpster in an alley as our base. And we found a way into the crawl space of an apartment building where we found shelter and heat during the winter. Hours upon hours of 'hiding out.' It's all we needed.
One of my aunts had moved into the apartment building where we played. It gave us a sense of security to explore its depths.
Damien and I both evolved into a larger group of friends. This time the game turned into street tag.
Amongst these new friends were Emilio Froylan, Daniel Diaz, and Jesus (Hey'zus) Corona. After Damien and his family moved further into the city of Chicago, my group lingered on the latter three.
Jesus and I were really close. It was nearing fifth grade now. Emilio and Daniel were definitely impacting in my life as for what I've learned and admired of the both of them, but Jesus set me up for my love of writing. We used to camp in his front lawn. His house and his influence inspired me to write my first and still incomplete novel.
The novel was a story of two friends, Mohammed and Jesus, who embarked on a mission, a destiny, to save the world from the engulfing evil that spread to destroy the universe. we midway through the first two chapters found ourselves in the Middle East (Egypt), inside a pyramid trying to understand the chaotic events that led us. The story was of demons and possessions, very easily influenced by my first and longest greatest fear introduced by the movie, the Exorcist. But somehow, the irony in my adventure with Jesus was a factor towards my strength when faced by real-time evil. I am lessoned by life itself, in its strangest ways, to have realized who I am and to what game I play.
The memory of my desire to have been evil, for I loathed and envied the devil, was pure irony. I was mystified by power and creation, and though I fantiasized evil's destruction, all my literature was angry. All my drawings were of demons. All my costumes were dark, and I imagined my self evil incarnate. I told lies and blasphemus lies of my dealings with ill doing. Lies upon lies. Darkness was my best friend. My sisters were born into the occult with tamperings with witch craft and I was the sorcerer in my schemes. The ultimate power that feared no demon, for the demon feared me as their ruler.
But wasn't it jst a dream? A mere fantasy. For I loathed evil. Though I cherished evil in all its beings, my sisters, my friends, why not congratulate them when they were sinning. But I myself, couldn't even have been.
Did I mention that my eldest sister had introduced me to pornography? I know I hadn't mentioned it. But it is true. I was maybe 8. She wanted me to know what adults do and where babies came from.
The first porn I saw was called Taboo. It was in my parents' collection. It was made in the 80's and it began and ended with a college student who fell lustfully and successfully for his mother.
I was hooked not on incest. But like any kid my age, on SEX. And I hooked my friends.
Tangent: My youngest sister once came to me. She was in Jr. High and I was still in grade school. She is three years older than me. She came to me with a proposition. For some time I had lusted after her friend Vivian. This plays a part.
She asked me if I had wanted to learn to kiss a girl. I said sure. She then began to describe who it was. Brown skin. Dark Hair. Roughly this tall. Roughly this age.
Vivian was a pretty good physical equivalent to my sister.
"No, it's not Vivian."
I was confused and she read it on me. For my lack of hint towards her initial direction, she gave up and life went on. I remained confused, and taken aback. I wanted to kiss Vivian.
My eldest sister married young. I know now that she only wished to get out of the confineds of a well restricted lifestyle. She was once biased into believing an older man, doctor at best, was the perfect romance just waiting to happen. At 16 she could have only imagined a big house, five cars, and in charge. He was 32. It was a fun wedding.
This left the younger two sisters. They were befriended by a witch. A relative, but a witch. Her parents, like mine, strict but liberal Muslims.
They found their way into witchcraft and begun asking for the one thing normal Pakistani girls are best exempt from. Men. They wanted to be uncontrollably lust after by men. They wanted attention, and soon, their effort began to pay off. They were rather scantly for many years. But they're not my point. I'll reference them periodically as I begin to explain my Origin Theory.
I would embarrass too many to continue. Perhaps now is not the time.
© Copyright 2016 endman. All rights reserved.
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
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