My People's struggle

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Rough draft of speech

Submitted: March 30, 2016

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Submitted: March 30, 2016



You walk through the door belonging to your new home. Its just built, risen out of the stand, held up by new concrete slabs. It’s still empty, the kind of empty that echos your own steps, that kind where the white walls reflect a harsh white. The kind of white that pierces through your eyes, and goes straight to your mind. Its a sight no one likes to see, an empty house, with sun dried paint. Then comes the smell. The smell that sort of burns your nose, the smell of lemons on the wooden floors, of burnt plastic on the white walls. The smell of new wood, wood so new, you can almost taste it, and feel the splinters. Its this smell that takes you miles and miles away from what you’ve always known. Somewhere far away, in a forgotten town, on a pot hole filled street lined with sunwashed houses that stood crooked, was a specific house. It didn’t stand out next to all the other ones, in fact it looked exactly the same. Well not exactly the same, actually not the same at all. However if you got in your car, as a completely unattached observer, and drove down that road, you would not know it from the rest. Its when you look at all of them, they look the same. They all represent the same thing, they are all houses belonging to the same street. Yet to you, one of those houses is so clearly different. It screams out to you, the moment you lay eyes on it. Why? Because it is your house. And that is just how life works. I won’t know its yours. Someone who has never met you won’t know it. The only person that will know that house, as a home, and not just empty, not just wood thrown together, not just another spot on a street, is you. What’s in that house of yours? Was it a loving family? Was your mother always there, and father a hard worker? Did you get along with your siblings? Did you even have any? Were the halls always filled with this warmth inside, and the kitchen, with this lovely pleasant smell? Did your family hold you tight when you cried? Was that house filled with warmth and light? Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something along those lines accept maybe someone was never there. Maybe some people were harsh. Maybe people you never knew or met, came into your life and shattered it all. Maybe someone is dead, maybe someone is dying. I’ll never know. Maybe the problems that made your house so crooked, didn’t even happen in it. Maybe it was at school. At school where the kids pointed and laughed at you, where they stole, and beat on you. Where you walked down the halls, head to the floor, praying that no one would notice you. Maybe you never told your parents. You didn’t want to see your mother cry because someone has hurt her baby. You didn't want to blow this thing up. To have people stare at you even more, to be called a coward. You didn’t want to hear your father say “Be a man.”. Its hard to be a man. Its much more than just having the parts. Its not crying, its emotional neglect, its shoving things down into you so that on the surface you’re smooth and untouchable. Its acting without thinking, its falling head first, and somehow landing on your feet. Its expectations and pride that must be upheld. Or worse, maybe you told them, and they did nothing. In any case, hopefully in any reality, you’ll see that there exists only people in this world. That nothing anyone says about anything, is fact, or defining.That not one person can tell you who or what you are, nor tell you what is wrong or right. Maybe your house was the white one. The one that painted their roses, the one that was so perfect and lovely, people would stop and say “Wow, thats a nice house.”. I can almost guarantee that that house was a cold silent place. I see porcelain figures, who eat at a certain time, who drink coffee out of straws, and who shower three times a day. They are the kind of people who ask to you questions they know you can not answer. They find it joyous to know that they know something you do not. They speak in choppy sophisticated sentences, sometimes choking to find the right words. They spoke as if there was limit to what you could say in a day, as if every word held a terrible fate in itself. They spoke as if they were god, or impressing god. As if everything they said and did was a miracle, and a shining example of what everyone should be, and want. And there is you, at the foot of a long white table, a small little statue, standing next to these tower monuments, glaring at you for not bringing them more visitors, more eyes that look up. You who struggles to find a meaning of any of it, you who can still see people as people. You who struggles at the formality of life, when you know clearly its not formal, sit at that table, breaking your back to please those who can not be pleased. You are dying trying to be what they wish you to be. And to that I say, never ever, be anything less or more than what you are. Maybe your house was the one a mile from the road. Maybe your demons existed in your self. Maybe you struggled trying to be an image you could not ever achieve. Maybe you tried so hard, and people cut you down, always at the wrong time. Maybe you were gay, maybe you were bi. Maybe you didn’t love anybody. And you just sat there in your room, with these monsters in your closet. These people you want to kiss, these thoughts you want to keep, and these cloths you might want to wear. Inside you are a lost crumbling child who might lose more sight yourself every day. But of course no one sees that. They see a jock, or a cheerleader,a geek, or an ordinary person. But when you’re alone, thats another story. You're just standing there so confused. Hoping and praying more times than not, it might just be a phase. In your heart, you've already begun to believe its a bad thing. You’re standing there frightened and scared by your own thoughts, neglecting your own sexuality. Choosing not to love, or choosing to force yourself to love something you dont. In a sense, you’re mentally raping your self. You’re doing things you don’t want to do, because you are scared, and don’t want to believe that that problem in the closet even exists. You choose to believe that it will dissapear. Sometimes it might, but you don’t accept the possibility that it won’t. Because all thats shoved into your face is religion, the word abomination, hate, forums that are filled with people who say literally the most evil things I’ve ever read. Who act as if you are not a person, but a thing. Who are delusional, and may very well be the real monster in the closet. To those people who live with this struggle, who every day fight and push, fight with them self, or other people, what you choose to do about what lies in your heart, is never wrong. And someday, the world will understand that. Maybe this still isn’t you. Maybe in that house on that broken road, in that town whose name nobody knows , you had nothing. No love, no food, no friends, and no warmth. You sat there shivering in the dark, eating things not because they are good, but because you are hungry. You have a starvation with in yourself. A pain, a stretch for something you think you’ll never reach. Maybe your parents were druggies, people who never even cared. You were unexpected and unwanted. All you become to them is another number on a paper, a new check from the government, or a new mouth to feed. Maybe they see you as an obstacle, a leech the sucks away money used to feed their own addictions. Maybe they hate you, maybe they blame you. Maybe they hurt you. Everyday is a struggle of your own survival. And this whole time you believe you are nobody. That whole time, you can not find a safe place in which you may exist in. Everywhere you look, you look carefully and quietly, for you wish not to upset them.You might pray silently, that you’ve done everything right, and that there exists no reason for them to hurt you. But for some reason, even God couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear the crack of belt, the smash of a bottle, or the worlds harshest yell. Couldn’t hear you, who's never done anything wrong. You can find no warmth in that blacked cold home. Sleep does not wash over you, for perhaps even in your dreams, the lakes are bone dry and the sky is blood red. Maybe you don’t even sleep. There is no comfort nor joy, in that house of nails. That, house that will leave you hurt, no matter where you step. Maybe this is you, and maybe it isn’t but theoretically speaking if it is, run out of that house and never look back. Run towards the beautiful sun, and remember always that you find true, real, love, and when you do, it will wash over you; beautiful storm rain, and will wash away all of your pain. Now my good friend, I forget to mention those who don’t have a single home. Who don’t even have a place on that broken road. To the people who makes friends as quickly as they loose them, who unpack boxes, as quickly as they pack them. To the people who are gone, as if they were never there. Maybe this is you. Maybe you never had a home, maybe the only home you’ve ever known is the reflection you see in the mirror. Maybe you’ve been so many places, you can no longer remember the names to all of the faces. Perhaps the only thing that didn’t change was your name, and consistency of change. Maybe you mom brought home a new guy every night, or your dad, kept giving you promises he never kept. Maybe you lived in a group home, or juvi. A constant change of your belongings, your systems, your schools. A constant roller coaster of hope rising and falling, of identity, and of family. Hello’s followed by good byes, never real friends, never real connections, for there was never the time, nor patience for those things to grow. I can not say much to this except, to those who have nothing, and most always move, one day you will find what you are looking for, and you will never have to move again.

As I near the end of this, I find myself struggling to find away to conclude this on a happy note. I struggle to provide to you a morale. I can not understand the meaning behind this, because bad things will always happen, and sometimes, things can not be helped. I guess, with in this I hope I’ve found some part of you. I hope I have been able to let you know that you are not alone with your struggles, and that houses are not indestructible. This whole thing has been a comparison between a house, and life. And it is expressed through many different scenarios that are not entirely theoretical. I am yelled at for writing things that are depressing, but unfortunately I write and am inspired by what I see, which is nothing short of the truth. The truth that we all live in a broken home, and we all have a personal hell. I guess that the only thing I can say that might be remotely positive out of all this, is that change can never be stopped. Where you live today, and tomorrow, is never tethered to where you lived yesterday. I hope I’ve found some part of you in this. I hope tonight you will sleep knowing that you are never forgotten, and are reassured that you are very real, and important.

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