Andrew Pineda
Fiction Writing II
Memoir
G.aining O.ne’s D.efinition
In 2002, I would have imagined the departure of my brother to the United States Air Force Academy to be centuries away. Those hundreds of years smacked me in the face before I knew it. It was now June 29, 2005 and I was saying my good-byes to the other half of me.
We were in Newark Airport, and it must have looked odd: Six Filipino-Americans huddled in front of the terminal sobbing, hugging, and kissing farewell to a child who was only 17 years old. “Laurence, make sure you settle everything with your sponsors when you get there,” My mom said, struggling not to touch deeper subject matters. We said good-bye to him to as if he would return the next day, and he left like that too. Without a checked in luggage, and only a backpack containing toiletries, we stopped hugging him and released him into the world. He turned an about face and took one step closer to the first day of school.
I visited the airport the following two days to say good-bye to Laurence’s prom date, Jenny, who we have known since childhood. My Aunt, Tita Vivien, also left. Separating from them was not as nearly as devastating, but it was even more time consuming.
In 2002, I would have rejoiced at the freedom and carelessness of summer. But now it was 2005 and all I wanted to do was live with a purpose. Upon returning home from the airport that day, I cried myself to sleep to numb the immediate effects of my loss. Little did I know the long term effects would agonize every ticking second of my daily life.
One day in July, I woke up and decided to be responsible. I had a paycheck that needed to be cashed. I took it upon myself to walk to Wachovia Bank, get the money, and spend about an hour living with a purpose. On Ne S’aimera Plus Jamais blasted as Larusso sang and accompanied the cha-cha beat. I felt alive, like I did when I danced at the Latin Room in Teaneck. I cha-cha’d and merengue’d as I got ready for my trip to the bank. Wearing my newly bought polo, oversized shorts, and a Yankee’s baseball cap, I began my trek to Wachovia. It rained that day, and I was soaked when I arrived to the bank. After being unable to find my account to cash the check to, LaToya, the teller, informed me that we had recently moved to Bank of America. I guess she noticed how desperate I was with my pseudo-confident attitude, and how my best clothes were drenched. She cashed the check anyways and told me that she’d send the records to Bank of America.
I was not always disappointed this summer. If anything, there was always one thing that would curse me, and that was the loneliness. Jenny and Tita Vivien made sure that the house was never quiet. There was always a mall to go to, a movie to see, or something to be done. With them gone, my family was halved, and during the daytime on weekdays I was all alone. I needed that energy around me. I needed to feel the presence of someone else besides myself and God – if he even existed. Sooner or later the monotonous days I spent rotting away turned me into a ghost. I wasn’t even sure if I existed anymore. To save myself from perishing, I journeyed to Haagen Dazs.
Unlike the Wachovia Bank trip, this day was hot and Taylor Park was packed with kids and their happy-go-lucky parents. It was the kind of hot where you could feel your skin burn, and you were worried because you forgot to wear sun block. If you could hear them, the birds were chirping, but the everyday bustle of downtown Millburn drowned them out. At Haagen Dazs, settling for my regular vanilla was simply unacceptable. I had to choose an ice cream rare and extravagant like dulce de leche. And I needed three scoops of it. With my ice cream in hand, I now faced an even more urgent dilemma. I didn’t know what to do next.
I crossed the street and sat on the bench across from the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. Alone. Ice cream is a social food: You get ice cream with friends on a nice day after school, you get ice cream as a treat after a meal, you get ice cream to relax and talk. Who was there to talk to? No one except God. I’m pretty sure that the things you talk to God about could eventually drive anyone insane.
Don’t be confused. I was not antisocial, however my social development was lagging far behind mental and physical maturities. There was a time at Newport Mall when I considered how I would respond to the people who greet you in stores. I avoided them by pretending to listen to music. I tried to reach out to friends. I hoped we could hang out, but this was the predicament. Everyone on AIM was away with messages explaining how they were packing for Cancun, down at the shore, or at camp reunions with their BFF’s. It was like the world ignored me or forgot about me. Everyone was out doing something and having fun, but I was trapped in a town with nothing to offer but coffee, donuts, and ice cream. I was suffocating here, dying, and I needed to get out or live as if I had a reason in life.
That’s truly when music saved me. I began recording, and I finally had productive days. With music, I was able to ride out the rest of this dark and hot summer until school started. I finally had a purpose with a clear understanding of my identity. I was no longer a ghost; I evolved into the complex being I am today. Every day, that summer allowed me to meet myself, an able but not as cherished person as my other half.
The Day I found out My Dad was Black
I regard music as one of the few constants in my life. It has never left me, and come to think of it, music is life. There’s a rhythm to life, an unseen tempo that somehow enables us to survive. Every second that tick-tocks is a heartbeat and internal metronome that paces with us as we step into maturity.
Fiction Writing II
Memoir
G.aining O.ne’s D.efinition
In 2002, I would have imagined the departure of my brother to the United States Air Force Academy to be centuries away. Those hundreds of years smacked me in the face before I knew it. It was now June 29, 2005 and I was saying my good-byes to the other half of me.
We were in Newark Airport, and it must have looked odd: Six Filipino-Americans huddled in front of the terminal sobbing, hugging, and kissing farewell to a child who was only 17 years old. “Laurence, make sure you settle everything with your sponsors when you get there,” My mom said, struggling not to touch deeper subject matters. We said good-bye to him to as if he would return the next day, and he left like that too. Without a checked in luggage, and only a backpack containing toiletries, we stopped hugging him and released him into the world. He turned an about face and took one step closer to the first day of school.
I visited the airport the following two days to say good-bye to Laurence’s prom date, Jenny, who we have known since childhood. My Aunt, Tita Vivien, also left. Separating from them was not as nearly as devastating, but it was even more time consuming.
In 2002, I would have rejoiced at the freedom and carelessness of summer. But now it was 2005 and all I wanted to do was live with a purpose. Upon returning home from the airport that day, I cried myself to sleep to numb the immediate effects of my loss. Little did I know the long term effects would agonize every ticking second of my daily life.
One day in July, I woke up and decided to be responsible. I had a paycheck that needed to be cashed. I took it upon myself to walk to Wachovia Bank, get the money, and spend about an hour living with a purpose. On Ne S’aimera Plus Jamais blasted as Larusso sang and accompanied the cha-cha beat. I felt alive, like I did when I danced at the Latin Room in Teaneck. I cha-cha’d and merengue’d as I got ready for my trip to the bank. Wearing my newly bought polo, oversized shorts, and a Yankee’s baseball cap, I began my trek to Wachovia. It rained that day, and I was soaked when I arrived to the bank. After being unable to find my account to cash the check to, LaToya, the teller, informed me that we had recently moved to Bank of America. I guess she noticed how desperate I was with my pseudo-confident attitude, and how my best clothes were drenched. She cashed the check anyways and told me that she’d send the records to Bank of America.
I was not always disappointed this summer. If anything, there was always one thing that would curse me, and that was the loneliness. Jenny and Tita Vivien made sure that the house was never quiet. There was always a mall to go to, a movie to see, or something to be done. With them gone, my family was halved, and during the daytime on weekdays I was all alone. I needed that energy around me. I needed to feel the presence of someone else besides myself and God – if he even existed. Sooner or later the monotonous days I spent rotting away turned me into a ghost. I wasn’t even sure if I existed anymore. To save myself from perishing, I journeyed to Haagen Dazs.
Unlike the Wachovia Bank trip, this day was hot and Taylor Park was packed with kids and their happy-go-lucky parents. It was the kind of hot where you could feel your skin burn, and you were worried because you forgot to wear sun block. If you could hear them, the birds were chirping, but the everyday bustle of downtown Millburn drowned them out. At Haagen Dazs, settling for my regular vanilla was simply unacceptable. I had to choose an ice cream rare and extravagant like dulce de leche. And I needed three scoops of it. With my ice cream in hand, I now faced an even more urgent dilemma. I didn’t know what to do next.
I crossed the street and sat on the bench across from the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. Alone. Ice cream is a social food: You get ice cream with friends on a nice day after school, you get ice cream as a treat after a meal, you get ice cream to relax and talk. Who was there to talk to? No one except God. I’m pretty sure that the things you talk to God about could eventually drive anyone insane.
Don’t be confused. I was not antisocial, however my social development was lagging far behind mental and physical maturities. There was a time at Newport Mall when I considered how I would respond to the people who greet you in stores. I avoided them by pretending to listen to music. I tried to reach out to friends. I hoped we could hang out, but this was the predicament. Everyone on AIM was away with messages explaining how they were packing for Cancun, down at the shore, or at camp reunions with their BFF’s. It was like the world ignored me or forgot about me. Everyone was out doing something and having fun, but I was trapped in a town with nothing to offer but coffee, donuts, and ice cream. I was suffocating here, dying, and I needed to get out or live as if I had a reason in life.
That’s truly when music saved me. I began recording, and I finally had productive days. With music, I was able to ride out the rest of this dark and hot summer until school started. I finally had a purpose with a clear understanding of my identity. I was no longer a ghost; I evolved into the complex being I am today. Every day, that summer allowed me to meet myself, an able but not as cherished person as my other half.
The Day I found out My Dad was Black
I regard music as one of the few constants in my life. It has never left me, and come to think of it, music is life. There’s a rhythm to life, an unseen tempo that somehow enables us to survive. Every second that tick-tocks is a heartbeat and internal metronome that paces with us as we step into maturity.
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