I was once in love & now im...’s blog

He goes by Traison and he is a lanky, tall kind of man; the kind that towers over all other family members at a family reunion and is about one hundred and forty pounds – considered underweight for a thirty-seven year old at 6’ 2”. His hands are dark brown, shaped almost like pitchers mitts, an effect for the weed he smoked a bit over six months time as a teenager at the local community college and every knuckle protrudes gently out the back of his hand. Between his fingers, a bit of ashy-ness is visible, the size of about two teenagers hands. Little muscle can be spotted, with a keen eye, through his infamous wife beaters and muscle t-shirts.

            His face has distinct features: a slightly pointed nose, the one that his nephew inherited and deep set eyes, a bit “chinky” indicating the bit of Spanish descent from his great-great grandfathers side of the family. His top lip curls upward, almost like a disgusted pierced lip and the bottom one sits inward. The jaw sits slightly upwards, as if he is always clenching it close and his chin, a bit smaller than the average man. Overall his face carries a slight immaturity, as compared his outer appearance.

Plus he is always dressed in the same clothing: jeans that are dark and oversized for his apparent limber legs. His sneakers might not be brand new, but they are clean nonetheless, he is the one always saying, “cleanliness is next to Godliness.” He is the type of man that would put his family first, of course taking into account his feelings as well and gets a bit frustrated easier. It is this attitude that gives him a slight temperament to others: one time, his niece was being picked on in school and instead of going to the school first to allow them to, as he states “take their own damn sweet time,” he confronts the parents first. He takes not a slightest drop of bull*!&$ and is very concise. He walks with his head held high, a bit more pride about the places that he has come from and the things that he has seen. Furthermore, his nose is always ‘investigating’ a small case around the neighborhood.

There was never a close bond between his nephew, Mikhail, nineteen years old, also known as Mick around the neighborhood. His bond was closer to his niece, Katalynn at sixteen years old, whom he saw as a bit more mature than Mick. Mick was infamous for acting a bit more dependent on others, and Traison believed that it was his duty, since Mick’s father left, to try and build a relationship with him. But at a very young age, Mick pulled away and denied all that Traison wanted to offer and that was why Traison was about his wits end with him.

Although Mick was a defiant child, he never went on and on causing trouble, the calmness that he inherited from his mother. On the other hand, Katalynn drew closer to her family, especially her Uncle Traison because he granted her with the feelings that a father should provide for a child. It was the death of Mick, the feeling of justice and the circumstances that surrounded it pushing Traison towards the investigation of the death…he wondered where it would all lead him to.

Mikhail’s body was found on the sidewalk: his head had hit the sidewalk and was blood was slowly pooling onto the floor from the open wound over his right eye. The bullet entered through his right shoulder blade and exited through his breastbone, shattering to a million pieces. His Abercrombie & Fitch grey muscle tee was drenched in blood and a black hole was visible on both sides of his body, an indication of the bullets burn. Both his arms were snapped backwards, his right hand bent so far forward that the wrists’ white was visible and his left arm lay bent backwards so that his palm faced towards the sky. His skin color began to pale, almost like a muted brown color and his eyes were glazed over. With the naked eye, no fluids were visible and no trace of evidence could be found on Mick’s exterior. But there was something more… The silver 34 caliber revolver was found to the left of the dump bin, smoke still emitting from it. Blood was splattered across the window directly in front of Mikhail but no one was witness and could never find out why he was in the alley behind the West Crocket apartment buildings.

Uncle Traison called Mikhail’s cell phone about thirteen times but no one would answer. It was not until he called Adair to ask him if he knew the whereabouts for Mikhail that Adair confessed everything. Adair and Mikhail were walking from the park where they usually met after Adair’s after school program and they took the shortcut behind the West Crocket apartment complex, where Adair lives. As they neared the corner of the building, a bullet hit Mikhail in his back, forcing his body forward, and all Adair could do was cup his arms, to catch Mikhail before he hit the ground. Adair started screaming Mick’s name and at his unresponsiveness, dropped the body, contributing to the blood stain on the chest of his shirt. Adair then took off towards the front of the West Crocket apartment building and as he turned the corner, saw the silver 34 caliber revolver near the garbage bump bin.

Adair and Mikhail went way back. Since they met that day on the playground, they have been like brothers, Adair always playing tagalong. They walked along the streets late into the evening and anytime Adair had trouble communicating with his parents and they got into a fight, he stayed at Mikhail’s. It was something that everyone in their families grew accustomed to. But in the back of Mikhail’s mind, there was always something daunting about their friendship. Uncle Traison sensed it and so did Katalynn, no matter how naive she might have been. It was the wavering trust and the look over the shoulder that no one could fully embrace. You see, Adair had no family he could really depend on. His father died at a young age, and his mother vowed she would love other man the way that she loved his father…but she was wrong. About three months after Adair’s fathers death, she was married and traveling the world with Lucas and forgetting all about the vow she made to Adair. So, he turned to Mikhail, although he knew deep down that he could no longer trust anyone, not even his own family. It was upon always hanging out with Mikhail that he came to envy the family and union that Mikhail had and he lacked.

            Traison was in the garage and under the hood of the Trudy’s blue Cadillac. She was an old feeble woman, whom still drove the Cadillac around Philly. Even in her old age, she was flamboyant and outgoing, wearing pastel orange and yellow colors outrageously flagged in loose and drapey shawls and ponchos. She often flirted with Traison, the only man that she knew would always be kind enough to talk reply back. But today, Traison was not focused trying to fix her car. He was fumbling with the oil cap, thinking about reasons why Mikhail would not pick up his cell phone when his mother called. She called him hysterical wondering where Mikhail could have been and worried because this would be the second day no one would see him.

            Traison, called to Joe, the garage shop owner and asked him for the rest of the day to investigate the case more. Traison pulled off his overcoat, got his keys and ran to his car. Driving down the avenue, he wondered who could have seen Mick last and decided it would be Adair. He pulled up outside the West Crocket apartment building and ran inside to buzz him down. Standing there for five minutes, he wondered why Adair was not there yet took a walk around the side of the building. As he crossed the driveway, he saw a body, with Mick’s grey muscle tee and apprehensively took steps closer.

            What was facing him caused him to lose balance and stumble backwards. There was Mick’s body, flies buzzing around the gunshot wound, knags eating away at the dead body and a pool of blood surrounding the body. Traison grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911, screaming to the operator for them to get an ambulance to the West Crocket apartment building because he has discovered the body of his nephew. After hanging up from the operator, he furiously dialed Mick’s mother and said “I found him! Mick’s dead!”

            It was at that point that he ran furiously towards the stained body. Flies buzzing about, and his phone wrung again, but he ignored it and headed towards his car. After shooting down Main St. he arrived at the puce brown two story house that his sister and her children called home. She ran outside upon hearing the skidding tires with the dish towel still in her hand and hysterically screaming. As they approached each other, he instantly thought of reasons why Adair would not have notified them and come downstairs when he was called.

On Wednesday and Friday in class, we watched a movie called "My Kid Can Paint That" about (well, I'm pretty sure everyone has heard the story about Marla Olmstead, a 4 year old girl from Binghamton, NY whom painted as if she were picasso) and it rose a number of questionable areas of focus in the Ethics of Journalism.
Where should you draw the line? Where do you allow it continue? When does it get out of hand? What effects does the inevitably have on the person(s) of interest long & short term?

Once Marla became the center of attention, after going on numerous talk shows and interviews, it became widely questioned if her father was the person whom coached her along and helped to create some of the pieces of art. Many went crazy just thinking about the mere thought that the father was the one whom created it. She was heralded as an angel, a gift from god, and therefore to hear that she might not have been the creator, came as a major shock to many. But at one point when all this came about, Marla's attitude changed from the outgoing, bubbly and vivacious little girl to a quite and more reserved toddler. It was questioned at that time even more if the attention surrounding Marla should continue on the same path because she was now a gimmick to the outside world.

It questions how much is too much...is just the overview enough?

Every so often, we come across an unusual or extraordinary story in the media about pregnancy, invitro fertilization or even stem cells becoming the corner stone of medical research. Although the arguments for the research and development of stem cells are an convincing one,providing the world with close cures to many diseases like leukemia, it can be disagreeable as well.

But first, we all must know how stem cells work and what exactly they are. Human Embryonic stem cells are a crucial part to the development of organisms. They are unspecialized cells which have the potential to create other types of specific cells, like blood, brain, tissue or muscle-cells developing from a female egg after it is fertilized by sperm, taking 4-5 days. Some stem cells can create all other cells in the body and others even have the potential to repair or replace damaged tissue or cells. Stem cell research is used to investigate the basic cells which develop organisms. They danger that lies within stem cell research is: an embryo, or blastocyst, just after days of conception, is removed from a pregnant female which is having an abortion. Here, the two main points of argument arise: how the knowledge will be utilized and the concerns about the methods.

It is widely believed that once the egg is fertilized, it becomes a human life and can therefore be the abortion of a child. Any life is a life and should never be compromised and therefore destroying a life to save a life is unethical.Here are the taken steps to extracting embryonic stem cells:
1. An egg is obtained from a human donor.
2. The nucleus (DNA) is removed from the egg.
3. Skin cells are taken from the patient.
4. The nucleus (DNA) is removed from a skin cell.
5. A skin cell nucleus is implanted in the egg.
6. The reconstructed egg, called a blastocyst, is stimulated with chemicals or electric current.
7. In 3 to 5 days, the embryonic stem cells are removed.
8. The blastocyst is destroyed.
9. Stem cells can be used to generate an organ or tissue that is a genetic match to the skin cell donor.
We should not necessarily utilize embryonic stem cells and try to utilize adult stem cells which will enable us to research ethically. It is also believed that in the far future, the use of stem cells can lead to the knowledge on how to clone humans - we have already seen research with good intentions turning bad like nuclear research.

While it is understood the cons of embryonic stem cell research, it is also important to point out that the debate for stem cell research as pro-life versus pro-choice, it significantly reduces to the argument of life and where does life actually begin? Is is from conception? Or does it begin once it has passed the first trimester? Or even when all organs become utilized? Both the abortion and someone dying is a tragedy, but which has the highest value? Will the cost of studying abortions be good or bad? We do not know all the risks or all the possible outcomes, so we have to value our perception of the outcome, perpetuated by the individuals feelings.

Last Thursday when I attended my Sociology 100 class, our discussion was about Racism & Discrimination today. There was this one guy that said that racism does not exist anymore in our society today. I was a bit upset when he said that because I am suffering through racism at my job right now.

I got a reply comment to this post, and I replied back. I was never complete posting what I wanted to say in the blog, but whatever. Here is what I wrote, and this is everything in a nutshell:

Although in some aspects you might be correct, I'm not sure and can't be sure if you are an African-American or whatever the case maybe. But, you don't know my situation and I'm not just calling this racism or discrimination for the hell of it. You probably (because like I stated before, may/ may not be a colored person) have never had to take a walk or live a day in my shoes. My supervisor at work was fired because she is terminally ill and that is discrimination. I understand that he/she may not have performed their job efficiently due to sickness, but everyone that signs a contract to work somewhere agrees to the fact that they cannot be fired due to illness, sexual preference, background etc.

I go to work because I enjoy it, regardless of this person putting a phone out on a desk and stating to her co-worker "lets see if person X or Y will steal it." Mind you, person X and Y are colored and person Z (is a white co-worker). Now, this co-worker could have placed it out to see if everyone she is working with could have taken, but that was not the case.

Another example: this co-worker places four other co-workers in a room to complete their work. Again, person X and Y are colored. Person P and Q are Caucasian. The next day, a pen is missing from the same room. Now instead of realizing that persons P, Q, X and Y were in the same room at the same time, and stating "probably all co-workers could have taken it" she states "only X and Y have taken it." Again, that is discrimination. Persons X and Y have never given the reason to believe that they are those that would steal anything because it unnecessary.

Needless to say, conclusions were drawn based off of skin color. RACISM. Harassment. Decency in this world would be to turn the other cheek and the gift of the benefit of doubt. But, I guess this co-worker is not willing to give that. I take to much insult that, like I said, you have no idea if I was acting decent. I can say that I am an 18 year old and she is a 23 year old and believes she is superior to everyone else around her. I acted more like an adult that she did in the situation. Therefore, I believe I have the right to say that it's racist. I can file a lawsuit if I wanted to. And throughout all this, I realized that this world is dog-eat-dog and if I have to be that person to display "my colored nature," let me be that person. I would never try and get the upper hand. If I ever fail, I know it's because I did give it 100% and the one that did, wholeheartedly deserves the credit.

Bottom line: I walk everyday in the shadows and I have two strikes against me, not only am I colored, but I'm a colored woman. That holds so much power for me, and less for the next and if whoever wants to take me on, I know my strengths and will work damned hard to succeed because I will not give another the power to tell me that I can't because of the color of my skin or my gender or whatever. Period.

I just read Prof. Cohen's three pieces: one on taking care of her mother, the other on making one of the hardest decisions of her life and the last about a trip to a Navajo reservation as a class trip. Whilst reading Keeping Faith with my Father and Life and Times of an Extreme Mom I had an instant flashback to times when my own mother had to take care of my grandmother.

At age 79, she got severely ill from a bladder infection and could never fully recover. So, for about six months of my sophomore year in high school, she came from Jamaica to live with us on our 3rd floor house in Hartford. It was the hardest thing for us all to see...one night she could not make it fast enough to the bathroom and messed up on herself, and feeling completely helpless, started crying. Just the thought of it now brings tears to my eyes.

I remember vividly another day my sister and I was off and my mother was at home (since she had the day off as well) and my mother told my grandmother something earlier in the day about a day trip we were all going to take that weekend. After about two hours, my mother mentioned the same thing again, my grandmother completly forgetting what she was told earlier. So, after about fifteen minutes of trying to explain to her again, my mother lost complete patience and began yelling for my grandmother to try and remember better. It was at that moment that my world began to turn. She started to forget, she was becoming weaker and more dependent, and my mother, sister and I began to realize what my grandmother once told us: "once a man and twice a child". It was hard seeing her slip away and not being able to do anything to help.

Three months later when she returned to Jamaica, she became even weaker, loosing her ability to take a shower, feed herself and even talk. She mumbled little things, like she was once a baby. And on Memorial day 2006, she finally gave up the battle and passed away.

The day was unforgettable. My father, mother, sister and I had left to go grocery shopping for our cookout we were planning, and when we returned home, the phone rang and it was our Aunt from Florida. She said "Mama passed away." And my life became a whirlwind; we were our grandparents only grandchildren and since we grew up for five years in Jamaica with her, she became our second mother. I love her to death, and she passed away just a couple weeks shy of our sixteenth birthday - one of the most pivotal birthdays for every girl. We all cried, now believing the existing.

Our sixteenth birthday cruise was cancelled - all the money that was saved was now invested in the funeral and our plane tickets to Jamaica. We left three days later, unable to complete our finals and was ready to celebrate, with solemn heart, the life of our grandmother. Everyday it gets harder, but everyday it get easier as well. We learn to move on and realize that she is now in a much better place. I cry every now and then remembering the funny, light and free spirit that she had. I have dreams about her too - unconcious flashback of the times we shared with her in Jamaica and know that she would be so proud to see us where we are now - her dreams came true.

In class we were told to write our own obituaries - here is my attempt:

Kareena Danielle McCalla, known to family and friends as “Ker” died on April 1^st, 2009 in her humble abode of Hartford, CT from heart damage complications of her scoliosis. She was seventy-five years old and had one of the most vivacious personalities known to her family and friends. She always based her happiness around making everyone else happy and was known to be very outspoken with her opinions.

She was born on Wednesday June 6^th, 1990 at St. Francis Hospital & Medical Center in Hartford, CT. to Laura A. Martin-McCalla and Everton M. McCalla along with her twin sister Kayana Jahmilla McCalla. They grew up with their grandparents, Lurline Martin and Hugh Martin in Jamaica until the tender age of five. It was at that time that they were enrolled in the Caribbean American Dance Company, always stealing the spotlight in the companies dance routines. It was at age sixteen that she was awarded a senior ballet dancer, rallying toddlers to dance along with her. Balancing school with play was never a problem in their household – Kareena was awarded the highest honors at Noah Webster Elementary School when she earned the highest score on the Connecticut Mastery Test, even ending up on the front page of the Hartford Courant. It was at that time that her eyes began to twinkle with excitement as she dreamt of one day writing for the New York Times or Essence Magazine.

            She attended Hartford Magnet Middle School and then went on to graduate from the Connecticut International Baccalaureate Academy in East Hartford with perfect International Baccalaureate credits and enrolled in Western Connecticut State University finally beginning her journey to her dreams. She worked on campus at the Alumni Advancement office as a Supervising Caller and successfully graduated amongst her other Sigma Cum Laude classmates. After working at Seventeen Magazine for about three years in minor editing, she was married to her college sweetheart, Brian Williams and had two children, Kailanei and Liam. At age thirty-five, she finally landed her dream job at Essence Magazine as Editor-in-Chief.

            Her philanthropic ideas and motivations towards the movement of teenagers in the inner city of Hartford allowed her to found in honor of the greatest dance teacher she knew, Judith Williams, the Hartford School of Dance & Arts, repertoire including Ballet, Africa-American folk, Jazz, Modern, Hip-Hop and African styles. It was her great motivation and project that earned her recognition as 2051’s Association of Fundraising Professionals on Nov.15^th.

            Although complications from her scoliosis were minimal since her July 2004 spinal fusion surgery, she frequently complained of chest pains and lungs tightness. It was this complication that caused her death. She will always be remembered as the quite, reserved and over-caring individual whom pushed her expectations and achieved her dreams. She is survived by her mother Laura, father Everton, sister Kayana, her husband Brain and their two children.

In my WRT172 Craft of Writing II class, we were reading poems written by Seamus Heaney and completed analyzing 'Digging' which is about the embracing of his family values as well as writing poetry as passing down a tool through generations, like his father and grandfather with digging for potatoes. I was instructed by Prof. Lomuscio to compare writing to a physical activity so I decided to compare writing to running. Here are my thoughts:

    When the gun sounds, they are off, sprinting as fast as their limber legs can take them. The only difference is that they might be sprinting forever, until its edited, printed and fully published. They begin to swear and pant, even as they see their opponents as they chase for the gold medal. Who can obtain it first? Who can reach for the gold medal and actually get it? Soon, their heart starts to pound out of their chests, a tight burning sensation begins to overcome them and air begins to exhaust from their lungs. It takes up to three more minutes to for their legs to finally begin to shiver and shake, wavering and their knees buckling. Simultaneously, their arms begin to shake and flail, all in the heat and name of winning.
    To finally stand on the platform or podium and accept the Gold medal would be exactly like winning the Pulitzer prize in writing because the ultimate form of recognition through blood, sweat and tears is the Pulitzer of Journalism. After all, isn’t that what running and writing is all about - besides the satisfaction of making a living of something that we love? To be honored and recognized as the best amongst everyone else, through all those other candidates, we are the best at that very moment, until the next one is picked, the year has passed and once again it’s ready, set go for the next possible reward.
    Even sometimes when things don’t go our way, and we don’t win the race, it’s never about giving up. It’s about striving and pushing and training that much harder for the next race because that is the only way to improve and really go after what is desired. Just the idea that sometimes things don’t always go the way that we want to go for us, does not mean that we should give up hope. It does not mean that winning the recognition should be all we look forward to, we should do it because we love it and the fulfillment that we seem to get from it. Just the mere realization allows an inner growth and improvement to always love the career that we do should always strive to make us do better. So to me, writing and running can work hand in hand. The lessons that we learn from them both, whether they are good or bad allows inner breadth and depth to develop lending to our sense of self.

      Everyone who has ever been on a date knows how nerve-wrecking it can be, especially if it is the very first date. The rest of the relationship all depends critically on the outcome of the date and that’s why, majority of the time, when a date goes off without a hitch, behavior and actions are a pivotal inclusion in his/her toolbox. But, every now and then, everyone will come across that one date from hell, whether it is there first or their last before the find the ‘right one’, often asking themselves after the horrendous date “what the hell did I ever see in insert name here?” It strikes a certain cord and many wonder why the date-ruiner would even go to such lengths to ruin it for someone else. And that’s when it hits you in the face like a ton of bricks, the forbidden unspoken list of how to have the worst date ever. 
    
     It first begins with the pick-up, because often times, they don’t and you have to find a ride there. Furthermore, they are late, not really caring much about time. They will begin to talk so much you will just want to scream and they will do absolutely anything to try and attract attention to themselves, which is their main goal. They must be disrespectful by wearing the wrong clothing, either to revealing or looking like they rolled right out of bed or even saying the wrong thing. They will smell foul, both their breath and private areas, if you know what I mean. 

     During the date, the most likely will be loud and ignorantly obnoxious, burdening you with their life story. They will cry whenever possible and snort when laughing causing everyone around to cast nasty looks in your direction. When the food comes, they will east like a pig, pass gas at every moment possible, place their feet on the table and pick their toenails. After this gross encounter with their feet, they will tell you absolutely anything because they are desperate for commitment either through children or marriage. But, ultimately the number one way to have the worst date possible is if he/she stands you up, which will break even the strongest of hearts.