Steel Skin
When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips and the stars in his eyes, infinite and twinkling with wonder. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. But he yearned to "grow up" and see the real world, oblivious to the storm of harsh reality awaiting outside of the comfort of his home. Still, the fantasies in his head remained preserved and untouched by the monsters in the dark corners of the world. When he was seven, his mom came home one day with tears streaming down her cheeks and her eyes full of storms of fury and the turmoil of defeat. She was afraid, and he was confused when she told his father that a man had pulled off her headscarf, demanding that she "goes back to where she came from." His father was quiet, his face smooth and pale like marble, displaying his stoniness. But he was not a stone, and his hands shook as he asked his wife to take off the scarf, it's not safe anymore. To a seven year-old boy, it made no sense to harm a woman wearing a scarf on her head. He had never seen the scarf on his mother as a separate entity, for it was a part of her. He asked his parents why someone would attempt to break off a piece of a person. There was no answer that they could give that satisfied him. The fantasies that somehow always seemed to make sense now offered no comfort to him as he watched his mother cry in sorrow. The world of make-believe was not like this in his mind. In that world, no one would pull off a woman's scarf. His parents moved to the country of opportunity, where they were promised liberty and justice for all. Here he was born, and his parents hoped he would be given a better life than the one in their previous homeland, Syria. Although his father begged his mother not to don the scarf, she remained adamant. She was a strong woman, and she wouldn't let anyone dictate her actions. As he became older, the stars that once glowed so radiantly in his eyes soon began dulling when in school he began to be the object of attention as the only one of his kind. "Muhammad, are you a terrorist?" That question was a slap in the face. How ignorant could people be? Classifying an entire populace based on the actions of a mere few. He was old enough to understand that the world is not the beautiful, joyful place he had once imagined. And that was breaking him, his paper thin skin bled the joy that his heart beat with. The fantasies that once filled him with hope and wonder were now being shattered, the sharp shards piercing his heart. He was seventeen and glaring at the world through different eyes. He did not now see through those eyes full of constellations. They were now hidden safely behind thick glass which improved his ability to see realistically and enhanced his cynicism. His hopefulness and curiosity had finally been snuffed out by the monster in the dark corners of the world. Every day he endured the bitter remarks and mindless assumptions that followed him around shoving and berating him. A large creature with hair that resembled an egg yolk blocked his path to class and opened its mouth to growl loudly in his face. The creature was warning him, it's crystal blue orbs hard and penetrating. It stared at him, and yet could not see him for what he was: a scrawny boy with unkempt brown hair and and a loud mind. He wasn't who the creature thought. But there was no use in explaining that to It. So the boy listened quietly and let himself be pushed to the ground. When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips. The world was out of his reach, spitting on him and relentlessly attacking his spirit. After school he trudged home and painted a smile on his face for his mother. He would never speak a word of what he went through on a daily basis. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. His mind had been wrung of the dreams he once had. His face was sore from the plastic expression, but he continued to push up the corners of his mouth in her presence. When his father came home, he went to his room. His father knocked once and asked if he wanted to go with him to the daily prayer at the mosque. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. He was too afraid, too ashamed to love his faith, to practice it, to embrace it. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, his mind now empty and his heart on fire. The world had worn down his father, now weary and grey-haired, but his spirit was still the same, his heart warm and soft. "It's okay we can go tomorrow, inshAllah," he murmured sweetly in his rough voice, full of tender chips of hope. Before he left, he told the wooden door he loved his son. His son didn't answer and the door didn't budge, and soon after the sound of retreating footsteps was heard. With his eyes closed, he breathed out some of the fire and inhaled the smoke. He was aching on the inside, itching to speak, to talk to his parents. The noise of the ticking clock and his even breathing oddly comforted him. When the ache subsided, he rose and began his daily heap of homework, per usual, when the doorbell rang. Upon answering the door he was greeted by two men in dark blue uniforms wearing blank expressions and badges on their chests. The men grunted greetings and asked for his mother. He opened his mouth but a hand on his shoulder and his mother's voice stopped him. "What is the problem?" The men in blue exchanged looks before turning to the mother and son, and uttering the words that cut into him so deeply he couldn't breathe. His father was dead. Mosque. Man with gun. The boy stiffened as the words hit him one after another. His mother's heart was broken and bleeding. The wound inflicted on her was impossible to heal, and within a few days her heart became too weak to continue pumping, and gave up. He was alone and homeless. The place he once lived in wasn't a home anymore; it was a prison and he was trapped. "Not a hate crime," the men in blue said. "The man got away but we're doing the best we can." Not a hate crime. Were they blind? Or were so ignorant that they were unable to recognize the truth? The worst motivator was hate, and yet it was the only emotion that made a difference in the world. Love never changed the world. Happiness was too scarce to fix anything. But hatred, the vileness in all humans was enough to destroy everything. And it did. It incinerated his family, stole the only ones who loved him. He cried until his eyes were emptied of tears but the pain in his heart didn't lessen. Everything he wanted to say to his parents-every word, every thought-was now forever locked in his brain behind his mouth, leaving a sour aftertaste on his tongue. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. His world had torn apart. A month later he turned eighteen and was able to live on his own with the money left behind by his parents. He vowed to thicken his skin and harden his heart so no one would be able to cut him. He started to steel himself over and over until he stops bleeding, replacing his once paper thin skin. He's cynical and realistic-realizing that the world is not a just place and men aren't just creatures. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. Constantly reaffirming his imperviousness, he pushed people away before they got a chance to get close to him. His eyes no longer held twinkling stars, rather they contained black holes. The world was not within his reach. He used to be able to fly through the endless sky and travel different worlds, his imagination crossing galaxies and realms. Those parts of his brain were carved out. He was hardened cement, smoothed over the cracks in the foundation of his livelihood and unaffected by trauma and the weight of helplessness. The monsters that had slipped through the cracks were his only companions, dwelling in the dark corners of his mind. He found his faith when he finally mustered up the courage to go to the mosque again. It was then he decided to embrace his religion and his heritage, and began to discover himself. When he was twenty-two, he visited his parents for the first time in years, his heart full of words. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he started to speak, beginning with: "Assalamu Alaikum."
Sonder
sonder - n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.
When you finally open your eyes and see that they are not just supporting characters made up in your imagination to stop you from feeling alone. That other people; you family, your friends, that women that talks way too loud on the bus, and the cab driver that charges too much; that they are all living a scintillating life. That they all have cried, and laughed, and felt loss and pain. That they have a family or feelings just as you do. That they don't simply fade away once you walk off. That the people in the background are the stars of their own life. That you are not the only person who feels, and loves, and cares, and hates, and hurts, and cries. That you are not the only thing keeping their luster glowing. That they keep shining and living long after you've gone. That you are just a supporting character within their life. That you were once a background character walking by with your phone in one hand. That you fade away to them once you have left.
Sonder - the realization that you are not the only person who lives.
It was the first day of school after another hard summer. Not only did Cece have Ms.Wade also known as the “Wade Widow” who had her up nights on end trying to finish the summer reading, but her brother had died from a biking accident over the summer. Her mother also died a year earlier during the summer before her seventh grade year in a climbing accident.
Cece was in her usual garb, baggy sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. She put up her hair in a ponytail while looking up at the four story building that seemed to go on forever in all directions. She walked to her first period English class which was on the third story. Her feet pulled her into the classroom with Ms.Wade, and she made her way to the back of the room. Cece had always been a great student, even after her mother's death. She never missed an assignment, and always performed well.
Ms.Wade looked at her with a strange, hateful glare that Cece had never seen before. She began to walk around the classroom, and Cece grabbed her books and pencils while she tried to look busy. She looked up and saw Ms.Wade standing in front of her desk. She was a short old lady with long gray hair in a tight bun and that day she was wearing a black pantsuit.
Ms.Wade then uttered the words, “Your brother was an excellent student, and I was sorry to hear of his death.”
Cece politely nodded and sat down in her seat. She hated when people brought up their deaths because she wanted to stay strong.
Ms.Wade announced to the class, “ I want to test your reading comprehension by seeing if you can spot context clues out of these two reading activities.”
She passed out the activities by row, and when she came to the last row, she smirked and whispered to Cece, “Enjoy.” Cece didn’t know what to think so she thanked her and began reading.
The two activities were almost like forensics activities, they were given a scene where someone died and they were given clues for how they died. They then had to write what they thought had happened and write what clues they used.
The first sentence of the first reading read, “This middle aged woman was found face down with a knife in her stomach and rope tied around her feet with all of her climbing gear.”
Cece’s face turned a pale shade of white while her hands trembled to hold onto the paper with the events of her mother’s death. Her mother had died or as the police had told them while she was struggling to get a knife to untangle her feet that were trapped in her climbing rope. She successfully retrieved the knife, but when she bent down to cut the rope, she fell on the knife, and died.
Her trembling hands tried to turn the page, but the packet ended up sprawled out on the floor. As she bent down to pick the papers up, she heard the clack of Ms.Wade’s heels coming towards her. She looked up to see her standing before her.
“Is everything alright over here?”, Ms. Wade said in her precise, sharp voice.
Cece couldn’t speak, so she nodded and turned the page. The next reading started with the same uncomfortable familiarity. Except this time it reminded her of her brothers death. It began with, “ A teenage boy was found in a ditch off the side of the road, with a bicycle on top of his crushed body.”
Her brother had been riding his bicycle home at night and a car hit him at such an impact he was blown off the street into a ditch. He crushed his ribs and multiple other bones, but worst of all he had a serious concussion which was the main thing that killed him after five long nights in a hospital bed.
Again she felt dazed as if someone had hit her head with a hammer. Cece realizes she needs to let go of her mother and brother, and by doing so she will lift the weight that’s been tormenting her for the past year. After her great realization, she soon becomes aware that the class had left, and Ms.Wade stood hovering above her desk. Ms.Wade for the first time had a nice expression on her face.
She said in a pleasant voice, “I have something to show you.”
Cece was still disoriented, so she follows Ms.Wade to her desk.
Ms. Wade began to speak again this time in a hushed tone that made it seem like spiders were crawling up your legs and ghosts were about inhabit your body , “ Did you know that your father was the first person to see my husband after he died? Your father was meeting up with my husband because they used to be work partners. Your father was running late, and in that time my husband had a heart attack. By the time your father had gotten there, it was too late. He could’ve been there. He could’ve saved my husband, but he didn’t. Instead I watched my whole world crumble beneath me, and now that’s exactly what I plan to do to him.”
Finally it all clicked, it wasn’t all a coincidence for the deaths in her family. Cece then looked up terrified to see Ms.Wade holding a mallet. Her legs managed to swivel around and start running, but it was too late. The last thing she felt was the blow of the mallet against her skull, and then she was gone.
To Be Free
I woke up this morning and I was no longer disabled. At first, I simply felt; I was still me, legs that hadn't seen the light of day since who knows when, curvy and short. I still had my short curly dark hair; but as I swung my legs over the side of the bed (within distance of the dog crate and it's ever watchful occupant, my corgi, Zoe) I let my feet hit the nondescript carpet, testing.
I walked across the room, unplugged my wheelchair before wandering into the kitchen. Flipping on the light I mindlessly began fixing breakfast and sorting out my medication (an allergy pill and antidepressant) before sitting down to eat. After breakfast, I went into the normal routine of letting the dog out then feeding her and saying hello to my laptop before starting my work for the day.
It was only after working for a few minutes I realized something. I was no longer disabled which meant I could get a job, I could make money, I no longer needed government income or an apartment complex tailored to disabled and elderly people. Most importantly, what was I going to tell my landlord?
