1st_person_2010_web by N.C. Central University Campus Echo

Campus Echo

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 2010

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person true stories from the lives of eight nccu students

Given everything, I blew it all

My near-death by Oldsmobile at 10

Homosexuality: a proud lifestyle, but not a choice

BY CHRIS HESS

BY ISHA JACKSON

BY CLINTON CENTRY

ECHO STAFF REPORTER

do not come from poverty. I come from an upper-middle class home in a nice neighborhood. My parents are still married and happy. I was never abused or molested. In fact, my family gatherings look like a picture from a Ralph Lauren catalog. I was handed every opportunity anyone could ask for. I was accepted into East Carolina University after graduating from Northern Durham High School in 2001. My parents were pleased to be able to pay for my education. I blew it. At age 18, I felt my purpose in life was to drink as much as possible, that partying trumped academic success.

lood gushed from my face as I climbed out of the Oldsmobile. My mouth filled with excruciating pain. All I could think was, “What the hell did she do to me?” It was a beautiful summer day; I had tricked my eldest brother Derrick into taking me to Shelby to visit my grandmother, who lived two minutes from my real destination. My eldest cousin, Kinbria, got behind the wheel of her mother’s Oldsmobile and drove around the block to find the three of us. “Stop being fast, get y’all ass in the car,” she said. Lasonya and I were 10, Leiah was 11.

guess I have always known I was a bit different. It was a feeling that developed within, a natural feeling that I grew to understand and deal with. I could not express my emotions with words, but I knew that I was attracted to the same sex. From as early as age seven, my experiences gave way to a curiosity that steadily progressed. It’s funny how an adolescent can come to this conclusion never having had a sexual encounter of any kind. This is why I challenge the assumption that homosexuality is a choice. In order for one to choose to be homosexual, an alternative has to be presented.

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Stories written by students in Feature Writing for Magazines and Newspapers, taught by Dr. Lisa Carl

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Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 2006

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HOW JIHAD DECLARED WAR Briana Aguilar’s foster sister turned her family upside down ... even the FBI got involved BY BRIANA AGUILAR CONTRIBUTING WRITER

om, Dad we need to talk.’ In movies, this is usually the part where the daughter says, “I’m pregnant.” But this had nothing to do with pregnancy. I told my parents about my friend Jihad who was new to my high school. Jihad means “holy war” in Arabic, but to me, Jihad was just a girl in homeroom who I had become close friends with. Who knew that her name would become my reality? “I really think y’all should think about becoming foster parents for my friend, Jihad.” At first, my mom and dad laughed; once they realized that I was serious, they asked me why. My dad recognized her name from his job. He was vice president at the orphanage where she lived. Even though he was skeptical of her intentions, they agreed to it because they trusted my judgment. Jihad was born in Egypt. Her father is Egyptian, and her mother, an American, died trying to save Jihad’s sister from drowning. I knew my family would be able to bring life into her eyes again and give her the tools she needed to succeed. As the youngest, I was excited to have a sister my age to talk with about boys, clothes and school. One Friday night, my best friend Jessica and I went to Greensboro to meet our friends at a teen club called Confetti’s. Although Jessica and I loved our “us” time, we asked Jihad to come with us since she had no plans. Among the people we were meeting at the club were my boyfriend, Alex and his teammates, along with some of Jessica’s and my close friends. We danced until our clothes were sweaty and our feet were sore. After Confetti’s, we went to Cook Out for milkshakes and chicken strips, as was our ritual. Little did we know that Jihad had an open bottle of Grey Goose vodka in her purse. The Goose brought out a new confidence in Jihad. After being rejected by a guy, Akeen, Jihad threw a fit, cussing and pouting.

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You know the saying: “You might have won the battle, but I’ll win the war. Well, Jihad declared war.

When we first noticed the bottle, it has halfway full. We reminded her that we were underage and were in Jessica’s mom’s car, so if we got pulled over, we’d be in serious trouble. We asked her kindly to put it away. But when we turned around, Jihad downed the bottle. By the time we got home, Jihad had passed out. I wanted to park and get in the house without waking my parents. But just as Jessica and I were getting out of her mom’s new Mercedes, Jihad puked. We tried to push Jihad out of the car so we could carry her into the house. This was a challenge. Jessica and I were 5’5” and 5’6”, 130 pounds. Jihad was 6’1” and a solid 195. Once I saw the porch light turn on, I knew it would be downhill from there. My mom came out and tried to help us pull Jihad out of the car before my dad woke up. My dad isn’t a talkative or confrontational guy. But when he’s angry, he taps into his Latino side and the dragon is unleashed. With my mom’s help, we slid Jihad out of the car. As her knees slammed into the concrete driveway, I heard the front door slam and looked up to see my angry yet curious, half-asleep dad. We brought my father up to speed and with his help, we were able to drag Jihad to the steps. She was still passed out. Once we got to the steps, we had to reposition ourselves. As soon as I bent down to lift her leg, I was blasted by a smelly burst of gas. We all tried to fight through frustration and delusional laughter. My dad counted off one, two, three, Jihad released another fart and my dad said, “She’s heavy as a whale. There she blows.” My dad always tells the corniest jokes to try and lighten the mood. We just couldn’t hold up dead weight any longer; Jihad fell. An hour later, we had gotten Jihad to the foyer floor

where my mom had made a pallet with comforters. Jihad wouldn’t stop dry heaving, and my mom was scared that Jihad had alcohol poisoning. She called my Aunt Pheyama, who worked in emergency room at Alamance Regional Hospital. If my mom had called the doctor or an ambulance, Jihad’s social worker would be notified, and she would be taken away. Mom stayed up with Jihad until morning. Although my parents were fed up, they wanted to know what had caused Jihad’s outrageous behavior. My parents never gave me beatings or grounded me; what they did was far worse. When my siblings and I got in trouble, my parents made us sit through five-hour lectures. The next morning Mom cooked breakfast and allowed us to discuss last night’s events. Jessica and I told Jihad how disregarding our feelings and putting us in possible danger with the cops made us feel she didn’t respect us. My mom and dad backed us up. Then the questions came. “Who bought you alcohol? Why would you drink the whole thing? Why did you drink in the first place?” Mom and Dad put Jihad on punishment and told her she had one more chance to get it together if she wanted to continue to be a part of our family. I was very angry with Jihad; she had not only embarrassed me in front of my friends, but she had disrespected Jessica and her belongings, along with my parents and me. That wasn’t the first time Jihad had disobeyed my parents, but after that night, things got worse. She wouldn’t clean her room, vacuum, or do the dishes on her day to do chores. My parents were finally fed up and a big argument led to my mom calling Jihad’s social worker and having her removed from our house. I felt so bad that I had put my family in this position. I

had let this girl talk me into asking my parents to become her foster family; in return, she turned our lives upside down. You know the saying: “You might have won the battle, but I’ll win the war.” Well, Jihad declared war. My father was well known and respected in Elon, N.C. She try to slander my dad’s name and mess up his credibility. She also told everyone at school my parents used the foster care check to take me shopping and never gave her any money. I was furious at this lie. Besides track, dance and cheering, I worked during my junior year, so my parents didn’t have to give me money. My mother used the foster care check to buy her clothes, decorate her room, give her lunch money, and pay for her cap, gown and class ring. My mom also was trying to reach her brother and sister so she could fly them down for her graduation. Sadly, people believed Jihad, even though I had grown up with these people and they were close to my parents. The chaos didn’t stop there. One day mom, dad and I were sitting in the kitchen planning my graduation party when two FBI agents came to the door. They told my parents they had been tapping our phones and watching our activity. It turned out that Jihad’s father was business partners with a well-known terrorist who had threatened the lives of many Americans. My parents had to go through screening and testing to make sure they had no affiliation with Jihad’s father. After that, Jihad’s dad called the house one last time –– not to talk to Jihad, but to thank my parents for watching over her. He knew how much of a handful she could be. I had brought not only Jihad into my family but the FBI as well. Jihad had made my childhood friends question my family’s motives. She also tried to steal my boyfriend by sending him

Mass communication junior Briana Aguilar holds a photograph of her and her former foster sister Jihad from high school. BRUCE

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love notes, making up fake accounts with fake conversations between them and emailing them to me. It was a nightmare, and I had caused it. It made the beginning of my senior year hell, and I became very depressed. My mom grew up in a very religious family. She’s an ordained minister as well as a teacher, business owner and wedding planner. My father worked hard to make sure my mom could do her side projects and live the life she wanted. They raised us on love, forgiveness and faith. Although I didn’t want to forgive Jihad, I did. It took a

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long time and I still struggle with it. Once we went to college, I visited Jihad at ECU. I invited her to Thanksgiving because I knew she had nowhere to go. Although she was happy to know she had a place to go, she declined. We stayed in touch on Facebook for a while, but eventually lost touch. I learned some valuable lessons from Jihad. Never judge a book by its cover. Although it might look shiny and neatly decorated, it’s not always what it seems. I also learned that we can’t always help people who don’t want help, and that only forgiveness will set you free.

Centry CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 I can only explain the way I am by saying that I was born this way, and this is natural to me. I have no desire to be anything else.

Mass communication junior Clinton Centry shows off his “Boyz” tattoo BRUCE

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I would have to experience both, dislike being heterosexual, and then choose to be otherwise. In my case, this has never taken place. I have never engaged in any form of heterosexual sex, nor struggled with sexual identity. Even though I had girlfriends in high school, these relationships formed due to my desire to fit in rather than from attraction. I disclosed my sexuality to my mom when I was 22, and she was cool with it. Since then she has been excited to meet my boyfriends. My dad on the other hand I have not told, but I will in time. I do not think he would mind much, as he had two gay brothers, one of whom married his lover in the 1970s. The turning point for me occurred when I met John Moore. It was the typical boynext-door situation. He was popular and attractive. I was ecstatic the first day he knocked at my front door. When I answered, something happened to me — my

stomach flip-flopped, then my adrenaline surged. I could neither speak nor believe it. I lost my breath. Over the summer of 1990, I grew to care about him like a brother, if not more. I wanted to see him every day; when I did not, I was bothered. It was incomprehensible to me then that John was entitled to friendships outside of ours. I had all of these emotions for him and could not understand why, until Kevin Haskins came into the picture. When John was not hanging with me, he was with Kevin. I began to despise their bond, directing my anger toward John because of it. He was my best friend. This reaction made me realize my feelings for John were beginning to transcend the typical male friendship. One afternoon while John and I were walking through what was soon to be a subdivision, I found a uniquelooking rock that I coined our “friendship” rock. Another day when I sat

alone thinking about John and Kevin together, I hurled that rock with all my might at the rusted shed in the woods behind my home. With a loud bang, it was lost. I began to think the same of our friendship. Gradually, John began to distance himself from me. I was thinking it was because I had thrown the rock. I felt lost and desperate, thinking John no longer wanted to remain friends. That’s when I wrote the letter. I could have talked to him face-to-face, but I have always conveyed my thoughts better through writing. I poured my heart into that letter, acknowledging the person I was becoming when I told him I loved him. John read the letter and then passed it to a mutual friend, who showed our entire clique. I died a little when I realized that everyone knew. They said things like, “Some of the things you put in it…!” and, “That letter was deep.” They had never witnessed anything of that nature; of

course they all wanted something to gossip about. Everyone’s shock subsided after a few days, and John and I resumed being friends as if nothing had happened; we never discussed it. Though I have never quite recovered from the initial embarrassment, it was then that I began to understand my sexuality. Today I am comfortable and open with my sexuality, yet it is not everyone’s business to know that I live what is referred to as an “alternative” lifestyle. I can only explain the way I am by saying that I was born this way and this is natural to me. I have no desire to be anything else. I have endured negativity regarding the way I speak, walk, dress, etc., in the past but these reactions have only solidified the fact that I am different, that I am homosexual. I will not be deterred from spiritual and emotional happiness by a longing to conform to what is considered normal.

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Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26, 2006

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LEAN ON ME A summer night turns sour fast when a childhood friend ends up in a coma BY JUSTIN CAMPBELL CONTRIBUTING WRITER

t was a summer night in June after I graduated from high school. I was cruising the five miles that made up Monroe,

N.C. Talk of a road trip to South Carolina had started with my friends Devonte (Te) and Keon (Ke). Keon and I met in the fifth grade, and we were good friends with Devonte by the seventh grade. We had always found ways to entertain ourselves without ever leaving Monroe. But on this night, a group of cheerleaders and attractive girls from school were having a sleepover, and they didn’t think it would be complete without us. What kind of men would we be to deny such a simple request? Our summer escapades usually ended with late nights of pizza and energy drinks at Devonte’s house. His parents had always considered me and Keon part of their family and didn’t mind us coming over at two or three in the morning. The prospect of leaving home for good in a few months must have awakened the inner adventurer in us all. Keon was going to N. C. Central University with me; Devonte was headed to North Carolina A&T University. Keon was hesitant to accompany us on our adventure. We called him Granddaddy Ke because he was always the first to go to sleep and was wise beyond his years. “JC, uh-uh, y’all do not need to go all the way to South Carolina for no party.” Devonte was still in church for Wednesday night Bible study, likely forced to go by his parents for something he did or forgot to do. Te, a creature of impulse, is always the first to laugh at a joke and the first to call you out. “Tell Keon to chill, bro. He need to come with us; it’s only two hours away and he know he want to go.”

English junior Justin Campbell displays a high school photo of him and his friends Keon and Devonte. BRUCE

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Te still doesn’t remember our visits, but we were there for each other then, and we are there for each other now. A girl Te had told me about too many times was supposed to be at this party; she was probably the reason he was pushing so strongly to go. Keon’s advice made sense; it was after all a long ride and I would probably be the one stuck with driving, as I often was. I hadn’t been on the road long when Keon called. “Yeah, what you want, Ke?” “Are you driving? Pull over man, I got something to tell you.” “Stop playing,” I said. He was scaring me, and I don’t do scared at night very well. I pulled into a Chili’s parking lot.

“What’s up, Keon?” “Te just got in a wreck, man.” Silence. I had only been in the Chili’s parking lot for about 10 minutes, but it felt like 10 hours. Te had been coming home from church; what had happened wasn’t clear. All we knew was that his car was totaled and a hospital helicopter had had to carry him from the crash site. We all feared the worst. Was he okay? Why did he need a helicopter? At the hospital, his family and friends lined the waiting room hall. His mother was a shell of her usual bubbly self, shaking and pacing

with tears lining her eyes. Keon and I barely glanced at each other, neither wanting to meet the other’s line of sight, neither wanting to cry. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ke rubbing his forehead with his finger and thumb. He was looking at his shoes; his other hand was in his pocket. I didn’t know what to think or say. I just stood there with the back of my head pressed against the wall. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I put my hands in my pockets and took them out, wiping the sweat on the back of my jeans. No matter what I did, I was never

comfortable and neither was Ke. But we had to be strong, if not for ourselves then for his family. We didn’t get to see Te that night, but his mom and dad did. Te had come away from the accident outwardly unscathed, but he was in a coma that the doctor said could last from two months to a year. We spent the rest of our summer visiting Te and his family at the hospital, hoping each day might be the day he opened his eyes. June turned into August, and Keon and I feared we would be heading off to college without our best friend. Three days before the first day of classes, Ke and I went on our last visit to the hospital. In the waiting room, Te’s mom told us he had been moved. We didn’t think anything of it; we just followed her as she led the way. From just outside the door, I heard a familiar voice. Te had woken up. Te still doesn’t remember our visits, but we were there for each other then and we are there for each other now. Te recovered faster than his doctors thought possible and now attends A&T. All Te could remember of the accident was looking up from his phone into the headlights of an oncoming car. Police and eyewitnesses surmised that he had drifted into traffic and over-corrected his wheel trying to avoid it. Now more than ever, we realize the importance of taking advantage of any time we have together. After Easter break, we piled into Keon’s blue Cadillac for the two-hour trip from Monroe back to school. “Bro what if we could all get a place after we graduate? Work around the same area and have a spot together. That would be perfect,” said Te. Keon and I looked over the shoulders of our car seats at him. We all busted out laughing as Te’s serious look turned into a quirky grin. We have to make it through college first.

A DAUGHTER’S LOSS Tanikka was glad they’d had one last day mother-daughter day together BY TANIKKA THOMAS CONTRIBUTING WRITER

want you to grow up and be able to take care of yourself and not have to depend on anyone else

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but you.” To a 7-year-old girl, those words were memorable. I never wanted to disappoint my mother. I always showed her my good report cards so she could congratulate me and take me out to dinner. Whenever she came around and I was playing basketball, I would try to pull out my best tricks. Growing up in Durham, you can’t help but notice the drug dealers, abusers and addicts on almost every corner. Because I didn’t have a strong male figure for most of my childhood, my mother was the only hope that I wouldn’t turn out like them. But she could not help what I saw with my own eyes. One Saturday morning, my mother and I were just getting up when we heard a commotion outside. As I looked behind her, I saw a man dragging his live-in girlfriend down the steps while she screamed for him to let her go. I was only 8 years old. When I was 10, my father called and told my mother he wanted me to meet my sister. I hadn’t known that I had a sister or even that my father had married another woman. When my father came to pick me up, my sister and his wife were in the car. I felt awkward about the situation and hated spending time with him; I felt he cared more about his other family than about us. Two years passed, and my mom had a new boyfriend. In the beginning, he was very cool and laid back, almost like the big brother I had never had because he was 28 when my mother was 41. We would play PlayStation together, watch movies and go to sporting events. I called him Poochie; I never knew his real name. One night while my mom and I

were sleeping, Poochie climbed through the window demanding money. I watched him hit my mother in the chest with a huge stick. From then on, things only got worse. I saw my mom get beat almost every day by a man she said she loved. I became very distant from everyone, especially my mother. I could not understand why she would stay with a man who hurt her so much. I would come home from school and go straight to my room. When my mother tried to make conversation with me, I would ignore her. I thought my doing this would make her leave him alone, and I could have her all to myself again. I was young and should have known that she would not leave the relationship until she was ready. When I got tired of seeing violence, I moved to the little town of St. Pauls, N.C. with my aunt and sister. St. Pauls and Durham were like day and night. In St. Pauls, I was always with my cousins. Plenty of love and family surrounded me and I never saw any violence. My mother visited me every weekend and brought me a gift every time. Each time, she told me how much she wanted me to move back in with her, but I knew she was still in a relationship with Poochie, so I always brushed off the conversation. On November 19, 1998, my birthday, I was mad at my mother because we had gotten into an argument. I wasn’t expecting her to visit or get me a present, which put me in a bad mood most of the day. That afternoon, a UPS man rang the doorbell. In his hands, he held a brand new PlayStation 2 and a card from my mother. I called her and apologized for everything. From then on, our relationship got better. To top things off, she told me she had broken up with Poochie and was trying to find another house. I was so happy for my mother that it brought me to tears. One weekend that summer, I was

When I was in 11th grade, my sister sat me down and we reminisced about all the good times we had with our mother and how we had to get over her death and live our lives happily because she would want us to.

supposed to spend the week with my father but I felt homesick for some reason. I called my mother to come get me and we headed to her house. She turned it into a “mom and daughter day” as she called it. We played the children’s game Candyland and she cooked me breakfast food. We talked about all kinds of stuff, from boys to the men in her life. I loved our little date. She told me that a man she had met was trying to get her to on a date with him but she was hesitant. I remember being scared for her to talk to men because of how badly Poochie had treated her in the past, but I remained optimistic about her finding someone and being happy. The week after our mom-anddaughter day, my mom came to pick up the car that my had sister bought for her birthday. She complained about a bad headache she had had the whole

Tanikka Thomas memorialized her mother, who died when she was in the 8th grade, with a tattoo. NEKA JONES/Echo staff photographer

day. My aunt gave her some medicine, and she took a nap before getting on the road for home. She went to work on Monday. It was our ritual to talk during her lunch break every other day. On Wednesday I called her desk but no one answered. I decided to call her back in 15 more minutes. Before the 15 minutes came around, a doctor from Duke Hospital called. He told my aunt that my mother had had a stroke and was in intensive care. I remember having all kinds of thoughts. Thoughts like she would be okay because she was Superwoman and could survive anything. I also wondered how I would make it without her. I cried the whole way to Duke. When we got to her room, she was hooked up to a life support machine. I knew that wasn’t good, and I got ready to say goodbye to my

mother and my best friend. My mother died just before I entered 8th grade. I had so many questions about life and my sexuality that I only felt comfortable discussing with my mother. In high school, I was quiet and distant; all I cared about was basketball. My grades were mediocre, and I had no thoughts of entering college unless it was on a basketball scholarship. When I was in 11th grade, my sister sat me down and we reminisced about all the good times we had with our mother and how we had to get over her death and live our lives happily because she would want us to. She convinced me to move to Elizabeth City. with her to finish high school and get on the right path to enter college. It was the best decision I ever made. I brought my grades up and decided to attend N.C. Central University and major in journalism.

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Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 2010

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FROM BRAT TO FUNDRAISER A daughter tells how she was inspired to set up her own non-profit for cancer patients BY JASMINE MILLER CONTRIBUTING WRITER

ne day in Wal-Mart, a 15year-old girl asked her mother if she could get an $89 bracelet. For the first time in the girl’s life, her mother said, “No, you can’t get that today.” The girl was mad, confused and curious. She didn’t throw a fit or pout like a normal spoiled child; all she said was, “Are you serious? I know you’re joking, right?” When she realized that her mother was serious, the girl said, “Whatever. I’ll get it one day.” Later that day, the girl overheard her mother tell her best friend, “I felt bad today when I told Jazz she couldn’t get that bracelet. “I couldn’t get it because I needed my money for my medical bills.” What medical bills? After her mother got off the phone, she went into her mother’s bedroom and asked. The girl found out that her mother had breast cancer. She thought, “I’m getting an attitude because I can’t get a bracelet when my mother’s health is at risk. How could I be so selfish? She stared at her mother and cried. She thought of ways she could help her mother. She didn’t understand why her mother hadn’t told her sooner. Why did her mother, out of all people, have that terrible illness? How could such a bad thing could happen to such a great person? The girl didn’t know what to do. She decided to stop asking for things and to start giving. I was that selfish girl. I had never realized how it felt to give because I was always doing all the receiving. Back then, I didn’t realize how dangerous breast cancer was; nor was I aware of the expenses. I still wanted to get everything I

“I’m getting an attitude because I can’t get a bracelet when my mother’s health is at risk. How could I be so selfish?”

wanted. So instead of asking my mother for things, I got a job. In 11th grade, I worked at McDonald’s after school during the week and at Bald Head Island on the weekends. It wasn’t tiring. But it did limit my time with my friends. One day, I walked into my mother’s room before leaving for school one morning and witnessed all of her hair falling out at once. It was the most horrifying moment of my life. I stood there and cried. At that time, I didn’t know that this was a cry for help. I did know that I didn’t want to see anyone else go through what my mother went through. Although I knew I had no control over people’s health, I could do something to show that I cared. During my freshman year in college, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mother looking at her medical bills and co-pay receipts. We calculated that three months of co-pays alone came to more than $7,000. And she was still $24,000 in debt. I wanted breast cancer victims to be stress-free about their co-pays when they go to the doctor because that stress could create more illness for them. I wanted to help breast cancer victims in similar situations with their medical bills. I had a vision of starting a nonprofit business to pay the co-pays for qualified breast cancer victims who struggle. I also would get active in the

Jasmine Miller holds a recent photograph of herself and her mother, the inspiration for her non-profit group FAITH to help cancer patients pay bills. BRUCE

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community by supporting breast cancer walks and other fundraisers. On March 8, 2010, my non-profit

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corporation became a reality. I chose the name “FAITH,” which stands for faith and integrity

through healing. I am now able to apply for grants and participate in fundraisers to strengthen my business. The purpose of my business is to touch the people who are in need but who don’t have the funds to get help. On May 3, I will visit the Duke and UNC Hospitals and other Triangle medical centers to promote FAITH while signing up people who may qualify for FAITH’s service. FAITH does not have many restrictions; the only individuals who may not receive help from FAITH are those who already receive unemployment or Medicare. FAITH is designed to help people in need who haven’t had much help. FAITH was set up to help breast cancer patients. But one day at church, I listened to a woman testify about living with HIV and I thought that breast cancer victims are not the only people in need. I wanted to help everyone in need. I am currently a mass communication junior at N.C. Central University with a concentration in broadcasting. I have already completed a goal that wasn’t meant to be completed until after graduation. I have changed my life for the better by dedicating my time and business to help people in need. I thank my mother for making me realize that I do not want to be a selfish person. It’s funny how something as little as my mother telling me I couldn’t get something in the store led me to dedicate my life to helping people. That one moment made me realize that I will never be selfish again. After I graduate I would like to become a filmmaker and donate 20 percent of the proceeds from every film to charities around the United States.

HESS CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1

At age 18, I felt my purpose in life was to drink as much as possible, that partying trumped academic success.

After botching his freshman year at East Carolina University, Chris Hess is redirecting his life at NCCU. Photo courtesy Chris Hess

There is a two-week period in my life that I don’t even remember. Time after time, I woke up in a pile of my own vomit. One morning I woke up missing half my front tooth. After two semesters of horseplay at East Carolina, I moved back home to Durham. In tow was a less-than-respectable GPA of 0.7. I had no direction, no meaning, no goals, no use for myself. My parents were not at all pleased. The people I surrounded myself with were drug addicts, drinkers, gang members — the usual suspects. I worked various jobs from a pizza delivery driver, to hotel bell-

man, earning a paycheck that I drank away the first chance I got. One afternoon, Sean, one of my best friends from high school, dropped in to the tire shop where I worked. He was on the verge of graduating from Duke University with a degree in bio-medical engineering. We had the usual b.s. conversation: “How are you?” “Not bad.” But what he said to me as he left may have saved my life. “I never thought you would be a grease monkey,” Sean muttered. At first, I was pissed, thinking, “Well fuck you too.” However, after letting his com-

ment marinate in my mind for a while, I decided he was right. I had too much talent to waste in mindless work. I thought, God dammit, I want to be famous. I want to be in textbooks, I want to change lives and I want my voice to be heard. I want to be a writer. If there is one talent I possess, it is the ability to speak, mixed with a humorous way of getting my point across. Anyone who has been in a class with me knows that from time to time, something inappropriate or at least mildly entertaining will come from my mouth. What job could I get where my voice is my tool? How can I make words my weapons?

Eureka! Mass communication! I started taking classes at Durham Technical Community College and earned a high enough GPA and enough credits to gain acceptance into N.C. Central University in the spring of 2009. I remember like it was yesterday Dr. Andrew Williams signing me up for those first classes here. He wasn’t technically my adviser, but classes were starting very soon and he gave me a hand. As I looked up at an award he’d gotten for a novel he had written, I remember feeling, this is where I should be: writers helping those who want to write. After my first semester, my GPA

was 3.0, which compared to a 0.7, seemed like the Nobel Prize. Then my past came back to haunt me. It was May, and I wanted to celebrate with friends. The same friends I ran with in my late teens and early twenties, the ones I had gotten nowhere with. After an evening at a bar, it was time to go home. I got behind the wheel of a car. I spent that night in Durham County Jail and ended up with a DWI charge. That was almost a year ago, and my GPA is rising. I now have a 3.6, which I am extremely proud of. I have professors who have touched my life and who care about my success. They help me fine-tune my craft. On April 16, I have to report back to Durham County Jail for seven days. I thought about lying to my professors, saying I had a family emergency. However, they have given me the respect and honor of helping me with my dreams, and they deserve to know the truth. I dream of being a journalist someday soon. Sometimes, journalists’ sources need to protect their identities and hide behind the cloak of anonymity. In writing about myself, there is no anonymity; I am my own source. Staring at three walls and bars will give me one last chance to put this journey into perspective. I will graduate with a 4.0. It’s not so much as a dream as an obsession. I seek that next A on every paper, every quiz, every homework assignment. When I graduate, I will call Sean and tell him, “Hey, I never thought I’d graduate with honors.” I hear some students here say jokingly, “I’m on the five-year plan.” I am on the ten-year plan. Where I’ll go, I just don’t know.

Feature

Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 2010

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A DADDY’S GIRL WISES UP Jacqueline Smith’s gained respect for her mother after her father’s DWI BY JACQUELINE SMITH CONTRIBUTING WRITER

hen I was a little girl, I thought my mom was a mean crazy lady who loved to yell and fuss. I felt sorry for my dad. They were always arguing and cussing at each other and I thought my dad had the worst wife ever. One time she got so mad at me for not cleaning my room that she threw my favorite toy against the wall and broke it. What made it so bad was that my dad had bought that toy for me. I was a daddy’s girl back then, so when I didn’t get my way or was being bratty, mom would tell me how ungrateful I was and that millions of kids around the world would kill to be in my position. My dad would smile and give me what I wanted. When I threatened to run away, she would tell me that there were dangerous people in the world who would try to beat or rape me. Dad just told me it would break his heart to lose me. I never understood my mother’s anger toward my father nor why my dad wanted to stay in a relationship where he was constantly fighting. As I got older, the naïveté of my youth dissipated and I saw things differently. No incident opened my eyes more than the night my dad got into an accident for driving drunk. On the evening of April 24, 2004, my dad, who had been out playing with his band, was supposed to be returning the band’s equipment to his friend’s house and then coming home. He didn’t come home that night.

Around 7 p.m. my mom got a phone call that my dad had been in a head-on collision. I had never been so afraid in my life. I kept praying that my dad was OK and that he would return home safely. I found out he was all right but that he had been drinking and the other person he hit had to be cut out of his vehicle; I was even more afraid for that person, and for the fate of my father. He was arrested for DWI and was detained for the night. I’d never seen my mother so strong. She was on the phone well into the night making arrangements and talking to people at the court-

You hear so many horror stories about drunk driving and you never realize that it could involve someone you love.

house. I gained new respect for my mother in those hours. The next morning when my dad came home, she didn’t yell or fuss. She expressed her gratitude that he was all right and went about her daily duties. This was unlike her. My parents didn’t really talk much. I think my dad was too ashamed and my mom was too angry and hurt.

I was just glad that my dad hadn’t died. You hear so many horror stories about drunk driving and you never realize that it could involve someone you love. I wasn’t around the summer my dad went to trial and was in jail, but when I came back for the following school year, things were different. My dad had lost his job, and my mom was the sole breadwinner.

I missed out on a lot of things that year class trips, school pictures and group outings because we didn’t have the money. I watched my mom struggle to provide for our family. When my dad failed as the head of the household, my mom picked up the slack. After all these years I can still see how that one mistake has impacted our family. I was barely able to complete my college education because my parents were denied a loan for me. Even the scholarships and loans I received barely put a dent in my out-of-state tuition. Even now, my mom is under investigation at her

Jacqueline Smith knows how alcohol abuse can disrupt family life. BRUCE

DEPYSSLER/Echo

adviser

job and she could lose her job. My mom is in charge of security on a naval base in my hometown. Her superiors believe that this incident has affected her ability to perform her job. They feel the financial hardships we have endured, will somehow jeopardize the security of the naval base. Now that I’m of legal age to drink, I think twice about my actions. I don’t want to end up going to jail or worse. Even if I go out with friends who want to drink, I take it upon myself to be the most sober in the group. My relationships with my parents have changed a lot too. There is a chasm in my relationship with my dad, and it’s not because of his mistake, everyone makes mistakes. My dad and I aren’t as close because he continues to behave in the same destructive manner that got us into this mess. He still drinks (not that there is anything wrong with that) but even more irresponsibly than before. Sometimes he’ll drive with open containers in the seat next to him, or drive down the street intoxicated to buy cigarettes. It’s hard for me to take his constant apologies seriously when he continues to do the same things. My mom and I, however, are closer than ever. No longer do I see her as a noisy, crazy woman. Now I see a strong woman who has had to be both mother and father to me for six years. I see a woman who takes her job as a mother and a wife very seriously. I used to say that I’d never want to be like my mom. Now I think that if I could be half the woman she is, I would be lucky.

JACKSON CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 The top of my mouth crumpled around my metal retainer and the bottom row of teeth were now gums disconnected from the bone.

Kinbria was older than me, old enough to drive. “Kinbria, where are we going?” “Do it matter? Y’all wasn’t doing nothing noways.” She was wrong. We had been doing something —— we were being healthy children in the safety of our neighborhood. Almost five minutes of riding, Lasonya informed me that we were going to my boyfriend’s house. I was thrilled. Exhausted from a water gun fight earlier in the day, I took a beauty nap to get ready for my “boo.” The car didn’t have seatbelts, so I lay my head on the window and got comfortable. My eyes opened a second before the crash. “I must be having a nightmare —-why are you screaming? STOP!!! You’re scaring me.” My eyes closed. Kinbria had swerved after going 65 mph on a 35 mph curve. The car violently flipped and ended face-up in a ditch. After about 25 minutes, I regained consciousness. “Somebody please get her out of the car. What the fuck y’all just standing there for? DO SOMETHING,” Kinbria was yelling. I pulled myself out of the vehicle and climbed out of the ditch with little help from Cleveland County EMS. I laid my head on the grass and murmured, “What did ever I do to you, Kinbria?” She ran to my aid and vomited the words, “Sorry” and “I love you,” but I wasn’t receptive.

The EMS personnel slung me violently onto an orange board, strapping me in so tight I could hardly breathe. On the way to the hospital, I screamed for the driver to slow down, afraid we might get into another accident. The paramedics cut off my new red and green scrunch bikini and Kinbria held my hand while they asked questions to see if I was sane. One of the paramedics asked if I knew the name of street I lived on. At the time, my street didn’t have a name. They were convinced that I was losing my memory. After about five minutes, that situation was resolved and the paramedic began to stick needles in my arm. I don’t know whether she was shaking from the turbulence of the vehicle or if she was just a new employee, but she stuck my arm so many times, I fainted from the pain. When we arrived at Cleveland County Hospital, my family was waiting. Everyone else involved in the accident were already taken care of and out of the emergency wing. Kinbria had suffered a bruise from the steering wheel, Leiah hurt her neck, and Lasonya fractured her nose. I had fractured my nose and jaw and lost one permanent tooth and two baby teeth. The top of my mouth crumpled around my metal retainer and the bottom row of teeth were now gums disconnected from the bone. I was drugged up on medicines that I didn’t know the names of. They put me in a

At 10 years old, Isha Jackson feared she’d be disfigured for life after a traumatic car accident. CORLISS PAULING/Echo staff photographer

cold room, naked and with a thin blanket. The doctor came in, told me his name, and pushed his hand in my mouth. “Now what I am going to do is put your gums back in place,” he said. It sounded to me like something on a SAW horror movie. When he invited my family into the room, the horror on my father’s face was unbearable. It the expression you’d wear if you saw your 75-yearold mom mauled by a pit bull. My brother Derrick looked even worse. My mother stroked my face and said they wanted someone else to do the operation, so I had to leave. The 45minute drive home was horri-

ble. Every bump or pothole sent twists of pain through my body. At home, my father carried my limp body to the bed. My mother blended up some spaghetti for my dinner. Puréed spaghetti would be my dinner for the next year. The next day we drove an hour to Asheville for my surgery. When we arrived, we spent an hour trying to locate the hospital. The surgery was like a dream — people dressed in all white with white masks on, like angels. A Whitney Houston song was playing in the distance. I closed my eyes; when I awoke, I was home. For the next couple of

years, I thought I was ugly and would be ugly for the rest of my life. I began to hate myself and others around me. I resented pretty people. I felt angry when I saw a pretty smile because my mouth looked so terrible. I contemplated suicide to take the ugliness away. I needed a way out of the negativity that had abducted my mind. So I started going to church with my father and mother more. I joined my church choir and usher board. Church taught me to be humble and love me for myself, just like God does. I developed a new respect for

myself, learned to love myself and feel good about being alive. My family became tighter than ever, give or take a few. Soon the scars healed, literally and figuratively. This accident was more than just me getting hurt and my family being sad. It was a turning point in my life that forced me to grow up. We aren’t going to live forever; I almost didn’t live to see 11. I’m in college now, have my own apartment, and am healthy. I just received a large settlement check and life is pretty good. So though I didn’t enjoy the actual experience, the outcome of the ordeal benefited my family and me in the end.

Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 20010