NCTC Creative Non-Fiction Essay.......................................................................................pages

On the Broken Self

Wanizhah Zahra

Alexa, play “Fix You” by Coldplay To you who’s broken… brace yourself.

I’ve been around for 23 years now. 5 of which were lonesome. 12 of which defined the harsh reality of this world. And the remaining 6 of which came truth. ****

The first 5 years of my life, I was an only child. I spent most of my days playing with my dolls, watching Caillou, and talking to my only friends–my fingers. I’ve never felt a connection with my parents. Not in thoughts, not in feelings, not in anything that a 5-yearold would want to connect their parents with. So, when I did talk to my “friends,” I’d talk about things that I never got to talk to my parents about. Like how my first day at kindergarten was, or how I made an A on that terribly difficult sight word test, or how I wanted a bike.

A bike to help me escape. Escape from the pitiful world that I built with my finger friends. An escape from the pain lingering inside me.

The three words my parents never said to me. “I love you.” ****

Growing up, I was constantly reminded of my loneliness. Whether it came from seeing other kids and their siblings, other kids and their connection with their parents, or other kids with the one thing I wanted– a friend.

What is a friend?

The next 12 years of my life, I was blessed with three younger siblings. It felt good for a while, but they were too young to understand my pain. Yes, I could’ve called them my friends, but sometimes siblings can’t understand what a friend can and vice versa. I was more than grateful for having them in my life—

but in my life, it seemed that all the good things that happened to me were balanced with cursed events that followed after.

I spent facing the torment of my teenage years– middle school and high school. I was always considered an outcast in middle school, mostly because of the way I looked. I was given the nickname “Chewbacca”, for my body was hairy, which was exposed when I wore my uniform in middle school– a blue, half-sleeved polo and navy/khaki pants. I spent my lunch break in the girl’s bathroom, as tears dripped into my sandwich. What did I do to deserve this? I stayed there and ended up skipping my 7th and 8th periods. Days like that were ordinary for me. Pathetic, right?

In high school, I started wearing makeup. And was soon acknowledged, by people I’ve never been acknowledged by. I actually had… friends. I was a naïve 15-year-old, swayed easily by the compliments I got for my appearance. It felt good, I finally felt accepted. I finally felt like I belonged. But all good things come to an end and the pain of some endings isn’t worth the good things.

It was good, for a while.

Looks weren’t the only thing that changed, though.

During my sophomore year, I had this teacher. He was skinny, height average. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a long time. He always wore either brown, blue, or black slacks, and lacked a sense of fashion. The only thing that stood out to me, were his olive, green eyes. That longing look of his… I finally understood.

I’ll never forget the New York Yankee’s sticker on the back of his car, appearing when I walked home, or to a friend’s house, I hoped that it was all my imagination.

He was my teacher, but now my stalker.

That longing look of his, was like a lion looking at its prey. He wanted something from me. Something that a teacher and student shouldn’t exchange. Something that I STILL can’t get off my mind.

What he wanted was to quench his lust, just like a lion quenching its hunger by eating its prey. What he wanted wasn’t me, but my body.

The word love or to be loved seemed like such a trivial thing.

What is love?

The 6 years after that, was where I learned the truth– about myself and about friends.

Friends are people that you can trust, confide in, friends are people that stay by your side. July 25th, 2013. The night before I would come back from a week-long conference at Columbia University. There was a party that took place the night before I came home, and present re-occurring flashes of me in another person’s room, hands unbuttoning my shirt, a face that I couldn’t recognize, a voice telling me to break the rules. Something had happened that night before I came home, something I till this day couldn’t figure out, something that had altered my overly- extroverted personality completely to its opposite, something that happened before my mind went black… and suffered later on. I tried, so hard to figure out what had happened that night. I asked everyone that was at the conference. I asked the people I considered my friends, only for them to turn me down.

I didn’t have a friend, not then, not now, not when I learned I had schizoaffective disorder, when I realized, just how broken I really was. I was 17 when I found out. It all made sense. I would always hear voices shouting at me in my head, they sounded so real, like they were people talking to me, but only in my head. I would see things… people. I would see him, everywhere I went. I felt like I was being followed by him, when he was actually almost 1,800 miles away– in New York. I would talk to myself, not my finger friends, so much that my throat would hurt. I would say things that didn’t make sense. I would utter the name of one person— my roommate from that conference. She had some sort of connection to what really happened, or at least that’s what my therapist said. I’ve never felt more alone than I had then. I spent each night curled up in a ball crying in a corner of my bedroom. I cried for help, but no words ever came out. I was in a constant battle, with myself.

To feel a deep affection for someone is what is considered to be love. I desperately wanted someone—anyone, to feel that way about me. I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to be free of my cursed mind. I wanted a friend, a companion to share these thoughts and feelings with.

A broken mind, and a broken self. I stood on the edge of the roof of my high school, awaiting my painful ending, when I felt someone yank be back.

And that’s when my parents first said, “I love you.”

Please Pay at Next Window

Jacquelyn Savannah

I wanna tell you about my mom. Yes, my mom. When COVID hit and high school’s Senior year sent us home and goin’ to college started lookin’ pretty bleak, she’s the one who encouraged me when we couldn’t afford it. She’s the one who’s inspired me to pursue my dreams; to fight. She’s an ex-firefighter/ paramedic and fights harder than anyone I know. Twenty-one years and two months ago, she graduated NCTC’s paramedic program; made a whole career outta helping others. And I’m the culmination of her, the hero who’s raised me.

Her story began at age 22, working six-days-a-week at the local ER as a medic tech. September night, just off a busy shift, she stopped at Taco Bueno starvin’ to death. Minutes after 11:00pm, she told me her sad little 12-year-old Corsica, the lil’-car-that-could, sputtered to a stop never to rise again under the glow of that fast-food ordering sign. Restaurant’d only just minutes before closed. Couldn’t rouse the guy moppin’ to open the window; he just waived and pointed, ‘Duh, at the “Closed” sign. Her car dead; engine wouldn’t click over. 100 degrees still, scrubs soaked through, clinging to her back. No cellphone back in those days; she walked over to the closed 7-11 payphone after scouring her car floorboards and the drive thru lane for coins. My father and her in a fight earlier and he wasn’t picking up. Couldn’t find any more change to call anyone else. So, she walked back to the drive thru in the dark, sat on the car’s hood, eight months pregnant with me. Put her head on her knees and cried.

Car pulls up behind sometime later. Guy she couldn’t see, hidden by his headlights asks if she’s okay; is Taco Bueno still open? Is something wrong with her car? He gets out. She shouted at him to Go Away! He stepped closer; she grabs her keys, ready to shank him. ‘Guess he saw too ‘cause she said he changed his tone, started talking like she was this frightened deer; offers to sit behind until the tow comes. She yells again at the poor dude, telling him she had no freakin’ money for a tow; please sir, kindly GTFO. And said she started crying again (ugh, hormones!) He ignored her threats, sloooowly inched over, gently sat down on the curb below her. She was all W…T…H… are you doing? Sits there, head bowed a minute, pickin’ and flickin’ gravel along the pavement. And quietly, softly, said he recognized her from the ER. ‘Cause she was pregnant too. AND ‘cause of her black eye. And in that moment, it clicked. And she recognized him right back; treated his wife three nights ago having her miscarriage; they said her third one in five years. Offered to help her with her car. Uh yeah, that’s a big “No”-there, freaky stranger! Thanked him kindly for his offer, said she dismissed him stiffly, politely as she could.

Said he couldn’t leave her there, young lady, middle of the night, dark area. Promised he wouldn’t hurt her; so of course, she broke down crying again (ugh, pregnancy tears have gotta suck!). Said in the headlights she could see HE started tearin’ up too (yuck, even worse!) Okay, fine. So, she slid off her hood,

let him push her car in neutral through the drive thru lane into a spot straight across in the parking lot. And he used his cell phone to call her a cab. Waited ‘til it arrived; paid the driver with two tens and refused to write down his info so she could pay him back. She made it home safe, back to my father who caused her black eye, who couldn’t be bothered to answer the phone. And then she left him for good tha’morning… ‘day I was born.

19 years later, mom and I sittin’, waiting, in the Dairy Queen drive thru. Suddenly, car in front of us brakes hard, tires squeal. Drivers’ door flings open, dude reaches behind, starts grabbin’ something. Fumbles his cellphone; in haste it tumbles under the car. Mom jerks the gear shift puttin’ our SUV in park, yells for me to call 9-1-1. She rushes over, yelling, What’s wrong? Dude’s shaking something in the backseat; panic-screaming somethin’ unintelligible over and over. Kid in the backseat; his face turning black, eye vessels popping red. My mom reaches in, fumbles with the straps. Under his arms, flips him around, squeezes him to her chest a couple thrusts before the nickel he’s choking on pops out, clicking on the concrete. Ambulance whines close as she hands the now screaming toddler back to dad, pats his back, and collapsed on the curb panting. We wait there ‘til the Medics clear, little boy’s just fine. Dad gets him back in his car seat; comes over to us before moving his car out of the drive thru. And in that split second my mom and him recognize each other. Same guy from that night all those years ago. All breath, all speech, sucked from my mom’s mouth. He remembered her too. They both stood there, neither knowing quite what to say. He offers to hug her (yeah-no, she declined). So instead, he clumsily grabbed and hugged me, over my shoulder thankin’ my mom a zillion times for saving his kid. She makes this squinty face, waived it off; aww, no big deal. Minutes stretch out. Cars behind start honking. So, he gives me one more quick squeezy hug, making wide eye contact with my mom, nodding his head. And turns back to his car. And as he’s walking away, she calls out to his back quietly, not sure if he heard (but I know I did), and she says, “Thank you for saving mine.”

Not everyone gets to be raised by their heroes. I’m only a 20-year-old broke college student and may not be worth knowing yet. But because of my mom, someday, I promise you… I will.