Mickey "The Flying

DANCE

Mickey "The Flying Busman" Mahan

An American Nightmare

Brandon Clesen

A child adopted, born in Guatemala, emerging from poverty, reached the new world, supposedly holding the secret to contentment and freedom: the American Dream. His mother said he was “the smallest child who slept all throughout the flight”. As he was brought into this country on Independence Day, each year the fireworks would go ablaze above his home; he would watch and credit them as a celebration of his acceptance into the United States. As the child grew up, he found himself at odds with the others in his family: for his skin did not match theirs. Every time he saw a relative, they would compliment the darkened pigment, wishing they could trade. They would say, “You’re so lucky that you never have to tan” or “Your skin is so much better.” Confusion pestered him after they made these comments; why did they want his skin type and not their own? The boy questioned his color, as he believed they were trying to comfort him on having an undesirable look. He never asked for them to clarify though, as their comments made him uncomfortable on the notion something was wrong with him. Could they read his mind or identify his disdain for his color? He soon faced the true American Dream, the desire to conform. Curiosity rose to a degree where he could not contain questions on his heritage. To give the child what he desired, the mother bought a small book entitled, “Trouble Dolls: A Guatemalan Legend”. In this beautifully colored book, tiny figures, crafted by pressed paper and decorated by pieces of wool, were placed along with their story. They claimed to take your worries away if you whispered your secrets to them and then hid the dolls under your pillow. By morning, all your problems would be gone, taken by your new friends during the night. The boy would say his prayer, nestle into his Scooby Doo covers, and hide the dolls under his pillow. He claimed that they worked, his childish fears had vanished the following night. Yet, as the days passed, his worries seemed to be too powerful for his little friends. He experienced a sense of embarrassment, as how could he put all his trust in paper toys. He felt ashamed of his own heritage since their customs could not resolve his growing discomfort in his racial background. The boy 60 | Perception

grabbed that piece of himself and set it on his bookshelf, where it proceeds to collect dust. The child entered grade school, where the dissimilarity became clear. While, in the past, his family would make remarks on his skin color (to make him feel proud), he never realized how different he was from everybody else. However, it became known to him through some children remarking on how he looked different from the rest of the children. On one occasion in the fourth grade, the students learned about the Civil War. One child remarked how they should ask Brandon for his opinion of the matter, since he was the only child of color. It had become officially apparent that he would never look like them. The discomfort rested in him for many days. The boy began to realize how, in many instances, he had been treated differently. Often, people would stare at him as he held hands with his mom. At restaurants and stores, individuals would ask if his parents were babysitting. Since he was one of four nonwhite kids, he stood out in the neighborhood. Everywhere he went, people would just stare at him like he was an oddity. In church, a group of older women would whisper and tell each other to clutch their purses, “Just in case.” He promised himself that he would become them. He would mimic their behavior and customs. He would no longer be the kid born in Guatemala; the child wanted to be reborn in America. He talked like them, acted like them, he became them. The boy forgot his Guatemalan heritage. He assimilated with the customs of his friends and family. He pretended he could not tell the difference between his white friends and himself. The child no longer exhibited any connections to his heritage so there was nothing for him to be ashamed of anymore. He thought he would never be hurt again. He was the American he dreamed of being. Now on Independence Day, he celebrates, with grilled foods and sparkling fireworks, the true American Dream: assimilation. For, even though some may never see me as a flesh and blood citizen, I am America’s dream.

Patrick Lee

We lost again—a fall down the dark valley where sanity and morning make no sense, only chaos and mourning bear a sound. Of fearful moments the storm clouds gather, thunder roars but no lightning can be found, no path of light… we went under the waves.

There lies a grave we can fall in, or, bury our troubles. I know which choice I would choose. I fell for you and do not want condolences. I only seek love… you.