Author Archives: Darius

Voice of Silence

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
-Abraham Lincoln

The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls.
-Elizabeth Cady Stanton

“You shouldn’t have put that status up on Facebook if you knew what was going to happen,” my friend said to me.

I sat with the chair leaning on its back two legs, putting on a show of slight indifference. “I have every right to say what I want there, just like they do. I don’t go on their walls and show so much hatred when they post their statuses, so neither should they.”

“Yeah, I understand, you do have the right to your opinion, but some things are just better left unsaid,” he continued, undaunted.

I thought back to the status I posted the night before. It incited the wrath of the least likely people I could have imagined. Their words drove into me like a freight train just beginning its journey on the track – slow, one by one, but each heavier and more forceful than the last. Hypocrite, asshole, dick, jerk, insensitive, phobic…the insults continued well into the morning.

I thought back to how I felt as I read through the comments, each of them acting as fertilizer for the weeds of unease that grew inside of me, before I deleted the status. My mind was drained as I looked at it one last time.

So New York just passed a law legalizing gay marriage…I hope it gets repealed as quickly as it was passed.

***

We all want progress, but if you’re on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.

-C.S. Lewis

***

            I looked up from the plastic covered Word and Song in my hands and brought my eyes to the face of my pastor. The dregs of our last hymn resonated in my mind’s ear, but I try my best to empty them to focus on his words.

“See how the world has changed? It used to be that man would marry a woman, and woman would marry a man, and they would unite as one body, one flesh, as God intended.”

Mutterings of assent and nostalgia rose from the bodies planted in their wooden soil. A soft seed of “Amen” blew into the wind of their noise.

“But now we have man with many women, or woman with many men. Now we have man marrying man and woman marrying woman. Now we have two men raising children, two women raising children, calling it a family, and expect the world to say that it is right!”

Buds of angry agreements grew from the plants, eager to reach maturity.

“We must pray that they will realize what they are doing is wrong! This lifestyle is that of sin, and sin can only lead to Hell!”

But will they all go to Hell? Doesn’t God take care of everyone with a good heart? Aren’t we all sinners to be looked after? Is this any worse a sin than lying? Or does it fall under the category of lies?

The buds blossom into heavily perfumed flowers, some small, some large, some not at all. Some already start to lose their petals as if winter is drawing near.

I sit there, not a flower, but a simple shrub without bud or scent.

***

If one gives an answer before he hears, it is his folly and shame.

-Proverbs 18:13

***

“So you believe in the Pope, right?” I was asked.

I considered this question carefully. My words were chosen with care. “The Pope is the head of the Catholic Church…” I began.

“So whatever the Pope says is pretty much the Word of God, right? Even though he’s a Nazi?” the questioner inquired.

My feet shoved roots into the floor. In that one tiny clubroom, out of hundreds of rooms of the fourteen floors that comprise my entire social existence, I become a redwood tree, as unmoving as if I was in place from first construction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, about whoever is a Nazi or not. Is there a point to your questions?”

The interrogator gave            me a knowing smile, implying that he knew he was already going to win this “argument” before it even became one. “Isn’t it hypocritical of you to follow a Pope who says abortion is a sin when he killed millions of Jewish babies and pregnant mothers with his fellow Nazis? Do you believe abortion is wrong?”

A slow heat began to burn in my chest. I tried my best to stay cool, but the temptation to explode at him was strong.

Flashbacks of the last discussion with my best friend bounce around in my head, rubber balls with multiple trajectories. “Yes, I believe abortion is wrong.” I refuse to elaborate.

If my child has any defect at all I’m aborting it.

You would end a life just because it’s not perfect?

Yes. I would not be able to love it.

Why not just put him or her up for adoption?

I don’t want to give birth to a retard. Why should I go through that pain?

I can’t ever agree to that.

It’s not like it’s your children I’m having anyways.

That’s not the point! You’d be ending a life!

A life that I made, so I get to choose.

Why would you take the choice away from the child before it’s even born?

Because I don’t want it to live when I can’t love it.

That’s just wrong…

I didn’t ask you if it’s right or wrong. It’s not your business anyways; your opinion has no effect on me.

“I believe abortion is wrong.”

***

Silence is argument carried out by other means.
-Che Guevara

***

            Chilly wind nipped at my exposed flesh. Try as I might, I could not fit the djimbei – an African drum – across my back comfortably as I listened to the conversation around me.

“I can’t imagine changing genders the way some people do. It doesn’t make any sense.” One voice put forth.

“They do it because they can, and science lets them,” replied another. “I doubt they really feel ‘trapped’ like a bunch of them keep saying.”

“Well some of them could actually feel that way, but that doesn’t mean they were meant to be the opposite gender,” a third voice said.

The sidewalk was mostly clear of its usual inhabitants, loiterers from the recently ended Mass. Unfavorable weather tends to discourage the aged and withered flowers from hanging around and chatting, but the younger, supple trees have more endurance. I gave up on adjusting the straps of my djimbei’s bag and focused on the words in the air.

“I mean, come on, why would I want to be a guy? I was born a girl and I want to stay a girl, even with my period and cramps,” the third voice declared.

But you’re not the person who feels as if they are a boy trapped inside another body, I want to say. You’re not the one who feels that you were born the wrong gender. You’re not the one who is sad and miserable because you can’t reconcile yourself with your identity. As much as I agree with what you’re saying, I can’t judge anyone who wants to go through it. I know what I believe, and I know what I stand for, and it makes logical sense, but…I’m not in anyone else’s position. Only my own.

And you’re only in your own position as well.

The words live out their lifespan in my mind, never crossing the boundary into the concrete and un-retractable. The chilling wind is my only reply.

***

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth.

-Isaiah 53:7

***

            I faced my interrogator once again.

“You’re not a virgin; you must have been molested by your priest at least once!”

I was so sick of it. The same voice. The same mocking tone. The same loud, cynical laugh.

I never seem to be able to escape him. He has continuously dug his fingernails into the ever-tender wounds of my religion and threatens to rip them wide open once more. Every possible scandal, every mistake, every misplaced perception, he knows them all and uses them as battering rams to break down my defensive wall. The thorns I was supposed to have along the stem of my faith has been turned against me one time too many.

How did I answer such hostile humor? With silence.

I stood in front of him, revealing as little emotion as possible, while I berated him in my mind. You stupid jerk, why can’t you keep your mouth shut? Why do you insist, every single time I enter the room, on trash talking my religion? There is almost never a reason for you to bring it up, I never reference it around you at all! You tell me that people are stupid to follow a God who uses cancer to kill evil-doers, but everyone else was talking only about raising money for research – where did you come from? I’ve had enough of your crap and I’m not going to waste my breath answering you again.

With my silence, I gave him all the answer he needed.

***

            “Hey Darius, you’re in the choir right?” my friend asked.

“Yes…why?”

“Can you sing me something? I want to hear you sing!”

I gave him a short laugh. “Something like what?”

“That song that was sung in Sister Act, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh, that. Sure, it goes…”

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Voice of Silence – Draft

Dear Readers:

This lyric essay was born out of my desire to write about my religious life and how it interacts with my social (academic) life at Baruch. I struggled with exactly what the final point of my essay will be until I sat in a class with Professor Ely Shipley as a guest speaker… and that experience solidified my thoughts, creating a path for my words to travel upon from my mind to the page. His work in lyric essays inspired my form; the conversation in the class inspired my purpose. I remained silent most of the time out of fear of offending the whole group, fear for speaking my mind, social courtesy, and plain manners. In doing so, I realized that we all must be silent at times, but that what does that silence mean? Does it mean we are cowards? Or does it mean we are wise? Does it mean that our society is not as accepting as we would like to believe? If not, then what exactly is acceptable and unacceptable now? There are so many questions we could take from an introspective on silence. This essay is just my poor attempt at vocalizing my personal internal views, going back and forth between my religious life and my social life.

The final product of my draft is certainly not what I expected it to be. I think that the sections, now that they are all written, should be rearranged for a build up effect. The final section is exactly the way I wanted it to be, but aside from that, how do you think the sections should be ordered? Also, is there any section that feels out of place, as if it takes away from the work as a whole? If anything I might rewrite or remove that section in my editing process. The metaphors I used in each piece might influence how “out of place” a section might feel, so be sure to talk about that if it is a factor. I tried to be creative in the metaphors I used, but I don’t know how effective that turned out to be.

On the other hand, my metaphors did leave me with a sentence that I truly like: “I sat there, not a flower, but a shrub with no bud or scent.” I’m not sure why I like this sentence so much, but it feels very poetic…and I’m not a poetic person in the least. To be able to write something with that effect makes me very proud indeed.

Well, my readers, I leave you to my essay. Read it with an open mind, enjoy it as a work of literature, and let me know what you think of it as fellow writers!

Darius Parisienne

********************************************

Voice of Silence

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
-Abraham Lincoln

The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls.
-Elizabeth Cady Stanton

“You shouldn’t have put that status up on Facebook if you knew what was going to happen,” my friend said to me.

I sat with the chair leaning on its back two legs, putting on a show of slight indifference. “I have every right to say what I want there, just as they do. I don’t go on their walls and show so much hatred when they post their statuses, so neither should they.”

“Yes, you do have the right to your opinion, but some things are just better left unsaid,” he continued, undaunted.

I thought back to the status I posted the night before. It incited the wrath of the least likely people I could have imagined. Their words drove into me like a freight train just beginning its journey on the track – slow, one by one, but each heavier and more forceful than the last. Hypocrite, asshole, dick, jerk, insensitive, phobic…the insults continued well into the morning.

All because I don’t agree with gay marriage.

***

Silent night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright…

***

            I looked up from the plastic covered Word and Song in my hands and brought my eyes to the face of my pastor. The dregs of our last hymn resonated in my mind’s ear, but I try my best to empty them to focus on his words.

“See how the world has changed? It used to be that man would marry a woman, and woman would marry a man, and they would unite as one body, one flesh, as God intended.”

Mutterings of assent and nostalgia rose from the bodies planted in their wooden soil. A soft seed of “Amen” blew into the wind of their noise.

“But now we have man with many women, or woman with many men. Now we have man marrying man and woman marrying woman. Now we have two men raising children, two women raising children, calling it a family, and expect the world to say that it is right!”

Buds of angry agreements grew from the plants, eager to reach maturity.

“We must pray that they will realize what they are doing is wrong! This lifestyle is that of sin, and sin can only lead to Hell!”

But will they all go to Hell? Doesn’t God take care of everyone with a good heart? Aren’t we all sinners to be looked after? Is this any worse a sin than lying? Or does it fall under the category of lies?

The buds blossom into heavily perfumed flowers, some small, some large, some not at all. Some already start to lose their petals as if winter was drawing near.

I sit there, not a flower, but a simple shrub without bud or scent.

***

He said

You will not suffer thy foot,

Thy foot to be moved…

***

“So you believe in the Pope, right?” I was asked.

I considered this question carefully. My words were chosen with care. “The Pope is the head of the Catholic Church…” I began.

“So whatever the Pope says is pretty much the Word of God, right? Even though he’s a Nazi?” the questioner inquired.

My feet were nailed to the floor. In that one tiny club-room, out of hundreds of rooms of the fourteen floors that comprise my entire social existence, I become a steel pillar as unmoving as if I was in place from first construction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, about whoever is a Nazi or not. Is there a point to your questions?”

The interrogator gave            me a knowing smile, implying that he knew he was already going to win this “argument” before it even became one. “Isn’t it hypocritical of you to follow a Pope who says abortion is a sin when he killed millions of Jewish babies and pregnant mothers with his fellow Nazis? Do you believe abortion is wrong?”

Flashbacks of the last discussion with my best friend bounce around in my head, rubber balls with multiple trajectories. “Yes, I believe abortion is wrong.” I refuse to elaborate.

If my child has any defect at all I’m aborting it.

You would end a life just because it’s not perfect?

Yes. I would not be able to love it.

Why not just put him or her up for adoption?

I don’t want to give birth to a retard. Why should I go through that pain?

I can’t ever agree to that.

It’s not like it’s your children I’m having anyways.

That’s not the point! You’d be ending a life!

A life that I made, so I get to choose.

Why would you take the choice away from the child before it’s even born?

Because I don’t want it to live when I can’t love it.

That’s just wrong…

I didn’t ask you if it’s right or wrong. It’s not your business anyways; your opinion has no effect on me.

“I believe abortion is wrong.”

***

Here I am, God

I am coming,

My delight is to do your will…

***

            Chilly wind nipped at my exposed flesh. Try as I might, I could not fit the djimbei across my back comfortably as I listened to the conversation around me.

“I can’t imagine changing genders the way some people do. It doesn’t make any sense.” One voice put forth.

“They do it because they can, and science lets them,” replied another. “I doubt they really feel ‘trapped’ as so many of them keep saying.”

“Well some of them could actually feel that way, but that doesn’t mean they were meant to be the opposite gender,” a third voice said.

The sidewalk was mostly clear of its usual inhabitants, loiterers from the recently ended Mass. Unfavorable weather tends to discourage the aged and withered flowers from hanging around and chatting, but the younger, supple trees have more endurance. I gave up on adjusting the straps of my djimbei’s bag and focused on the words in the air.

“I mean, come on, why would I want to be a guy? I was born a girl and I want to stay a girl, even with my period and cramps,” the third voice declared.

But you’re not the person who feels as if they are a boy trapped inside another body, I want to say. I know what I believe, and I know what I stand for, and it makes logical sense, but…I’m not in anyone else’s position. Only my own.

And you’re only in your own position as well.

The words live out their lifespan in my mind, never crossing the boundary into the concrete and un-retractable. The chilling wind is my only reply.

***

The Lord’s my shepherd,

I’ll not want

He makes me lie

In pastures green…

***

            I faced my interrogator once again.

“You’re not a virgin; you must have been molested by your priest at least once!”

The same voice. The same mocking tone. The same loud, cynical laugh.

I never seem to be able to escape him. He has continuously dug his fingernails into the ever-tender wounds of my religion and threatens to rip them wide open once more. Every possible scandal, every mistake, every misplaced perception, he knows them all and uses them as battering rams to break down my defensive wall.

How did I answer such hostile humor? With silence.

I refused to acknowledge his attempts to attack me; I refused to allow him to denounce my church yet another time. I took his challenge and rejected it with the most powerful absence of words I could muster. I defended the priests of my church, and churches all over the world, with the strongest wall I could conceive.

With my silence, I gave him all the answer I needed.

***

            “Hey Darius, you’re in the choir right?” my friend asked.

“Yes…why?”

“Can you sing me something? I want to hear you sing!”

I gave him a short laugh. “Something like what?”

“That song that was sung in Sister Act, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh, that. Sure, it goes…”

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Oh happy day…

Voice of Silence – Draft Voice of Silence Cover Letter

I watched the rain fall…and it was beautiful.

Each drop was filled with energy, growing as they fell to the ground. Light shone in the center of every last drop, light of every color imaginable…even of those that are not. The light radiated warmth, small and gentle, but strong, which multiplied with the millions of rain drops to create an atmosphere of pure, mindless happiness.

I smiled as the drops hit the earth.

They landed in every place imaginable; some fell to the soil, their moisture spreading out, becoming the center for the sprout that emerged immediately after. Some fell to rocks scattered through the land; the moisture spread, but nothing grew, and eventually the rock became dry again. I observed birds flying through the watery skies and realized that other drops clung to their wings, carried away without ever seeing the earth below them. Still, the rain fell, covering the world in sprouts, each more beautiful than the last while at the same time just as beautiful as the first. I watched it all and just smiled.

Then something changed – a single drop. It became an ember as it fell.

Concerned, I stretched out my palm and caught the dying ember. It vanished as it touched my skin. Its light, its warmth, its beauty…all gone. Not a trace remained. I looked up to the clouds, searching for any other drops of embers…and was horrified at what I saw.

The rain was set on fire.

Flames roamed around a single cloud, igniting the rain as it fell, burning away all of its beauty and leaving nothing but a downpour of embers. Not every drop got caught in the inferno, but the blaze grew, slowly spreading to other clouds nearby. At first the flames were not strong enough to burn away each raindrop, but their strength increased with each cloud they alighted. As I continued to watch in disbelief, more droplets were set on fire, until the air was filled with a sickening red light. No more did the rain fall; no more did water touch the earth.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

As my tear hit the ground, I noticed that the air was not as void of matter as I once thought. Ash fell from the burning rain, smothering the earth, burying the sprouts that sprang up from earlier showers. The plants grew still, but twisted and distorted. Some grew to shine brightly with life, a lush sight to fight against the deathly atmosphere. Others grew to be dark giants, stretching up to the flaming clouds, fueling the inferno, intensifying it.

My stomach churned at the sight. A second tear fell. Then another.

Tears flowed down my face as I wept, wept for the burning rain, wept for the blackened trees, wept for the few sprouts that continued to thrive. They fell to the earth and gathered together, growing faster than my single body could produce. A final drop fell from my eyes and struck the pool of tears beneath my feet, and with it, the pool began to swirl. The swirl was slow, but built speed, until it became a massive whirlpool of sadness and pity. It reared up to the sky, reaching out to the raging flames surrounding the clouds. As the descending embers connected with my surging tears, the fire was quenched from them and the whirlpool grew even further. I urged it onwards to meet the source of the burning rain…until the tip of the whirlpool touched, briefly, a flicker of the troublesome fire. It was if the whirlpool exploded; tears scattered across the sky, quenching every fire and saturating every cloud. The two forces clashed until all flames were extinguished.

I watched it all…and when it was over, I found that I was able to smile once again.

Raining Tear

He draped his arms gently over her shoulders, crossing over her chest. He embraced her from behind, drawing their bodies together, and lowered his head to be level with hers. “Stay with me, sweetie. Just stay with me,” he pleaded in a low voice.

“There are other girls.” Her reply was firm, but not uncaring.

“But why should I keep looking when who I want most is right here?” He countered, breathing every word into her cheek. “I don’t want anyone else but you, and you know that.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” was her response. “Maybe you’re just too stuck on me. I think you should meet more women.”

“I’ve met too many women. Long before you and long after you, even up until today, I’ve been looking as you suggested. Everyone I meet is the same. It’s always ‘Oh, I have a boyfriend’ or ‘Oh, I’m not interested in black guys’ or even ‘Oh, you’re a great friend but I’m just not interested in you’. I meet every woman that’s unavailable to me and none who are.”

“Maybe you should go out more then,” she answered him.

He tried to press his point further, but nothing came to mind. He didn’t have the heart. It was the same conversation every time, the same arguments, the same results. No matter what he chose to say, she would be resolute in her mind.

To ease his mind, he focused on the moment, on being there with her in this space and time. He breathed in the scent of her long, dark hair. It filled him, stimulated him, intoxicated him. It was this scent that drew him, each time they met, into a deeper longing for her. He squeezed her body gently in his arms, careful not to invade the space of her womanhood, remembering every inch of it he had explored – and imagining those inches he did not. He brushed his lips against the exposed soft skin of her neck, feeling, through that scant contact, that she was soft everywhere else. His hands rubbed over the gentle curve of her stomach, feeling the warmth and strength that lay there. He laid his head against the side of her face and closed his eyes in near complete contentment.

He loves her. She knows it. Why can’t it be?

She called out her nickname for him, the one he treasured most. “Are you falling asleep on me?” she asked, moving her head to look at his face with a slow growing smile. His heart melted. Never has another sight made him feel so…moved. He couldn’t pin down any word to describe what he was experiencing at that instant. If only she could see what he saw! He thought. If only she could share that timeless, breathless, wordless instance, where nothing else matters but now…what a powerful connection it would be!

With a heavy smile he closed his thoughts. “No,” he replied, “I’m just enjoying being here with you.” He kissed the side of her head. “One day I will have you, I promise you that.”

She turned away, pulling slightly from his arms. Slightly.

“I don’t know what I will want in the future,” she said, “that’s why I don’t want you to stick with me. Right now I’m not interested in anyone. I don’t want a relationship until I have a good job or start my business.”

“I know,” he said, somewhat dejected. “But I still hope that when you are ready, you will turn to me. I will wait for you.”

“I don’t want you to wait for me though, because I don’t know what I will want later,” she quickly responded. “I think you will be happier with someone else. I want you to be happy.”

“I will be happiest with you, and I will wait for as long as I need to.” His voice was strong with determination, but his mind wavered with uncertainty. What if she’s right? What if his waiting is all a waste of time?

But…what if it’s not?

“No…” she spoke softly, as if trying to work up the heart to push him away and failing. They stood together for a while, saying nothing more.

She touched his arm lightly. He released her from his embrace and helped to settle her belongings. Her train had arrived.

As the doors closed, she turned and gave him a smile that warmed him from head to toe. She waved. And then she was gone.

Tormented Heart

The Climb – Revision The Climb – Cover Letter Revised

Dear Readers,

This essay was probably one of the more interesting and fun essays I have written in my long career as a student. I have never tried to write in this particular structure before, but I am confident that it will be quite rewarding after some revision. Instead of following the usual flow of “introduction, body, ending” I decided to flip things around – “ending, body, introduction.” I wanted to see if it was possible to write a piece where readers would see the ending, the point of the story, first, and then work backwards to the starting point, the reason why the point had to be made.

In writing this piece I tried to imagine a story where such a reversal may work. Only two events in my life sprang to mind: the first time I’ve flown on a plane by myself, and the first time I went hiking. Since I don’t remember too clearly what happened on that plane flight, I decided to go with the hiking trip (besides, the hiking story could be much more easily broken into segments I can rearrange). The point of the story, which is to trust your instinct when you feel you need to prepare, was delivered at the beginning through the final scene of the story. The ending spoke of the reason why I did not prepare properly, which is the actual beginning of the story. The roles have been completely reversed.

I hope that readers will find this experiment to be entertaining at the least, because I certainly did. I personally liked how the draft turned out, and plan to include a lot more in the revision, particularly about the individual characteristics of my friends, who are only mentioned briefly. It was a necessary sacrifice in my opinion, to not give too much information about them at this stage in order to remain close to my objective, but I will take pleasure in filling them out satisfactorily later on.

The Climb – Cover Letter

The Climb

We should have prepared for this.

I looked around at my Bros, taking long, deep breaths, measuring just how close we were to collapsing. Our lips were tinged with blue. The sweat on our bodies was old and evaporating; we didn’t have it in us to produce new droplets. That trail was a much greater demand on us than we imagined it to be.

But of course, we thought we could handle it.

We’re New Yorkers, after all.

Finally resting in shade for the first time in two hours, our bickering reached its peak. Mike snapped at me as I recorded the end of our journey. Josh stood off by himself, trying to keep his cool. George ignored us all, opting instead to talk on the phone, presumably to his girlfriend back in New York. All of us just wanted some water at the very least. Thankfully, it seemed that whoever turned this path into a popular hiking trail thought to build a water fountain nearby for all travelers.

Too bad it was filled with the worst tasting water we’ve ever had.

The descent was treacherous. It was close to noon when we started down the mountain, with not a single cloud in sight. The view was certainly beautiful, with all the light we needed to see for miles. There was just that tiny little matter of the sun bearing down on us with its full intensity. Not to mention we were down to our last half bottle of water.

Let me correct that: we were down to my last bottle of water. No one else thought of bringing more than a cup or two of lemon flavored H2O from the gym section of our hotel resort. Fools.

Every step we took had to be calculated, exact. It was much different from climbing up, where all we had to do was step to the side to find a new spot to pull ourselves up; this time around we needed to step to the side, look around, and slowly lower our bodies to each rock below us or risk serious injury. Our parched throats and burning muscles only made the task more difficult, and our tempers shorter. We tried to push ahead, tried to break our limits, to get back to where we started for that cool, refreshing liquid of life. I have to admit, it was definitely a challenge to move as quickly as possible without sliding down the face of the mountain.

Then again, I was the only one who failed that challenge.

I just had to be the only one. Yeah.

Halfway down the trail, as we traversed a particularly slick patch of rock, I missed a step and slid. Funny thing was, only five seconds beforehand I was teasing Mike about being careful not to slide into the other hikers. The more experienced hikers. The ones who actually knew what they were doing. I didn’t want us to look like bigger fools in front of them than we already did. Too late for that.

We never climbed a mountain before. Fine, technically speaking we were hiking, not mountain climbing, but for a city dweller like me it may as well have been the same thing. I wasn’t used to the intense physical activity of walking up those hugely disproportionate stairs at the beginning of the trail. I actually thought the stairs were going to be the worst of the hike.

Wow was I wrong.

Mike, Josh, George and I acted like the normal tourists, stopping and taking pictures every few yards. We snapped shots of the rocks. The cacti. The desert rabbits. The rocks that looked like rabbits. The rabbits that looked like rocks. The rocks that we could fit inside of. Lots and lots of rocks. Being New Yorkers, we didn’t get to see so many…rocks and stuff. At least, not any like these.

And then we hit the big ones. The rocks that we actually had to climb.

See, hiking on Camelback Mountain has a mix of walking, hopping, and nearly seventy-degree rock climbing. We looked at that rock face and thought to ourselves, no way on earth can we do that.

Fine, I was the only one thinking it, but we all hesitated nonetheless.

But one by one, pushing each other one, we began to climb.

I open the door. The room is a little dark, but not so much that I can’t see. My vision is accustomed to the light because I stayed up most of the night, watching the sky change colors from deep purple to the dark blue of dawn. I wake up my friends, reminding them of the task we set for the day. We are going to climb Camelback Mountain.

After an hour of bustling about, putting on clothes and rubbing the sleep from our eyes, we set off to get a taxi. On the way out of the complexities of the hotel resort, I say to my friends, “Um, guys? Shouldn’t we stock up on water? It is Arizona, after all.”

They reply with shrugs, suggesting in light words that we will get what we need before going anywhere. Not trusting their behavior, but not wanting to hold them back, I fill up two bottles of my own and rushed to join them. Walking away from the water fountain, I have only one thought.

We really ought to prepare.

The Climb – Draft

Dear Readers,

Revising has never been fun for me, but it is something every writer has to experience at some point. I usually feel that my work, while not perfect in its “final” product, is highly adequate in expressing my thoughts. This time, however, I accepted that revision was necessary – not because it’s a mandatory aspect of the assignment, but also because I knew very well how inadequately delivered my tale came out to be. I wanted to make my writing feel more…solid, so to say. For that I decided to use some of the advice bestowed upon me by my peers and professor first, and then add in personal changes after.

One piece of advice that I found was necessary to follow was to include more information about my “friend,” the guy who essentially allowed this entire story to take place. I tried to add enough details about him to make him seem significant without digressing from the actual events. In naming Adhemar and defining my relationship with him I hoped to give you, my readers, a deeper impression. I also tried to avoid using the phrase “It was” at the beginning of several sentences, in the same space where I identified Adhemar as my friend. My original intent was to create a sense of repetition, but that phrase does seem a bit clunky and non-creative. Instead, I rewrote those sentences with new beginnings while attempting to retain the repetitiveness of the subject, my friend.

To be honest, I feel that my revision could have been stronger with a bit more time and focus, especially the ending. I still have trouble ending any piece of writing satisfactorily. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, I would give my revision a 7. As much as I am dissatisfied with the ending, I still feel that my story has been given more depth and less formality, a goal  try to achieve in anything that I write.

The-Cost-of-Conflict-Revised

Dear Reader(s),

I must say, this has been one of the most challenging pieces of writing I have ever had to do. Most essays I write are academic ones that require 5 pages, 8 pages, 10 pages, and I have to struggle at times to fill those pages with meaningful words. Here, I’ve had to force myself to exclude as much as I possibly could in order to keep it at 2 pages max! The challenge was to restrict my thoughts and get to the point as quickly as possible without taking away from the significance of the story. I had to decide which sentences were truly important and which ones could be cut. In the end, several paragraphs were simply deleted  before the draft was even finished.

As you swallow the words that my essay draft feeds you, try not to look for hidden meanings or multiple layers. For the most part everything is straightforward story telling, with solid, literal meaning. Perhaps I will incorporate some figurative language later on, but my purpose in writing this draft is to work out exactly what I want to say. Once that task is done I will dress up my words and make them look pretty and have them dance off the screen. In the meantime, take everything as you see it and let your thoughts be based on that. Please, enjoy!