A Bad Day

I stood at the head of the table. Knife in hand. I had chosen it because it was the sharpest one in the kitchen; a long curved fillet knife with a broken off tip. I remember just standing there for a long time listening to my own thoughts. Fighting for my life. I can still feel the unexplainable despair that had permeated every aspect of my existence. I could not remember a happy moment, let alone a happy day.
I’m not sure why I was alone that day in the kitchen. I remember the rest of the family would not be home for hours to come. There was no one to distract me, no one to pretend for, no one knew or cared what I was doing. I have seen enough animals bleed out in my life to know how quick it would be. I chose my left wrist. My right hand is stronger, and I figured I would have more control that way. I remember how cold and emotionless it all was. I was about to take my own life, and it felt no more despairing than any other action I had taken that day.
Depression consumes you. It takes away all the light around you, all the light that has ever been around you, the memory of light, the idea of light is unfathomable.
I placed the knife on my wrist, felt the cold steel, positioned it. I listened. Nothing but my own even breathing, and my thoughts. I felt relief then. I was in control of something. I wasn’t afraid of the pain. I wasn’t afraid I would chicken once the knife split my skin. I was just relieved that all the frantic voices in my head, all the feelings of self-loathing, and all the memories of, and future, bullying would soon be gone.
I don’t know why in that my most selfish, and dark moment I thought of my family. They would come home to all the blood, my body crumpled on the floor. I would cause them pain, the same kind of pain that I was trying to escape. I imagined my little brother running into the house to great me as he always did.
I replaced the knife on the rack, sat down at the head of the table. I always felt like a failure, and now I had even failed at failing. I sat there for a long time listening. Not a sound except my thoughts, and someone crying.

Saturday Evening

I feel like a fool, laughing at a joke, all by myself
The sound of my own voice, comes running back, I am alone

I miss holding you, wrapping my arms around your waist, miss kissing you
The sound of my own voice, comes running back, I am alone

I feel like a fool, dancing in an empty room, all by myself
The sound of my footsteps, comes running back, I am alone

When did I lose myself? when did myself become a part of you? miss seeing you
The sound of my own voice, comes running back,I am alone

I feel like a fool, laughing at a joke, all by myself
I am alone

Personal Essay

I have had the great opportunity to be a foreigner my entire life. When I was only a year old my father sold his cabinet building business in Miami, Florida and bought a large ranch in the middle of the jungle in Ecuador. I grew up as an American sandwiched between two other cultures. On the one side there were the Indígenas, and on the other the Ladinos. Because of my family's unique situation I had the opportunity to have friends among both groups and become acquainted with both cultures. During the time that we lived in Ecuador my father started a small tourist business where people from all over the world would stay in our home with us for a week or two at a time. Because of this I was able to come into contact with different cultures from all over Europe. During my entire childhood my family and I were the only Americans I ever knew. Being a small child cultural differences were not such a big deal to me, and it seemed like everyone was the same no matter where they came from.
When I was twelve my family moved back to the U.S.A., and for the first time in my life I was surrounded by other Americans. I thought I should feel at home, but my cultural training and my upbringing were so different from that of my peers that once again I found myself to be a foreigner. At first it was almost more than I could bear. The rules of engagement were so different that I really struggled to fit in, and for a while I felt that I never would. It seemed that everyone was mean and selfish. I had grown up in a very collectivist society, and now I was thrust into the most individualist society on the planet. My confusion was almost unbearable. Even though it was very hard to adjust to a new life, and new cultural and societal rules, I feel that the experiences I had as a young person have been my greatest asset.
Because I have always been different I find myself able to put myself into the shoes of those who are different than me. Another great advantage of having lived in different cultures is that I am able to see that while the way someone else does things may not be the way I do it that does not necessarily make their way wrong and my way right. I developed a broad perspective that I do not think would have been possible to obtain any other way.
It was not until I was working on my Bachelor’s degree here at Utah State University that I began to realize how great of an asset my background was to me. I had the opportunity to take some classes about culture, and communication that helped me to understand a little more just how complex, and interesting culture is. As my understanding of culture grew I was also able to come to a greater understanding of myself, and my own experiences. It was then that I decided I wanted to take my studies further and get a Master’s degree in international relations.
As the world becomes more and more interconnected, and as the Latin American world begins to flourish it will become increasingly important for businesses and government to have a firm understanding of their cultures and way of life. I chose to apply to Utah State University for my Master’s because of your good reputation, because I have loved my time here as an undergrad, and because there are professors here who know and study Latin America like professor Sanders, and professor Furlong who I have taken classes from and would love to work with in the future. I feel confident that my upbringing and academic preparation have prepared me exceptionally well for this next step in my life, and I look forward to a new adventure.

Stature

Stature:
1. the height of something, esp a person or animal when standing
2. the degree of development of a person: the stature of a champion
3. intellectual or moral greatness: a man of stature

The Fence
I look down at the street from the apartment my family rents on the weekends. We live to far away from church to get there on Sunday, so we rent a place and come to town on Saturday. It’s Saturday afternoon and my parents and siblings are all off doing something else. I’m alone, and I’m bored. The apartment is built on an embankment about three feet above the road, and is completely surrounded by a metal fence topped with galvanized spikes about the size of nails. A stairwell cuts its way down to the street and the only gate out. I have a few spare coins so I decide to go to the little corner store and see what I can afford to buy. I usually have enough for a sucker, or some chicles. I skip along the fence toward the stair well running my hand along the bars as I run. I am shorter than the fence, but not by much. When I reach the stairwell and gate instead of walking over to where it starts I simply jump in from the side. I do it almost every time. Suddenly, right before my feet hit the bottom cement step I jerk to a stop. I look up in surprise to see what I go hooked on, and to my utter horror I see that one of the spikes on the top of the gate has lodged itself firmly in my right ring finger, entering about at the second knuckle and exiting beside my nail. Like I said I am shorter that the fence, so I can’t touch the ground. My big toe on my left foot scrapes the cement a tiny bit as I swing back and forth from the momentum of my jump. I try pulling myself up, but the fence is designed to not allow climbing, and it is hopeless. I twist my body around to face the apartment and start calling for my dad. No one comes. I dangle there for what seems like hours, but must only be a matter of minutes still swinging as I dangle there from that horrid spike. Finally my dad comes out of the apartment and as he is walking past I call out and he sees me. He runs over to me, and wraps his arms around me relieving the pressure from my finger. “Why would you do this?” He asks, “No one should have to pull their son off a fence.” Then holding me in one arm he grabs my impaled finger with the other and pulls it off the spike. I can feel every galvanized bump as my finger slides off the fence. Only then does the pain start.

Short is Relative
the average height of a male in the U.S. is five foot ten inches. The average height of a male in Mexico is five foot four inches. So I am tall In Mexico, and short in the U.S.

Wrestling
I look at my opponent across the mat. The match is about to start, and I know I have gotten into his head. I’ve been accentuating my limp, and walking with my head down like I’m scared. I’m smaller than he is by a good six pounds or so, and it shows. My arms are smaller, and my ribs can plainly be seen poking out above my singlet. The referee calls us over, and I move over slowly not meeting my opponents eyes, acting scared. We get to the middle of the mat and the ref instructs us to shake hands. Mine are cold and I don’t squeeze very hard when we shake. I do this acting every time I wrestle someone who has never seen me before. My small stature works to my advantage as I pretend to be weak and scared. I can tell my opponent’s guard is down, and he is thinking that this will be the easiest match of his life. He lets go of my hand and we get into position to start. I smile nervously at my foe, and then the whistle blows. The other guy just stands there not expecting to have to do anything for a few seconds. It is normal for wrestlers to circle around each other for a little while before anything really happens, and he knows I am small and scared so I definitely won’t make the first move. I slam into his left leg like a strike of lightning, and he doesn’t even have time to readjust his assessment of me before my arms are wrapped tight around his neck and arms pinning his shoulder blades to the ground. The referee slaps the mat, and I let him go. As I stand up I hear him try to make some lame excuse to the referee about how he wasn’t ready. I look up at the clock twenty three seconds. We shake hands again, and then mine is lifted into the air. I probably could have beaten him anyway, but I love seeing that look of complete disbelief in people’s eyes when someone smaller and seemingly weaker just destroyed them.

Napoleon
Napoleon’s shortness has been greatly exaggerated. Although it is true that when he died his body was measured at five foot four inches tall, he was measured in French feet not the Standard English feet we all use. In reality Napoleon was five foot six inches tall which was about the norm at the time. Another factor that lead to Napoleon’s shortness being exaggerated is that his personal guards where always very tall.

Wedding Tuxedo
I pull up to my future in-law’s house in my old beat up Toyota Corona. It’s the night before my wedding, and my father-in-law-to-be, Dan, just picked up my tuxedo. I am going to try it on, but I’m not worried about the fit, because when we ordered it every conceivable measurement was made. I go into the house, and step into a whirlwind of activity. Getting ready for a wedding is so much more stressful for the bride and her family than it is for the groom and his. “Here try this on” my Mother-in-law-to-be, Laurie, tells me handing me the tuxedo. I nod my head and walk into the bathroom. As soon as I start putting on the tux I know that there is something wrong. The pants are too long, so are the sleeves, in fact every thing about the tux was made for someone a few inches taller, and twenty pounds heavier than me. I look like an anorexic version of Charlie Chaplin, not a good look for a wedding. I walk back out to my future in-laws and all activity stops. I can tell that Laurie is about to cry when she sees me. Getting the tux was supposed to be the easy part, it’s a no brainer. “Didn’t they measure him?” She asks. Dan and I both nod. “They must have looked at the measurements later and thought they’d made a mistake” I said “so they let it out a little.” “There’s no time to take it back now” Dan says matter-of-factly, and then he gets to work pulling and pinning the tuxedo into place. In a minute it looks like it was actually fitted to me. “I’ll sew this up tonight” Dan tells me “it’ll be ready in the morning for you to pick up.” Thanks to Dan my tuxedo looks awesome on my wedding day, and fits me perfectly. Although, if anyone bothers to look closely they will see some hand sewn stiches of green thread holding the whole thing together.

King Louis
In the early 1700s, France's King Louis XIV (who was short for his time) would often wear five inch heels decorated with miniature battle scenes. The king decreed that only nobility could wear heels that were colored red and that no one's heels could be taller than his own.

Wrestling Again
I’m on the mat again after six years. It’s the first day of wrestling practice for the USU wrestling club. I’m excited. We do some preliminary warmups, and then it is finally time for my first match. My opponent outweighs me by about thirty pounds, but I’m not worried I was always able to beat anyone when I was in high school. We circle around each other, and then engage. I realize then that I have vastly over estimated my ability. This guy is right out of high school, and he’s fit. I am out of shape, and have lost all the muscle tone I once had. He gets me in a bad position and begins to force my back onto the mat. He is bigger, stronger, and in better shape than me, but I am determined not to give in. I twist my body so that I am on my knees, but my shoulders are still towards the mat. He pushes harder, and I tense every muscle in resistance. Suddenly I feel my right floating rib pop, broken by all the tension and twisting. For the first time in my life I tap out.

Creerse mucho

Había un hombre que vivía en la selva ecuatoriana. Miguel era hombre de cara lúgubre no por tener alguna tristeza en la vida sino porque así se le había crecido Algunos decían que se parecía a un sapo. No era mal tipo pero se creía muy inteligente. Miguel nunca las hacía caso a sus vecinos indígenas cuando le amonestaban no ir por algún lugar, o no nadar en algún rio. Se creía invencible por su estatura, y por su educación extranjera. Tenía la costumbre de bañarse todas las mañanas en el rio que pasaba cerca de su casa. Justo allí cerca de su había una contracorriente que creaba un pozo perfecto para nadar. Muchas veces sus vecinos le habían dicho a Miguel que no nadara por allí, pero él no les hacía caso. “Allí viven las boas” le decían. “Allí mismo en ese lugar Manuelito Vargas desapareció de su canoa.” “Si. Si” les contestaba Miguel, “pero Manuel siempre andaba borracho. Se debe de haber caído al agua sin darse cuenta de donde estaba.”

Una buena mañana Miguel salió a nadar en su pozo. Su cara que siempre se veía tan triste se torno alegre mientras se tiraba de un lado al otro en el agua. Su riza robusta se perdía en el sonido de su alegre chapotear. El agua estaba muy claro ese día entonces Miguel empezó a hundirse hasta el fondo del rio y mirar a los peces que se escondían entre las plantitas y piedras. De repente Miguel sintió en lo más profundo de su alma un miedo como nunca jamás había sentido. Por un momento quedo paralizado en el fondo del rio antes de lanzarse hacia la superficie y nadar fuertemente hacia la orilla. Miguel era una nutria en el agua entonces solamente le tomaron unos segundos llegar a la orilla. Al llegar se dio la vuelta y mirando al rio empezó a reírse nerviosamente. “Mírame,” dijo “ya estoy como todos mis vecinos corriendo de las sombras. No dejare que un miedo tan irracional me dañe el día.”

Decidido Miguel se metió de nuevo al agua, pero esta vez no se reía ni chapoteaba el agua. Al llegar el agua a su cintura miro hacia todos lados como si estuviese en frente de una multitud de gente. “Si ven? No hay nada! No hay nada.”. Pero todavía sentía un miedo que no podía comprender. Al mirar hacia el rio nuevamente vio algo extraño como si el agua pasara por encima de una piedra, pero las ondulaciones se acercaban cada vez más al lugar donde estaba parado. Empezó lentamente a caminar hacia atrás a la orilla sus ojos fijamente puestas en las ondas que ya se encontraban a sus pies. De repente se dio la vuelta y trato de correr hacia la orilla, pero al mismo instante la cabeza de una serpiente gigante salió del agua con la fuerza de una erupción volcánica y le pego en el hombro con tanta fuerza que Miguel se cayó en el agua.

Inmediatamente la serpiente se aferró a su pierna y empezó a darse vueltas en el agua envolviéndole al pobre Miguel que trataba de gritar mientras el remolino le tiraba de un lado al otro. El cuerpo de la serpiente era tan grueso y largo que parecía una imposibilidad. Y aun mientras Miguel sentía que se inmovilizaba su cuerpo bajo los rollos de la serpiente no podía creer que era real lo que estaba experimentando. Lo último que vio fue la boca imposiblemente grande que cubrió su cabeza mientras las burbujas de un grito pasaban en frente de sus ojos.

Perdido

Me perdí en un sueño,
Pensando en pensar,
Meta-pensamiento,
Pensando en pensar,
Me perdí en un Sueño.

The Pocket Watch

Every Christmas my grandma gets all of her grandchildren a gift. It usually isn’t something very expensive, but because it comes from Grandma I have always looked forward to getting it. When I was very young our family lived in Ecuador. Getting that Christmas package from Grandma was something that connected us to a world we didn’t know.

I remember one year, I was probably six or seven, and I had waited all year for that box to come. It seems like the box came late that year, although that might be a trick of memory. When It finally did arrive it sat there under our little Christmas tree for what seemed like an eternity. Every day I would go to it and pick it up shaking it gently to see if I could figure out what was in it.

Christmas morning finally came, and we were up before the sun. I don’t remember what other presents I got that year. At last we opened Grandmas box. Inside wrapped in newspaper were two jars of choke cherry jelly, and beside that presents for each of us. The girls each took out their gifts, and then my older brother took out his. The box was empty!

There was no gift with my name on it. We searched the room and the newspaper in case it had somehow fallen out, but there was nothing. Deeply disappointed I watched my siblings open their presents. They were wonderful. The girls got some sort of jewelry and my brother a beautiful pocket watch.

The next time my parents were in town my mom called Grandma to ask about the missing gift. She had sent two pocket watches in the package. My brothers had arrived, but mine had been lost in the mail. I imagined some Ecuadorian postal worker, maybe in customs, opening the box. “What kind of selfish person needs two pocket watches? One is plenty.” he would say as he removed mine from the box before sealing it up again and sending it on its way.