Understood

            I waved to my mom when I got off the huge yellow bus.  I knew she would be waiting for me at school to walk with me to my new environment.  I ran to her and she gave me a kiss on my little rosy cheeks and told me how proud she was of me for riding the bus for the first time.  Then she took my hand and we walked down several hallways together.

            I found looked at dark blue cubby in the classroom until I found mine and put my jacket and pink nickelodeon backpack in it.  Then I looked at every wooden round table, searching for my name.  When I found it I proudly told my mom and I sat in my dark blue seat with my mom bending down one leg talking to me.

            “Parents, it is time to leave.  But I promise you that all your children will have a wonderful day and full school year in kindergarten,” said Mrs. Prescott, my new teacher.  I kissed my mom on her chubby cheeks and she gave me a kiss and one last hug until she left me alone at my table with children I did not know but I was not shy or scared.  I was calm, happy, excited, and ready to learn.  I was especially anxious about learning how to read and write.  At this time, nobody knew that there was something different about me. 

            Before it was October I made new friends at school, I played tee-ball, I learned how to hold a pencil and more.  But I saw that I was not learning to read and write as well as my classmates but I did not care.  At this time I just wanted to be a normal kid and I did not see anything wrong with me.  I thought that I would eventually learn and catch up to my peers but besides my reading and writing difficulties, something else came up. 

            I started to notice that a lot of adults were having difficulties understanding me.  I would say a word or a sentence and they would look at me confused.  I would repeat myself but they would still look at me puzzled. 

            “Never mind,” I would tell them.  My parents and friends could understand me, but I did not understand why the adults at school could not understand me.  I started to be come quiet around the adults at school and eventually I decided not to speak to them, but only to my friends and family.  My teachers became concerned and so did my mom, until a new teacher showed up one day at my kindergarten classroom.

            The teacher said my teacher and I got up from my table and walked to her.  She introduced me to the teacher standing next to her and told me that I would be spending time with her.  The new teacher told me to follow her and as we walked down the many hallways we picked up a few students on the way.  I remembered that I did not feel any emotions.  I was not scared or happy or shy or sad.  I did not know what was going on but I went with the flow of what the future had in store for me. 

            The teacher took the students and I to a small classroom at the end of the hallway.  She gave me a folder that had my name on it and told me that she would be helping pronounced my letters.  As a six year old I did not have much of a say but she told me what letters we would be working on, that we would meet two times a week, and that my speaking would get better.  She asked if I understood and I said yes even though I really did not understand. 

            It became a regular thing for me to go to this special class called speech and learn how to pronounce my letters.  At home my mother did my speech homework with me and helped me whenever we got the opportunity when we were not at home.  Eventually June came and before I knew it September was once again on its way and I would be in first grade.  I knew I would be returning to the speech classes, but there was another surprise for me at school. 

            I was sitting at my desk when a teacher I never met before came in and my teacher told us to get up when our names were called.  Only three names were called and one of those names was my own.  I followed the teacher in the hallway as she got three more students and then took us to another small class I never been to before. 

            The room had nine desks, a black board at the front, and in a corner a semi-circle table.  Just like my first day of speech class I did not feel happy, excited, shy, scared, or anything. 

            I heard the teacher say my name and I raised my hand.  She pointed to the dark brown desk I would be sitting in and I sat down in it.  Once everyone was seated she handed out our workbooks and told us that we would be spending our Language Arts and Reading period in this class everyday. 

            I do not remember how long I spent in the special class each day, but I knew it was a long time.  I recalled having snacks time in the class and playing phonic games.  I actually have very little memory of my regular classroom in elementary school.  But it occurred to me by fourth grade that I was the only one of my group of friends in the class.  No one every told me why I was in the class but I did learn to read and write along with spelling.  But not as well as my friends.  By fourth grade my friends could read short novels while I was still stuck on picture books.  I started to think that I would never be a good reader, writer, or speller.  I refused to go into the public library, attend any schoolbook sells, or walk into a Barns and Noble bookstore.  I hated reading and spelling because I knew that I was not good at it. 

            But I found a passionate to write.  At ten years old I wrote fairytales of magical places with wizards and dragons.  I wrote about a talking lion cub who got lost, created the Purple Power Ranger and her adventures, and my favorite were stories I wrote about Neverland and going on quests with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.  My imagination was so create that I could not keep them in my head, I had to write them down.  Unfortunately no one could read them.  Every word I used was spell wrong, every tense I used was wrong, and I did not understand paragraphs so my stories were just one long paragraph.  Since I was the only one who could understand my early stories I kept them to myself although I am sure my mom found a few.  It was a long time until someone saw my passionate for writing.

            Years passed as fast as seasons and before I knew it I was in tenth grade and sixteen years old, ten years after I started kindergarten.  Within a ten-year period, everything changed.  I graduated from speech class in seventh grade, I was put into mainstream math classes by sixth grade, and by seventh grade I was no longer in special education classes, instead I was in inclusive classrooms, where I was finally in class with my friends.  But my learning problems were still present. 

            Teachers complained about my essays and I dreaded every time I got one back.  There would always be read marks all over my paper and the “see me” at the top right corner.  When I graduated from middle school I tried to ignore the red marks and whenever a paper said, “see me” I would never see my teacher.  When I got into high school I was in inclusive classrooms for every subject, except Spanish.  At high school I saw that things changed. 

            The special education teachers in all my classes were overwhelmed.  They never had time to review my papers, homework, or worksheets.  They were too busy watching out for the students with the sever disabilities and by October of my freshman year I learned to look out for myself.  I still got red marks, did poor on every exam, but all I cared about was passing but I also wanted to be acknowledged, but I was an invisible kid.  None of my teachers saw me or knew of my existence in the classroom.  It was hard, painful, and lonely but I passed.  Then I met him when I was in tenth grade and our meeting was a coincidence, then again, I do not believe in coincidence. 

            “Jesy, this is not an in support class but you still get your accommodation of extra time.  Today is just a test to see if it is a good fit for you, do you understand,” and I told my caseworker that I did.  I walked into the classroom feeling shy and nervous where the teacher, Mr. M greeted me.  He showed me where I could sit and he knew that it would be a good seat because when my friend Jeff walked in he was surprised to see me sitting next to his desk.  My first assignment in the class was to write a fifty-five-word story and at first I was shock.  I could write about anything I wanted?  No outline?  No topic?  No research about an author or character?  Just write as long as it was fifty-five words long?  In my head I was full of joy because I knew this was something I was good at and quickly got out my pen and Jeff handed me a white piece of paper.  I got so into the assignment that I kept writing over fifty-five words.  I was surprised when the teacher told us we had ten minutes left and some students shared their stories.  When the period ended, I knew that I would do well in the class. 

            I do not remember my first real essay for my new English class but I was shy, nervous, and scared.  When Mr. M started to hand the papers back to us my hands started to sweat, I look down at my gray desk, and I did not dare to look up and stare at him in the eyes.  He put my paper upside down on my desk and I knew that this was it.  All the red marks and cross out, and I knew it was going to be filled with the color red.  When I turned it over I was right with everything and Mr. M saw the look on my face and came over. 

            “Jesy, you have a lot of difficulties with spelling and your tenses but I loved your essay, it was very creative.  You are a very smart kid,” and all I could do was stare at him speechless.  Did he just say that?  With all those mistakes, did he really look pass all the mistakes and call me smart?  Throughout the rest of the school year I looked forward to Mr. M English’s class.  Although I had difficulties he always looked pass it and saw that I was really a smart kid who was overlooked because of my poor spelling, reading, and grammar.  I was happy in Mr. M’s class but I would not forget what I saw in June as I passed by his class one day after school.

            I saw Mr. M putting our books away into brown cardboard boxes.  He took all the Macbeth, Catcher in the Rye, Mango Street, and The Body of Christopher Reed books and put them away.  He was cleaning up for the summer and I walked away as quickly as possible because I knew that my happiness in his class was almost at an end and I was afraid of the future.

            I would never forget when I walked into the classroom one last time and saw that everything was gone.  All the books were put away and gone, the decorations were gone, and the teacher’s desk was empty.  When the period ended I became afraid because I knew that I would be in an inclusive classroom next year and I felt as if I lost my freedom once that clock said two in the afternoon. That year Mr. M reminded me why I loved to write like I did so many years ago, he over look my disabilities and saw that through my creativity I was smart, and helped me conquer my dyslexia.  Even to this day at the age of twenty I thank God that I met him and pray at the chapel of Mary every Sunday for her to watch out for him and keep him safe because if it was not for him I would not be confident in myself, determine to make my dream come true, or know that despite my dyslexia I am intelligent.

 I made sure that I did not have a sad face or a smile.  Just a regular face so that I could be strong and to show him that I would be brave in the next chapter of my life.

“Good-bye,”

“See you around, Jesy,” 

Freshman Math

I was already in my desk when the bell rung.  Even though it was a new day and the class did not start yet, I already knew what was going to happen. 

            I got out my binder and my teacher handed out color paper to everyone because she did not like to use white paper.  I got a light blue paper and on it was a math formula and vocabulary words such as horizontal, vertex, origin, and so on.  The formula I remembered was the intersect slope formula, y = mx + b.  The teacher told us the definition of the vocabulary words but I had trouble listening and writing at the same time.  I raised my hand in class and most of my classmate did the same.  But I already knew that no one would come to help me.

            In the upper right corner of the room, the special education teacher stayed there and helped the students in that corner, never moving from her spot. She thought that the students in that corner needed her help the most, but I needed her help too.  I knew I was in special services because I had difficulties with reading, math, and writing.  It was not until a year later when anyone discovered my dyslexia.  Sometimes the special education teacher would come over to me but she would only tell me how everything on the paper was wrong and she would get frustrated at me.  The only thing I did was sit there quietly and let her punch me with her words. 

            I lowered my hand when I saw that today she would not be moving from her spot.  The teacher at the front of the classroom moved on and taught us how to use the formula and I flipped over my paper to discover some math problems.  When it was time to practice I did all the math problems as best as I could, although I knew that all the answers were wrong. 

            My teacher walked around the room but always skipped me, leaving the special education teacher to deal with me.  I raised my hand so that someone could check my work. The teacher saw my hand but ignored it and the special education teacher saw my hand as well and ignored it. When my arm grew tired, I lowered my arm, again knowing that no one was coming. 

            The teacher went over the problems on the white board and I saw that to no surprise all my answers were wrong.  I did not try to fix them because I knew it did not matter to anyone.  I knew that none of the teachers were going to help me or acknowledge my presences in the class.  The teacher left me for the special education teacher and the special education teacher left me to fend for myself.  

            The bell rang and I put my binder away and walk off to my next class, knowing that the same disease was waiting for me there. 

The next day I walked into my math class and I raised my hand once.  The day after was the same and so was the day after. 

By the first week of October, I stopped raising my hand.  

Soccer Ball

              I was walking in town to get a hotdog from the street corner.  After I got my hotdog I decided to eat it across the street at the park.  I found an empty wooden bench to sit on and I slowly started to take small bites of my warm hotdog.  Then I heard a noise and I looked up to see a group of middle school boys kicking a soccer ball.  I stopped eating and looked at their directions but I was not interested in the group of boys, I was focusing on their black and white soccer ball.  Because it brought back happy memories.

            As a child I had my own black and white soccer ball.  In daycare I was the best goalie but once I started elementary school I quit soccer because the field was infested with bees and wasp.  Since I was very small I had a huge fear of bees and wasp, the doctors call it apiphobia.  I was very sad when I gave up soccer because I was really good at it, but eventually my soccer ball would become useful.

            When I was eight years old my family bought a six-month-old chocolate lab.  He was huge for his age and my friends were afraid of him but he was a gentle soul and minded his own business.  We named him Sam.  Very quickly Sam discovered his love for my soccer ball.  I would kick the ball and he would chase it, pick it up, and return it to me to kick.  But being a dog meant that Sam had huge, sharp, white teeth.  One time he returned my soccer ball to me with wholes in it and all the air drained out.  I was disappointed because I thought we had to stop playing but Sam just stood there and stared at me as if telling me, “Go ahead, kick it!” so I did and our play continued with a soccer ball without air. 

            One time when we were staying at our winter house for the weekend, I went in the backyard to play with Sam.  Of course when Sam saw me coming out, he quickly ran and grabbed the soccer ball.  Wait.  I said that correctly right?  A soccer ball?  Last time I check we did not have any soccer balls at our winter house.  I told Sam to drop it and I started at the light green and white soccer ball that no longer had air in it. 

            “Where did you get this?” I asked Sam and he just stared at me.  I then saw through the trees our neighbor’s backyard with a swing set, sandbox, and toys.  Oh no! 

            “Sam, did you take this from our neighbors?” and he just stared at me with his tongue sticking out.  Since the air was already gone from the soccer ball I did not see any need to return it.  I picked up the ball, kicked it in the air, and Sam went to get it.  Our neighbors never came over and asked us if we had their lost soccer ball.  We kept it until it was so torn; we had to throw it out. 

            Time passed quickly for Sam.  By the time he was seven, he could no longer play because of his hip dysplasia.  Even though I kicked the ball he would desperately try to get it but eventually I stopped kicking the ball for him so he could rest outside.  Nine days after Sam’s birthday he passed away, the old dog lived to be nine years old. 

            Eventually the boys in the park picked up their soccer ball and decided to leave.  I went back to eating my hot dog and once I was done I threw out the shiny, silver, tin foil that it came with.  I started to walk home and I told myself that wherever Sam was he was happy, probably chasing a soccer ball that would never run out of air.   

Prison Freedom

            The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the color grey.  When I sit up I look around the room although I have seen the same thing my whole life.  Grey walls, metal bed with white sheets, a silver toilet in the corner, and high on the wall, a small window to view the sky.  That day, the sky was blue with a few clouds. 

            I turned around when I heard the bars slide and the doors open.  A man came in wearing the guard uniform which was dark green, with brown boots, a green cap, and a gun bigger then me.  

            “Breakfast,” he told me and I got out of my bed, walked up to him, and put both my arms out.  The guard tied a chain around my waist, ankles, and wrists.  He put his hand on my shoulder and directed me down the hall, a few turns, and then into the cafeteria. 

            The cafeteria was full with other inmates wearing the same prison uniform I was wearing.  A one-piece light blue jump suit, but females wore a white T-shirt underneath while the males did not.  I got on the breakfast line, and then got a gray trey, and then the food lady put bread, eggs, and a cup of water on my trey.  I then walked over to the next seat that was available and sat down. 

            Some people already touch their foods and started drinking their water, but I stared at my breakfast and let my long hair cover the front of my face.  I was thinking about why I was in jail and what I did to live there.  The truth was, I did not do anything wrong except being alive.  The other inmates were in prison for the same exact reason that I was:

We were born in prison and sentence to life

            My name is 2062-13 and under my name outside my cell was the number 10.  I was 10 years old, meaning that I had been in prison for 10 years.  I never knew my parents.  I did not know if I have any siblings.  But above all, I did not know if I had a family.  I could spell, read, write, or count.  There was no education in jail because education was for those born and lived free. 

            After breakfast I was sent back to my cell and the guard (a different guard) gave me toothpaste and a brush, along with soap to wash my hands.  After brushing my teeth and washing my hands, I returned the objects to the guard who then took me to the back doors to line up with the others.  

            When the doors open we walked in two single file lines.  We were walking to the building next to the prison:  The Factory.  Everyday the guards assigned us a job and on that day I was assigned to untying knots.  At the beginning of the workday it was boring and easy but as the day progress, my fingers started to ach and become numb. 

            Every now and then the doors to the factory would open and we had to close our eyes or squint.  Most of the times it was a group of guards who were ready to take over the shift of the guards who were watching us.  Sometimes it was a group of men wearing clean suits and shiny black boots.  We knew these men had power and money and when they came, it meant business.  That day when the door open, a group of men in suits came in along with a few women who also showed they had power and money. 

            “You,” said one of the men snapping his fingers and pointing to one of the boys.  The boy looked up and walked over to the man but did not dare stare him in the eye.

            “Shine my shoe,” said the man and the boy found a cloth and shiner around the room and started to shine the man’s shoe.  When the boy was done, he got up but still looked down.  Then the man slapped him and spit at him.  Even though this terrible act happened, everyone continued working as if nothing happened.

            “Useless scum,” said the man with a smile on his face, staring at the boy.  The group of grown ups laughed with him.  Then he turned to the guard. 

            “I heard we had two accidents yesterdays, can we see them?”  The guard nodded and walked upstairs to get the two children.  When he came back down, he had two girls.  One girl was a bit older then me while the other one looked like she was barely five.

            “Put out your hands girls,” said the guard as the girls presented their hands.  The older girl showed that her index finger was gone while the youngest showed that she lost a total of three fingers and had a fourth bandage.  The man and the other people looked at the girls’ hands very carefully and examined them. 

            “Take this one away, send her back to her job,” said one of the women and a second guard came to escort her back upstairs.  The group was still examining the younger girl and talked quietly among themselves. 

            “Send this one to the basement.  We can always replace her.  We have a new batch of toddlers arriving tomorrow anyway,” said a very fat man and a third guard came over to escort the very young child out of the factory and back to the prison, where she will be sent to the basement.  All the inmates knew that once you were sent to the basement, you would never come back.  It was very sad when a child went to the basement but no one paid attention and no one cried.  There were no friends in prison; only those who were free could have friends. 

            The group of people walked around and examined each station in the factory and talked among themselves, even though we could hear them.  We heard them say the words “bastards”, “useless”, “ungrateful”, “his parent must had been a drunk,” “her parent must had been a hooker”, and so on.  When the people left we were all happy and many hours later the guards called it a day and escorted us to the cafeteria for dinner.  That night we had bread, one burger (without the buns), and a cup of water. 

            After dinner the guards came in and made us line up in age order.  They did this every few days or so.  The guards mostly focused on the older kids, the ones who were almost nineteen or older.  We all watch the guards pull out about six of the older kids and escorted them out.  We knew where they were taking them.  The older kids were going to be sent to adult prisons where the adults could have gone to prison for any number of reasons from stealing to murder.  When the older kids were gone, we were each escorted back to our cells and getting ready for sleep. 

            Once I was in my cell, the guard took off my chains and closed the bars.  I looked up at the window and saw the night sky along with a crescent moon and stars.  I then lay in my bed and went under the sheets before the lights went out and stared at the sky. 

            I was thinking about my parents and wondering who they were and if they knew that I would end up here.  But I understood why I was here.  Scientist discovered a long time ago human genetics and eventually took it one step further.  They discovered that children born in prison would eventually commit a horrible crime, such as murder, rape, torture, and more.  The percentage of us becoming terrible criminals was 95%.  To keep society safe and unharmed, they put us in prison from the moment we are born.  The guards said we lost our freedom:  freedom of speech, education, owning property, voting, and the freedom to be free.  It took me a while that night, but I realized that I would live and die in prison.  I would never be free.  But I badly wanted to be free and have freedom.  Because I could have been part of that 5% who would grows up to be a kind and wonderful person with a family.  I closed my eyes with one tear going down my cheek because I knew:  This was not my fault.  I did nothing wrong.