2. We used to practice typing sentences that I barely remember now: "every good boy deserves….." Something like that. What does every good boy deserve?
3. I used to stay up till 3 a.m. typing papers, cramming at the last minute every time. Every single time. My mother and brother slept patiently in their beds while I went mad in the kitchen on my old black typewriter from the year one.
4. This was the kitchen where my father had died the year before. I typed frantically, insanely. Did I know anything? Nothing. I was like Jack Kerouac On The Road, driving aimlessly with fervor, searching for meaning. In that little kitchen I was searching like a crazy person. I thought they should put me away.
5. The later it got the more I deteriorated. I quietly raided the refrigerator and the cabinet with the big tin of cookies, leaving only enough to hide the evidence. I found random crackers in the back. I needed the crunch, the salt, the sweet. I needed to fill my mouth, to fill myself up, to fill up. There was no stopping, no thinking, no breathing. Just chew and swallow. Eat myself into oblivion. And then type.
6. I was in a hole. I was procrastinating, even then, at the last minute. I gave myself pep talks. I walked in circles. I read books. I tore out my hair. I wasn't fit to live. My life was a failure. Nothing would come of me. I drew pictures, doodles. My self esteem was zero. This was my secret. Everything was a secret. I lived in my angst. Nothing made sense. Thoughts were swimming around. I could feel my heart beat. No one would ever love me.
7. Every good boy deserves favor. Was that it? Something.
8. In my bottom feeding misery I got a glimpse of something. What was it? A hint of something. I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe that this was not real. Or this was not all there is. Or I was not alone in my suffering. Or it wasn't as bad as I thought it was. Or maybe I wasn't as bad as I thought I was. Just a hint. Unformed. A glimmer. I reveled in it. Whatever it was. A reprieve. A glimpse of God. Something.
9. I recently found a paper I had written in High School called "Slavery in the USA." It was neatly typed and put in a folder with a picture I drew of a white hand and a black hand reaching for each other. It was a short paper filled with sentiment and superficial claptrap. Unbelievably embarrassing. I remember how important that paper was for me to write. It was a beginning for me.
10. After staying up till 3 or 4 a.m. I finally went to sleep for 2 or 3 hours. Then I woke up, took a shower, ate breakfast, got my paper, put my coat on and went to school. I pretended to be a normal person.
