The following is a memoir of my childhood and it’s transition from being raised in a third-world culture to a westernized culture in America, and how I coped with it.
Almost every day, I stare out a window to see nothing but darkness that is occasionally lit by artificial light that illuminates the dwellings of long giant metallic behemoths that roar through it; beasts that were engineered by man and enslaved to do our bidding and destined to only follow the paths that we carved out for them in the deep womb of mother earth. Men, unlike their so-called “inferior” counter-parts, are able to speculate about matters other than fulfilling baseline requirements for survival. For this reason, we are also able to conjure up such elegant monstrosities in the material world for our own benefit, but it is also a source of, which ironically, much trouble and oft steals the sleep from our nights.
As I was descending down the staircase to the train and into the belly of the metallic beast whose breath blasted me with cool air as I entered the train, I saw a wearied eyed, tired, exasperated and stressed out mother who could not keep up with her son, who seemed to be powered by the limitless and undying battery called youth. The boy was constantly pestering his mother for a football, in his opinion, he needed. The mother, try as she might, tried to be patient with her son and attempted to explain to him in the nicest way possible in every way she could that she could not afford to purchase the football for him at the time, she was nearing the end of her fuse and about to “blow-up”, which showed in her eyes as crimson blood rivers seemed to encircle and snake their way to her pupils on the whites of her eyes.
The crowd’s attention, though not immediately, started to hone in on the boy whose voice seemed to grow louder with demand with each passing statement he uttered. Meanwhile, the mother’s face grew tense, and she began to hint to her son to stop reigning embarrassment upon her in public. However, upon reaching her fuse and finally reaching a point where (at least I believe) she would have wanted to beat the child, she did not. In fact, it seemed as though she lengthened the string of the fuse and grew more tolerance towards her child’s pestering, just as a drug addict on heroine does over time. Once, they had gotten off the train and left, I began to stare into deep space because this event served as a reverberate for a series of events that helped made me the boy I am to this day.
Published in: Family