I remember, back in middle school. I always stayed late to go to Coach Class in Math, work on my clarinet with my Music teacher, Mr. Otto. I understood the pythagorean theorem on an empty stomach since lunch (because it was gross lasagna day). Worked on my band's song with 2 friends on just some chocolate or an afternoon snack from where I volunteered, CampFire. I stayed late day after day after day.
Sometimes, I had to run home from school because of bullies. My desolate, barren stomach would scream, "BRANDI! Slow down! I'm hurting, CRAMP CRAMP CRAMP!" I told my stomach, "Hush! Speed up so I don't get beat up." I would run home Monday, Wednesday and Friday but, or to the library especially on Tuesday and Thursday because those were the days that Open Minds met. It felt good to be in a knowledgeable place where I could feel safe (because of an abundance of people and their reputation would be over if they stepped foot in my sanctuary).
I remember going in chronological order. I read the Children's section then, the chapter books, Comics, Romance, Young Adult and then all the new releases on the middle table. Never really fancied autobiographies, except the Malcolm X one which I am happy to say I read religiously over Winter break, and maybe one day I read another, but Fiction, is where it's at.
The streetlights came on and my stomach was eating itself from the inside out before I finally checked a book out of the library and walked up the street to my house. I had my own key at 12 years old. Once I got in the house my stomach smelled the most disgusting dinner on the planet, brown beans and hot dogs, YUCK! There's a whole story that goes behind why I hate with a burning inferno passion brown beans, and hot dogs but I digress. I'd rather read the book I just got today.
Upstairs in my shared room with my sister and brother on their bed waiting for dinner to be fed to them, I place my book bag next to my bed hugged my siblings and transcended the boundaries of these three tan and one brick wall, to places where hunger doesn't exist and mother's come home early and don't have to work so hard. Where's grandmothers come back from the dead and never die because they are immortal, and possibilities are endless. The novel was called "13 Blue Envelopes" , and instead of dinner, I wished myself to be transnational and end up in Paris, France with the main character. While Uncle Mike shouted, "Come, and get it", I stayed.
It was a choice other's don't have but it was a choice that was and will always be mine. Thank you.
