A Dreamer Within a Dream

Chapter III - The Scene Kids & Eight Grade's end.

The rage was one, the fever ran through me like an unborn child. I wanted to be born with people like me, people who felt like me and showed expresión like me. There was no expression in the ground in which I laid my character in.
The listener to heavy metal, underground electo and quirky dance tunes, painted their hair like brighter than the sun and darker than the moon with colors only highlighters were made of. They dressed in tones of gray one brighter or darker than the other. They stayed in the corner of the class and the edges of the playground. Granted I couldn't dress like them because my traditional parents wouldn't allow it. At least not on their dime so I was still the one who stood out out of the scene kids but I was never disproved that I was not one of them for you see that in order to be part of the scene kids I needed one thing: rage and a broken heart.
Finally, as I felt accepted in their circle it was like another world I had to hide from another circle. My parents... they would always say, "mijo we don't want you hanging out with those people. They aren't right for you." If not this then not the other, but the scene kids never judged me, they shared with me what no one else would share, a smile and a friendship. I was no longer an immigrant to them, a minority because we were the minority.
As I found my self I had also lost myself in this clique of dark clothing and sadness. I didn't feel myself and didn't want to feel sad but that's all the world had given me, sadness.
Like the moon rose and the sun set I was alone. Nowhere to be found I found a hole in where I was able to feel safe. I went up in the day and down at the night.
Then the world crashed on us. It wasn't long enough when I would soon be reminded of what I was. At the last few moments of my eight grade class there was a scandal. A drug bust. About ten to fifteen kids from my class had been found guilty of dealing drugs. The simplest drugs of course...weed.
My brother was one of them and as he disappeared into the darkness, a charter school neighboring ours my popularity grew. Everyone wanted to know about my brother and where else to find the truth than the person who lived with him. I instantly because the it guy and would stop at nothing to claim the throne of popularity. Soon, I found myself doing the cool things like speaking back to my teachers and smoking in the parking lot. I was finally in; accepted into the world of something cool, but it wasn't cool, because the end of my eight grade was close.
The kids now knew who I was but did nothing to stop the stereotype of me being another dealer. They would ask me for drugs and advice of weed and cocían but I knew nothing of that since I had never done smithing of that kind. I soon realized that the only reason I would be popular was if I was able to do drugs withs them and skip school for early morning beer runs at the local Walgreens. I feel into the pressure and with it so did my grades. I knew I had to find myself so I dispersed. I did the unthinkable and released myself from the crown of popularity. I knew I was commuting suicide but I had no interest of being part of a free riding crew that flew on drugs. I had a taste of the fun and realized it was nothing as I thought it would be.
The eight grade promotion was fast, there were ceremonies, speeches on how high our goals should be and how high we should soar to reach them. Reality sunk in and I knew time was ticking and my life was moving into a direction of the real world where only the eligible could be part of it. Still, I knew I would be ineligible because I was illegal. The kids looked at me and would ask, "What classes are you getting into? You know you have to pick electives and classes that colleges would look at as you move your way to the real world, you're going to want to find a good career when you grow up right?" That's when I knew I would once again be judged for the person I was, an illegal with no eligibility or right to anything of the real world. Soon, the kids remembered who I was and scoffed, "you're still that kid that doesn't have a green card hug?" I was and I knew I would have no goals.
Still, I remembered how hard I worked to prove people wrong. I was promoted in my eight grade class with straight A's and a certificate of honors for the best writing student in my class. I was proud of myself, surprised the very least of how unbelievably believable this could have been. Had my teachers kept an eye out for me? Had they become my guardian angles of my hopes and dreams? Did they know that they were betting for a dreamer who's dreams were nothing but nightmares in the foreseeable? I was lost and surrounded by loud noise of people clapping their hands. I stepped up and took my awards. Considering where I came from this award showed me one thing. If you work hard for what you want, there are possibilities of a less darker future.
I took it as a token of promise, that no matter how hard my life was I should never stop trying because it's worse to feel empty and accomplish nothing than to feel empty and accomplish one thing. From that point on, I knew where I stood. At the top of a cliff where I would either jump and fall and jump and fly.
The clapping ended as fast as my summer did. I had chosen my high school classes and prepared my backpack for the first day of my teenage years.