courage | why the drunkard likes to drink

toluwaleyi meadows

courage

MY GRANDMA WOKE ME UP THIS MORNING, for my alarm clock had failed me. My alarm clock had failed to wake me up, so I had to strut to the bus stop, anxious that I missed my chemistry quiz. My clothes were drenched in rainwater, and the bus was long gone—another failure in the books. I walked to school with shame on my face. There was no one around, but I could feel their stares and looks. My back hurts most days because my books have become too heavy; they are not as they were before. Now they’ve gained weight, and cry themselves to sleep. They want to stop binge-eating but feel it’s too late.

With the weight on my back, you would think I was superman, but being super is something I am not. I slack at things I don’t care about, but even at the things I do care for, I somehow still fall flat. As I bite the orange I jammed into my backpack rushing out the door, I feel the juice overwhelm and overtake my mouth. My tongue sieves in pleasure, but that pleasure will not last forever, for I open my eyes, and feel the stares. But alas, there is no one there. No one with me to chat and discuss the treacherous Mr. Gibbs—his class, just last hour. But I power through the pain, the reality setting in like quicksand. I kick my feet, hoping to escape, and regain a sliver of boldness.

I believe that with enough courage I could walk the halls with everyone else around me. With enough courage I could climb a mountain. With enough courage no one could stop me.

With enough courage, I could stand up to Mr. Gibbs and demand some respect—expect resistance, but never back down. With enough courage I could wear my skin, the skin I’m in, out and about without being scared at the stares that come my way. With enough courage I could speak, and disguise the weak, cover the shake and ache in my stomach, as I dare to make a mistake. And with a sliver of courage I could fake being strong for strength’s sake. But I lack courage and I lack strength. Crowds of people make me tense, and the pressure to be perfect, so intense that I couldn’t fathom being bold enough to laugh at my expense. I couldn’t fathom standing up to Mr. Gibbs; his hate stands much taller.

Let me tell you something about Mr. Gibbs. He is my AP World History teacher. He often makes racist and sexist remarks to us students, but has been here for years so nothing ever really happens. You are sort of expected to endure it, for it feels there is no other way around it. You feel like if you open your voice to chastise the injustice, all but a difference would be made.

What you will have is empty promises and threats of a bad grade ricocheted back to you. This is why when you see him in class, you hold your head down and don’t say a word.

This is what I think I should do as I walk to his classroom, but my feet have minds of their own. I didn’t think today would be the day, but he said something so wrong to me, and my anger was faster than any fear or excuse I could have thought of to turn back.

Today I have regained a sliver of boldness.

My might gets smaller as I approach him. But I know I can’t back down. I shiver and quiver. My boots are gyrating. My hands go to fists. Steam exits my nose and ears. I reach his classroom, and without a moment to think, or breathe, or do anything, the words spill out.

The words spill out in a fit of rage at the remark made moments before. You are a racist, a terrible human being, it is a disgrace to call you a teacher when all you have taught is hate, and I hate to be so rude, but I am just not in the mood today.

My breath hangs heavy, my head, a little lighter. I’m not a fighter, I hate to be rude, but I couldn’t sit still any longer. My might couldn’t get any smaller, the spring too compressed, it needed to spring back.

All he says in response: Oh.

Oh?

OH!?!??

ALL YOU COULD SAY WAS OH!?!?!?

I leave before he can say anything else. I hate confrontation, and hate to be rude.

That “oh” feels so strange. The “oh” to me, exemplifies the lack of self-awareness those stuck in their hateful ways have. All he could say was “oh”, because no one ever told him “no”. No one ever told him his actions have consequences whether he saw or experienced them or not.

This “oh” ridicules me on the bus ride home, and in my sleep later. That “oh” still follows me around. That “oh” still lingers in my mind, and actions, and mannerisms.

I try not to think about the moment too much—for when I do, I feel a pit of dread forming in my stomach. I don’t know if I regret it. I don’t want to, you know, but speaking out like this was a spur of the moment thing. It was something I did with courage I found somewhere lying on the street. Courage like something a baby would find around them and put in their mouth without much thought as to what germs are encapsulated in it. A newfound courage. A strange feeling.

I don’t think I regret it. At least I don’t want to. Although the stares are more noticeable nowadays, at least I had the courage to say something at all. At least I had the courage to look the people in the face, and stare back and silently attack the defenses I had secretly built for them.

At least today, I looked a man in the eye and called out the injustice he wears around. At least I faked strong, for a little, the feeling so foreign and new. It ought to never go away, the feeling so strange and different, I hope to find it again somehow. Somewhere.

why the drunkard likes to drink

I LIKE TO DRINK FOR THE THRILL, escaping my reality, leaping through portals and dimensions. I hope to find an alternative re-ality where my rent isn’t due, and my mind isn’t sad, and my heart longs to beat, but I can settle for no feeling at all. I can settle for the wooziness in my speech and the tremble in my nature, as I lift my fleshy hand to my face with poison on the brain, and no cares left to give.

“Daddy,” my daughter wheezes from the corridor with a stutter, with fear. “I’m hungry.” It was the third time she said that, but I couldn’t remember the other two. My eyelids lie dormant as my pupils bat at the girl. My pupils bat back to the TV, something exciting grabs, grips, holding them tight. The president had been killed. My face begins to swell, but only for a moment before my brain gives out, and my eyes begin to bleed, and the night is but a blur, and that girl’s beckon, forgotten.

A knock chokes my ears. Shakes, and strangles it. The light, blinding. That knock has friends, and they too get a turn at the door. They go around passing the honor like a blunt a group of angsty teenagers would pass around at a party. I walk my chunky feet and beer belly to the door. I peep into the other world I hate, and through the portal, a middle aged puertorican man, my landlord.

“Damn,” I whisper to myself, loud enough to hear, loud enough that I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t home and he had come at a bad time. My footsteps have already surrendered to his presence and gave the jig up as a gift. I open the door with dread filling my mouth to the top. It couldn’t go farther—any more and it would be intruding on the home my poison had made itself.

“Mr. Abraham, your rent is due! Your rent is overdue in fact! 15 days in fact!” His accent lingers around every word.

“Oh,” I reply. “I don’t have it at the moment, can I get a couple more days? Please?”

“I can give you to the end of the week. If I don’t get it, you’re OUT. GOT IT?”

I close the door gently, for the hinges are loose from the wear and tear and fear it endures. If the walls could talk. If the walls could talk, they wouldn’t do a lot of talking. All they would do is scream. And Scream. And Scream. As I Scream. And SCREAM. AND SCREAM. AND SHOUT. AND YELL. AND FAIL TO PROPEL MY FAILURE FROM MYSELF.

I wish I lived a better life. A life where I was happy. A life where my daughter was fed. I wish for a life beyond this one. I wish—I wish I didn’t wish to not exist anymore. You know.