i was fifteen when i experienced
the most peaceful,
comfort-inducing moment of my life.
it was in the middle of a thunderstorm,
in Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
i was swimming.
i broke into an indoor pool
with nothing but a butter knife
and the largest smile my face could produce.
protected by glass walls,
naiveté and youth.
it was a light show outside
accompanied by violent claps
and splintered rains.
the persuasive winds
threatened to shatter my palace
and shower me with glass.
yet, i felt completely safe.
nothing wails peace more than
feeling safe in a thunderstorm,
swimming in waters warmed with–
lacking the refined sensitivity to be aware of nirvana,
warmed with ignorance.
ten years later, i’m still swimming.
the storm never stopped
and the glass walls have given out.
the water bites my bones,
it’s so fucking cold,
and the light show has grown selfish.
i’m swimming and i’m swimming,
surrounded by buoys and floats
painted with faces of familiars.
i can never seem to reach them.
but i’m not alone.
there are bodies floating all around me.
they’ve either drowned,
or are letting the storm dictate their movement.
i’m not sure that there’s a difference.
all i know is that it’s easier to swim,
when i pretend the thunder
is clapping for me
and that the lightning
is lighting my way.
it’s easier to swim when
i know i’m being cradled
by the waves
and that the rain is dropping
love notes all around me.
it’s easier to swim when
i know the glass walls
were in my head all along,
and that i can swim peacefully
if i want.
Memories are strange. They’re an invaluable resource that influences our actions, our thoughts, our relationships, our decisions, our life etc. And the funny thing is how inaccurate they are. There’s that cheesy saying, “there are 3 sides to a story: your side, my side, and the truth.” Well, our memory is malleable. We can remember something as being funnier than it was, sadder than it was, colder, night time/day time. Our mind plays tricks on us. But we are stronger than the auto-pilot functions that our brain enacts. We can manipulate our memories into resources that can enrich our lives! It’s YOUR fucking memory.
I read the book, Life of Pi, in my junior year of high school. Its message didn’t hit me until much later. I wont spoil anything, but the overall theme was the value of the better story. The ‘better story’ being the way we choose to digest a memory.
I told you that story about jumping that kid for cocaine money, here’s another. My father was shot in the head and killed in 1997, I was four. My whole life I was told that he had died in a car accident. 14 years later, I was living in Idaho and my cousin told me the truth over the phone. My father was a cab driver and had picked up two young black men in a bad part of Bushwick. They wanted to rob him. He had given my mother over a hundred dollars that same morning, so he only had $45 during the robbery. The young man in the passenger seat, Elvin Hill (this one), thought my father was disrespecting him by giving him so little money, so he shot him in the head point blank. Elvin’s associate in the back seat would later explain that my father was shot while pointing at pictures of my brother and I that were taped on the dashboard.
The situation was fucked. The facts are stagnant, but the story is dependent on perception. There are so many pieces, so many colors. It’s too easy to demonize my father’s killer, to make him the villain. Here’s a better story, just a fraction of it rather:
Elvin Hill was 18 when he killed my father. I was 18 when I found out. Connections connections. How different were we at that age?
I had two loving parents, my step-father and mother. His died at a young age, and he was raised by his drug addicted aunt and uncle.
I lived in a house in upstate New York, in a nice neighborhood with a dog and a backyard and a pool and a trampoline and stuff. He was raised in a bad part of Bushwick, Brooklyn, back when it wasn’t occupied by white dudes with fancy haircuts and flannel vests.
I had a great education and great support. I was in a 4-year private university. My thoughts and ideas were valued and validated. I don’t want to assume Elvin’s support system or education, he could have been brilliant, but he was arrested several times for assault, gun charges, and drug related crimes before the age of 20 and I’m not sure any college accepts that kind of record.
I’m Brown. He’s Black.
I’m not allowed to look at 18 year old Elvin Hill and judge him. I had so many more opportunities, opportunities that I hadn’t earned. If one butterfly fluttered differently when I was 4, maybe my life would be similar to Hill’s. It was luck and lack of luck that put us in such different situations. THAT’S the better story. That’s how I look at this individual, not with bitterness, but with understanding. There are Elvin Hills everywhere, being ignored. Ignored by the school systems, ignored by society. They become helpless and are constantly told that they will never be anything. The theory of the ‘looking glass self’ states that we act the way we believe we are being perceived. The world might have told Hill he was nothing, so he acted like he had nothing to lose.
Another fraction of the story:
I told you I found out when I was 18. My mother ended up telling me when I was 19, because that’s when Elvin Hill was finally caught. Imagine that. 15 years to pin the murder on this guy. Now, I can think, “how shitty is that. 15 years to catch my father’s killer, were the detectives asleep? Did they just not care enough?” Or I can look the the individual, Mike Zeller, who was given my father’s case as a detective in Bushwick. He never forgot about him. Retiring in 2005, and becoming a Brooklyn U.S. Attorney’s office investigator, he insisted with the feds that he be able to look into the case again. He made a breakthrough when the second young man my father picked up, the one sitting in the back, agreed to testify that Hill had shot my father over $45. Hill was indicted in 2012 and sentenced to 43 years. MIKE ZELLER is the better story. My father wasn’t his business anymore, the guy was retired. But he never forgot about him. 15 years later he did good by our family for reasons that I can’t explain or understand. It was just work left undone, maybe. Or a story of the only person, other than my mother, who was thinking about justice for my father for 15 years and through sheer will and determination, made sure the man who destroyed my family was put to jail for the rest of his life.
Finally the last part of the story I’d like to share:
I am a product of my father’s murder. Everything I am, everything I will be, is because Elvin Hill decided he was gonna shoot my dad. I can use this information by playing the, “what if?” game. What if my father was alive? What if I was still living in Queens, in a working-class family? Would I be happier? Would I be better at talking to girls? Would I find writing and photography? Would I find love? It’s a shitty game. It’s unproductive and impossible to play correctly. The better story is this:
I would never sacrifice the insights, the knowledge and experience I’ve gained to have my father back.
I would never sacrifice my interests and hobbies to have my father back.
I would never sacrifice my step-father, half-sister, and step-brother to have my father back.
I would never sacrifice the girl I love to have my father back.
My father is gone and I am who I am. Life is a circle, he dies every time. There is no what if?, there’s only what now? What can I do now? How can I use this information, these memories, these arbitrary evils, the mistakes, the shit luck, to move myself forward?
We can only control so much of our lives, but we have full control of how we want to perceive them. Choose the better story.
Here’s the article on my father’s murder, published by the New York Daily News.
My best friend recently told me, in one of her “general rules of being,” that people should not act on impulse. She said this clearly, and with no room for compromise. People instead, she’d argue, should think about every decision they make, especially big ones, and imagine all the possible negative outcomes. After doing that little calculation, one would act according to the safest route.
Play it safe.
What a shitty way to live a life. Living in fear of failure. In fear of rejection. In fear of getting hurt. It makes sense, however, and there’s no arguing against the appeal to living safely and living the way ‘one should.’ And you can live and die having lived safely and maybe you wont regret having missed opportunities of greatness or happiness. But just fucking imagine that for a second. Building your whole existence up just to survive comfortably. It’s against our nature to be comfortable. We’re born into suffering, the second you come out of the womb you’re crying and in pain and fucking wishing yourself back to nonexistence. Every day we’re closer to dying. Our bodies and minds are imperfect, we’re being poisoned by man and the machine. This isn’t supposed to be easy. So don’t play it safe. Go fucking head first and say, “fuck you world, I’ll find happiness in all of this shit.” Be impulsive, act on love not calculation.
My favorite film is Good Will Hunting. It’s a story that favors impulse. A genius, Will, is aimless in life and is complacent in bumming around with his buddies. After getting figured out by a professor, he’s thrown into a life of math and is eventually offered big time jobs. He also meets a girl who he falls for, but because of those calculations my best friend is fond of, he decides that she isn’t good for him. She moves away to Cali and he’s left with his genius, his dumb friends, and his work. He can safely navigate his life at this point, and a lot of people would settle with the money, job, and comfort. But he doesn’t, he drops his entire fucking life and goes to, “see about a girl.” The last scene is Will driving towards California, towards uncertainty, with the off-chance that she is worth it. That’s impulse, that’s living.
I’d rather die having followed my heart through this existence than following the rules of the world. I’m gonna be hurt, I’ll fail and be humiliated, I’ll put myself out there just to be ignored, I’ll get sick and injured. I’ll do all these things before I play it safe. And the few moments of love, the moments of joy and fear and ecstasy, the moments of madness and discovery, those few moments will be worth it all. Impulse is letting your heart lead. Impulse is freeing yourself from the black and white. Impulse is love animated, it’s how I will choose to live. Impulse will be the story of me.