Broken People (5 page)

“No, I don’t….”

“Twitter?” As I spoke, I realized that I had interrupted him. I flipped my hair over my shoulder, and moved where he could see my good side, my left side. My right side always made me look much fatter than I actually was, and my left side made me look thin. Looking over my left shoulder, I waited for a response.

“Actually, I don’t utilize any of the social networking
that most people do, Britney,” he responded.

I stood and stared at him. My m
outh open, I couldn’t speak. Why doesn’t he have Facebook? Twitter? How does he function? Maybe his parents were strict. For what seemed like an eternity, I stood and stared. Dreaming of him touching me, I stood and stared. That was all I did. Stared. I heard someone sneeze behind me and I jumped, turning around. A lady passed by, and smiled. I looked back over my left shoulder at him, and he smiled. His eyes focused on mine, he began to speak again. I liked the way he said my name when he spoke to me.

“I do not have Faceb
ook. I do not have Twitter. I do not spend any time on Tumblr, post pictures, use Snapchat, Instagram, or spend time on YouTube. To me, that’s a waste of my time. I look at my life as being far more important than that. I read, write poetry, and spend time listening to music. I try to have some depth, and not be like everyone else. Reading and writing poetry helps me with that,” he paused, looked up at the ceiling, and then looked back down, and continued, “If someone wants to know where I am, who I am with, what I am shopping for, where I am eating, or whatever, I want them to know because they actually
know
me. Or because they are accompanying me. Oh, and I do not watch television or the news. It’s always such bad things that they talk about. If they had a channel called the
good news
, I would watch it. But all the news is bad. Know what I mean, Britney?”

I nodded. My focus was stuck on his eyes.

He took his hands from his pockets, and looked at his watch again. He then held his hands out in front of him, motioning with them as he spoke, “The news is just full of bad things that happen. A bombing here, a shooting there. Someone cheated people out of money. A company lost millions
by the hand of an embezzler. A massive wreck on 95. It’s always something. If they said, well, if they said, say, ‘
construction is complete on 95, and it is three months early. Home sales are up in Morgantown, the economy is on the upswing, and unemployment is down to one percent across the nation, more after this commercial,’
if that was ever on the news, I may watch it. I do read the newspaper before school. Every day. I do that, because I can decide what to read, and what to set aside.”

Nervously, I spoke, “That is so cool. Definitely different, but cool. Uhhhhm, I hate to be forward, Marc, but would you like my number?”

“Yes, Britney, I was going to ask you if you wanted to get something to eat,” he motioned for the door, and walked toward me.

“No, I h
ave to meet my family for lunch. It’s my birthday today, so we’re having lunch,” I shifted my body so he would stay on my left.

“How old are you, Britney?
” he asked.

I shou
ld lie. So I did a little bit, “Eighteen.”

“
Cool, me too,” He reached in his inner jacket pocket and got his phone.

“Okay,” I started, “Nine Zero Eight Three F
our Seven Seven One Four Seven”

“That’s too many numbers,” h
e said, puzzled, looking up from his phone as he punched in the numbers.

“What
do you have so far?” I asked.

He held out his phone, showing me the number. I reached out, and deleted one of the sevens while he held the phone. With his other hand he reached over and touched my arm, sliding his hand down my arm until it stopped at my hand. Cupping my hand with his, he spoke, “Pleasure to meet you, Britney.” He smiled as he looked into my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Marc, I have to run and meet my family. Shoot me a text okay?” Reluctantly, I pulled my hand slowly from his.

He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair again, turned, and walked toward the door that led to the parking lot. I stood and watched him until he went through the door. As he exited, he held the door for a family as they entered. Smiling, he spoke to them as if he knew them.

A long moment passed. My phone beeped. I reached into my purse, and pulled it out. After swiping in the password, I looked at the screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize.
Britney. I miss you already. I cannot wait to see you again. Happy Birthday, Marc.

I programmed the number in as “Marc.”

Yes, I liked this boy. Alot.

Chapter 5

Fuck oatmeal

Mic
HELLE
.
By the time I realized that the alarm was going off, it had been going off for three minutes. As I often did, I had fallen asleep after being up late on the internet. Scanning photos of tattoos that I find interesting is a means of escape for me. It gives me the ability to dream. To dream of what is depicted, and that one day I could, like the people in the photos, have the freedom to express myself through a tattoo that I designed myself. The time that I spend admiring the photos allows me to forget the rules and regulations of my typical Egyptian family for a short period of time.

Beginning when I was five years old, my family started traveling back and forth between the United States and Egypt.  As with many Egyptian families, my family dreamed of living in the United States, working hard, raising a family, and being successful. The problem, in my opinion, was with the last portion of that dream. Being successful and raising a family. I would prefer
successfully raising a family
. The burden borne by an Egyptian high school kid in my neighborhood in New Jersey was grand. We were expected to be adults in almost all respects, but we were treated as children, and constantly reminded of the fact, that we were children.

Seven months from now, I will be attending Villanova University. Upon completion of my education there, it will be on to Drexel University for medical school. I am, and not to my disliking, going to follow in my mother
’s footsteps and become a doctor. I suppose that this was expected of me, but ultimately, it was a conscious decision that I had made. The thought of being a doctor satisfied me greatly. Helping people. Saving lives. Making a difference. Saving
something
. Doing what so many others cannot. Not everyone has the capacity to go to school and become a medical doctor. I do, and I intended to do so, and do it well. I did not have this desire just because my family expected it, but because it was what I wanted to do. It defined me. Me being me.

When I was around eight years
of age my family moved to the United States full time. Following my immediate family moving here, most of our extended family relocated here in a very short period of time. And here, in New Jersey, we reside. A few of our family members remain in Egypt, and from time to time, as our schedule allows, we visit them.

Living my life with an open mind, I try to look at things realistically, and without bias, I find myself frequently spending a significant amount of time looking at the many sides of a new topic that is being discussed, be it by my friends or my family, and
not
giving an opinion.  I will take a tremendous amount of time to think about the subject, and look at it from each possible point of view. Generally, I try to look at it as if I were every possible person that is or could be affected by the decision I may make. I feel that this open minded nature allows me to make more educated decisions. It allows me, again, to be me. My free will, stubborn nature, and spirit got me into a considerable amount of trouble with my parents throughout my childhood.

When I was ten years old, although we were not C
atholic, to teach me discipline, my parents sent me to catholic school. I spent the majority of my spare time after school lying in my room crying.  As all children do at some point in time, I wanted to run away or commit suicide. The logical side of my thinking prevented me from doing either. That year was the only year I was required to attend the Catholic school, and one year was certainly enough.

I am close to very few kids in my school. The kids I am close to, I am extremely close to. The ones that I am not close to, are either kids that I do not know, or kids that I do know, and choose not to be friends with. The kids in school that do not know me
very well often describe me as a bitch, and I like that. Their thoughts of me being a bitch generally means that if they do finally approach me, they have already decided that I am not as the other kids may think that I am. Some of the kids may describe me as being conceited or uppity, but nothing could be further from the truth.

I like to think that I have attractive qualities, my most attractive being my inner self. My mind, spirit, soul, beliefs, principles, opinions, and general manner of living life. The outside of me is, in my own opinion, ge
nerally drab. Average at best, nothing to neither balk at, nor praise. People that described me, however, often described me as beautiful. When girls described me as beautiful, I am appreciative, and take their remarks into account. When boys say that I am beautiful, I generally set the remark aside. Boys cannot be trusted. Boys have motives.

I vary from my Egyptian elders in many respects. All of the values that my parents and relatives try to adhere to aren’t necessarily shared by me. Tattoos are one, but very important example. When I see a person who has a tattoo, I am often fascinated by it. I wonder what it means to them, the significance. Often, I find the tattoo to be beautiful, or an enhancement of the person
’s beauty. I am not so simple and shallow that I believe that all tattoos on all people are beautiful, or that they always provide some form of enhancement to beauty. I have dreamed of the day that I turn eighteen, being free to decide, and I had made an appointment at a local tattoo parlor for my first tattoo to be obtained on that day. It was a means of expression, and, in my opinion, enhancing
my
beauty. It would allow me to be, in all respects, me.

On a typical evening in my typical Egyptian home, with my typical Egyptian parents, and my typical Egyptian brother, we had a typical Egyptian meal. The typical Egyptian discussion that followed was not, in a
ny regard, what I anticipated.

The discussion started about tattoos, and all was going fairly well.
Tattoos are becoming mainstream. Tattoos are more prevalent on people in college and in professional sports. Tattoos are more frequently seen on professionals, and in professional atmospheres and careers. Tattoos are a great form of individual expression.
Unless. Unless your Egyptian daughter wants to receive one. When your Egyptian daughter wants to receive one, tattoos become trash. They become a permanent means of not only being trash, but of
turning you into trash
.  Tattoos are not, according to my parents, for Egyptian girls, regardless of their age.

End of story.

Tattoo trash attached to my body. In my opinion, it was a means of expression, and confirmation that I was an adult, and capable of making decisions on my own. I was fascinated by tattoos, and spent countless hours, sometimes nightly, on Tumblr looking at tattoo photographs of both men and women. I had planned on getting a tattoo since I was as young as twelve. A considerable amount of time, thought, and planning had gone into my anticipated tattoos, including design, meaning, and when I expected to obtain each one. This was not a rash decision that I had made as a seventeen year old; to run and have a tribal winged piece tattooed on my lower back, above the belt line.

Tattoos, to me, were a
form of expression, or expressed art. If given enough thought, they were a way of expressing individuality. They can be a manner of expressing creativity in a personality, making a statement, or expressing a strong belief. They could not, however, according to my parents, be attached to their now seventeen year old daughter after she turned eighteen,

For my entire childhood, I had looked at my eighteenth birthday as a lin
e in the sand, a line that I would step over on
that
day. An actual graduation, if you will, from being a child to being an adult. On that day, of all days, I would not be
perceived
as being an adult, I would
be
an adult. The day following my eighteenth birthday, things would be different. I may not act different, I may not do anything different, but I
could.
I would be able to think freely, and make decisions without feeling the need or necessity to have an authoritative figure give me the nod of approval. To me, the chains that bound me for my entire life would effectively be removed. My shackles set aside, I would be free. It wasn’t as much about the tattoo as it was about the freedom. The freedom to decide. Me, once again, being me

After the one-sided tattoo discus
sion, I believe I felt similar to the way a slave would have felt during the civil war. Not knowing if the day would ever come that I would be set free. Not knowing what the future holds. Not feeling that I had the authority to make a decision without it being second guessed. Feeling that if I did make a decision, it may not be a decision after all. It may just be a thought. A thought. A thought that
may
develop
into a decision. I would just have to check with the person that was superior to me first, and find out if the thought that I possessed was worthy of becoming a decision. Thinking of all of this began to make me ill. That night I didn’t look at tattoo drawings or photos. That night I cried myself to sleep.

A prisoner sat in his cell. He
had been locked up for years, knowing the date all along of his eventual release, June 15, 2013. It was printed in his legal documents that he kept in his cell since his first day of incarceration. Since his arrival, the prisoner made a hash mark each day on the concrete wall in his cell, to indicate another day removed from his sentence of confinement. The marked wall, 823 days later, stood behind him as he waited at his cell door for the authorities to arrive and release him. During his entire incarceration, he had drawn, sketched, and planned that on the day he was released, he would get a tattoo. Etched onto his skin would be a permanent reminder of the day that he was released from confinement. A new beginning. His tattoo representations were kept on a sheet of paper, folded neatly in his right pocket.

Yet.

On that scheduled day of release, the authorities arrived with the key, and unlocked the prisoner’s cell. The prisoner, with a shaved head, and neatly trimmed goatee, stood erect and proud. Tall, lean, and muscular, he stood in the doorway. They handed the prisoner a sheet of paper. On the paper are written rules. Rules that must be followed after his ‘release’. Things that he could do, and things that he could not. His ‘freedom’, in a sense, was just a thought in his head. A thought he would be incapable of implementing. He would be bound, by these written instructions, to comply with the requirements expressed within them. The man took the provided sheet, and looked at the list of rules:

HOUSING
- (location) Check with authorities for approval prior to commitment.

HOUSING
- (value, rent or lease agreement, regardless of location) Check with authorities for approval prior to commitment.

CLOTHING
- If using generally good taste, no restrictions. If poor taste is used, removal and replacement with alternated clothes is required. Taste is defined by the authorities.

EDUCATION
- Required. Housing and location must be approved by the authority.

TATTOOS
- Prohibited.

The prisoner turns and looks at the wall behind him. He looks at the sheet of rules. He takes another look at the authoritative figures. He looks back at the sheet of rules, and stares. The prisoner thinks. Ponders. He could, after being given the list of requirements, smile and nod, and sign the sheet of paper. Neatly folding his copy, and placing it in his pocket, he could exit the cell, and walk free of the confines of the institution. And, after he was free from the watchful eye of the authoritative figures, he could just say, “Fuck It. Fuck You. Fuck Prison. Fuck Authority. Fuck the Man. Fuck Hard-boiled Eggs, Fuck the System. Fuck Racism. Fuck the Government. Fuck Confinement. Fuck This. Fuck Oatmeal.”

“Fuck NOT getting a tattoo.”

The prisoner decides. He takes the provided pen, and signs the sheet of paper. The man leaves the institution, avoids the authorities, and later that day, he walks to the local tattoo parlor. Standing at the door, prepared to enter, the man notices a sign. The message is bold, clear, and meaningful.

Needles, flesh, pain, blood. But then

you take a step back and see a piece

of artwork. Creation from

destruction. That’s what tattooing is.

T
hat’s how God created and saved

the world. That’s what life is.

Keep calm and get inked - The Management

The man enters the tattoo parlor, and walks to the front counter to make an appointment. He unfolds the sheet of paper and shows it to the person scheduling the tattoos. He is told it will require a one and a half hour session. The man agrees, and makes an appointment.

On the scheduled day, the man arrives on time. He stops to read the sign again, and smiles. The tattoo artist greets the man as he enters, and mot
ions to the rear of the parlor.

“There’s an old barber chair back there
that I just finished recovering. Take a seat and get comfortable. I will be just a minute. I’m Steve,” the artist extends his arm, offering his hand in a friendly gesture.

“Call
me Hoot.” Smiling, the man grasps the artists hand and gives a firm hand shake.

The man walks to the rear of the parlor, a
nd finds the restored barber’s chair. Placing himself in the chair, he finds himself immediately comfortable. He begins to relax and listen to the music. As the Five Finger Death Punch’s “Coming Down” plays over the speakers, the man remembers the video. It reminds him of some of the thoughts he had while remaining in his cell in prison. Thoughts of living, of dying, and of recovering from the unhealthy thoughts. The recovery takes time. This was his new beginning. The man closes his eyes, and gets lost in the music.