Blog 4

Unwriteable material can mean many different things depending on whomever you ask. For myself, my personal experiences as of the past few years have not been noteworthy. They have been the worst years of my life and because I have such intense feelings about this, some things about my life I will adamantly and vehemently refuse to write about. It is not as much painful for me as it is a “kill-joy” for others to read or hear of and it is this reason that I find it really hard to discuss.

I think of myself first, what it does to me to relive certain points in my life. Secondly, I think of the negative impact it impresses upon my family to feel the pains that I do and lastly, it brings other people down and make them display pity for me and this makes me feel even worse. 

Because I use these filters when I write, I am aware of some ambiguities I have with my reserve for writing about such things. I do not believe they reshape them but they definitely make me conscious. I guess my fear is the vulnerability I feel and it is not something I enjoy embracing. 

The only thing I may consider revisiting (spending some time with) is violence, just to bring awareness to the aftermath and lingering effects it leaves behind.

Blog 3

When it comes to a life’s calling, people often come upon them in many different ways. Some are trained at a young age, some experience things that open their fascinations and others are simply born with gifts, strengths and abilities. None of these were necessarily the case for me. Mine was a case of older/younger sibling relations.

My brother was two years older than I was but it was weird because at certain times, we would only be a year apart. I was very well received by all of his friends just because I was his “little” brother which I hated being called although being his younger brother did come with its perks. He was very popular in and around the neighborhood. He grew up in Newark with my dad while I lived in East Orange with my mom. So whenever I had the opportunity to go visit him, I was more than excited to do so. It became routine for me to spend every weekend with him over at my grandfather’s home. I did not have to worry about anything because everyone looked out for me and that was a great feeling. We would do everything together although I was not into the “street life” as much as he was nor did I like to go everywhere he went. I liked the inclusion and if it meant being around some unsavory individuals that were into some disagreeable things, I had to silence my conscience and go along.

I began to realize that I got in just as much trouble as he did when he would do things that I knew of but did not say anything about. He would do things like cut classes, steal rolls of quarters for the laundry to go to the corner store and etcetera. It was small things of that nature but I was always with him. I did not like the feeling of being categorized with him because I was always known as the “good” one. I did well in school, behaved well at home and never caused any trouble but now that image slowly began to tarnish at no fault of my own. I was not particularly happy about this so I started to secretly tell on him to save myself. He eventually caught on to what I was doing and decided that I was no longer welcomed to hang out with him.

I remember being around eleven years old one particular day when he and I were fighting about going to the swimming pool and he refused to let me go along with him which meant I would have to stay home with my aunt. We fought but ultimately I was the loser. My aunt was very special to me, not only because she spoiled me but we shared the same birth date. She was always old from what I could remember which probably sounds weird but at eleven knowing someone that was eighty-two years old was almost unbelievable.

On this day as I found myself home with my aunt whose age did not leave us much to do together. I remember she was preparing dinner. I had watched all the cartoons I could stand and was bored beyond comprehension so I went to the kitchen where she was and watched her cook. As she finished, she was ready to make dessert. She made two seven layer cakes. The first was coconut with strawberry filling and the second was a vanilla cake with chocolate icing which she made right on the spot. After this, she prepared to make some pies that she was famous for baking. She made the normal Sweet Potato Pie and Coconut Custard Pie. I watched her the entire time she cooked; I was her helper. As she finished up the pies, she asked me if I wanted to help her make a pie and I obliged. I was excited! This would be the first time I ever cooked something extraordinary. It was an Egg Custard Pie. I was not going to eat it but I definitely was going to make it.

She gathered all the ingredients, instructed me and I followed every direction given. I had a huge egg beater and I whisked the eggs with the sugar like there was no tomorrow. My aunt took a plastic spoon and told me to taste it. I did not want to because I did not like eggs but I did. She asked, “What does it need?” I told her more sugar. She replied, “Of course you would say that. You did not put in any flavoring boy.” It was vanilla extract she referred to and after adding a teaspoon to the batter, the mixture had a totally different taste and characteristic.

She opened the oven for me and I placed the pie inside. We waited for what seemed like an eternity and then it was finally done cooking. She took it out the oven and I was ready to eat. She informed me that baked items must cool off completely before they are cut or eaten because everything needed to settle. Again I had no clue to what she was speaking of but I waited. I did not want to eat any dinner. My focus was the pie I made.

After it finally cooled, she still would not let me eat any. She said that we would let everyone else have some first and not to tell them I made it. So I kept quiet and watched everyone eat. I still did not want dinner because I was too excited about the pie to think of anything else. Once everyone finished eating, I asked my brother how the pie was and he said it tasted as it always did, good! I was happy and I told him I made it. He did not believe me until my aunt stepped in and confirmed I did. He told me I did a good job. It was the best feeling in the world. My older brother told me I did a good job even though he was still upset with me for telling on him earlier. I felt overwhelmed and inspired!

I did not understand it then but that was the beginning of my life. I remembered how my aunt prepared everything with her hands. She did not use anything out of a can and everything was fresh. She was preparing me for my future and I did not even realize it. At that young age, I discovered that I loved the feeling that preparing food for others to enjoy gave me. It was with this inspiration that I eventually decided to continue to cook and ultimately attend culinary school. As I look back, maybe I was supposed to tell on my brother so that I could be left behind with my aunt. I found my calling and realized this was what I was meant to do in life. What my brother meant to hurt and discourage me actually became my passion and greatest inspiration. 

Blog 2

Underprivileged, Undermined, Undecided and Loving It…

Life is a circle of experiences and lessons, some exponential while others are incomprehensible. Nevertheless, each experience either makes or breaks you and with these options, there is no room for much compromise. I have learned at a very young age that the world was no friend of mine.

Life has never been easy for any of the people I know and although we all have congregated at the same end, we have all taken many different routes to get to this point of uniformity. There is an old song titled, “No Ways Tired,” that has a verse that sings to the heart of almost everyone I know. The line states, “Nobody told me the road would be easy but I don’t believe He’s brought me this far to leave me.” Again, many of us are now at similar places in our lives but have taken so many different paths to get to where we now are.

I had a normal childhood. I had three parents: my mom, my grandmother and my aunt.  My father was around but was not there. I went to school, made descent grades, had a lot of friends because of my eyes, I grew up respectful, grateful and understanding that it could be so much worse. My mom raised my four siblings and me and it is so strange to me how we all grew up together but are as different as night and day. At any rate, I had a great childhood if you ask me and nothing would make me believe otherwise.

I did not have the best life growing up but I had the best that I could have. I remember a time when everything was so carefree, things that should have mattered did not matter, and the things that should have broken me only made me stronger because I was unaware of the dangers they carried. I did not grow up in a wealthy neighborhood nor did I have people I would really consider neighborly but at that time my eyes were not open to the reality of life called, “The Real World.”

It was not until I got to high school and I wanted to be so independent of my family that my eyes began to open. I began to see things so clearly. I guess I lived a sheltered life and I say that only because I was so oblivious to the world outside of my family’s love and support. I needed a dose of reality and when it came, I was not ready for it. I did not know that because I lived in a certain area that it deemed me as unfit or labeled me as a thug. I did not know that because I went to a certain school that it meant I was not supposed to score in the top percentile of standardized tests. Not even understanding the responsibilities and maturity that it would require for me to function as an adult, I was in such a rush to grow up. It was during those days that I realized that I did not have a friend in the world and that society was not a support system of mine.

So with all the understanding and all the knowledge and wisdom came much grief. How does one deal with grief? You deal with it the same way any other red-blooded American teenager would, get wild and crazy. You could no longer have what you thought you wanted so you just do whatever you felt would make you feel better. For me, it was cutting class, being rebellious and just having the worst attitude ever.  I did not want to go to school any longer, did not want to work and I dare anyone to say anything to me. I just wanted a reason to be mad and go off the hinges. The best thing was that it was not my fault because I did not ask for any of this. I could not have been more wrong.

My life started to play out everything that society, the media and the stereotypes said about me, and I could care less. It was fine if I did not want to make anything out of my life but then I started to get my mom in trouble because I was not going to school. It was not until they threatened to arrest my mom for me that I started to care about what was happening to my life. I went on a few more years down the same road until someone finally got the nerve to tell me about myself and I did not like what he or she had to say and it was because it was all true. After taking a long look at my situation, and what was left of my young adulthood, I decided that I had enough. I could no longer complain about anything because I did not do anything to change it.

I began to think of ways to make a fresh start and the very first thing was to finish high school. I blew that chance and the schools were no longer willing to give me a second look so I needed to figure something else out. I went and applied for my GED; I took the test and I passed. I felt like my time away from school had made me somewhat of a dunce and so I did not look at college as an option because I was not smart enough. It is so funny how things began to turn around. I spent so much time having fun that when it came to me actually having to go back to school, I was afraid, so I did not.

I thought of some things that I enjoyed and would actually be interested in pursuing. The only thing that stood out was cooking. All the time I spent at home while my mom was out trying to support us, I had to eat. I learned how to cook at a very early age because I had no choice. My brother was older than I was and he said I could not hang out with him because I would always tell on him and got him in trouble, so when he went out, I had to stay home with my aunt and she was THE BEST COOK in the world!

So how could I turn cooking into something where I could learn, culinary school. I applied for The New England Culinary Institute. I had to write an entry essay reasoning why I was a feasible candidate and what I had to offer the school. The wheels in my head started turning and before I knew it, I had written a 3-page essay that was only supposed to be one page. Who would have ever guessed that I would be enthusiastic about school? I really wanted to be careful of what I presented because the first impression could sometimes be the last impression and this was a major step for me. This was something that I decided to do all on my own and I just had to make it happen. Even though I was excited about all of this, I really didn’t think I had a chance because society said I couldn’t, my neighborhood said I wasn’t smart enough or would even live long enough for it and I just didn’t believe in myself. Nevertheless, I still wanted to say that I tried, so I went forward with the process and it was not until I received a phone call and a letter with my name on it that I took it seriously.

At the end of it all, I moved to Montpelier, VT. I had never been away from home on my own and never in a place like that. I was alone, not too many people my color and I was not rich but there I was. Vermont was the beginning to the best days of the rest of my life. The sights that I saw were something you would never believe if you did not see it for yourself. The people there were so different from the people I knew and lived around but they never made me feel like I did not belong there, even with my different color skin and hair; I was there and I loved it.

Being in culinary school was the best thing that could have happened to me because I grew up mentally and I began to understand myself better. I could not call my mom when I was hungry, I had to make something happen for me so I made friends and we all took care of each other, not just because we all had similar stories but also because it was just the feel good thing to do; we became a family. I can now say I have a sister that lives in Guatemala, a brother from London and another brother from Dominican Republic. We were just as dysfunctional as my own family and I loved it.

I realized in Vermont that even though society painted a negative portrait of me that I began to live out, ultimately I had a say in whom and what I was to become. I had never experienced life like living up there. The exquisiteness of life and everything it had to offer and I was dead smack in the heart of it all. Who would have ever thought? Vermont was my place of refuge. It nursed my broken heart and spirit and it mended my mind. It uplifted my mentality and it gave me a second chance to get it right. I can truly say that being in a place like that, surrounded by such open and warm people gave me insight on reality.

When the snow fell, it was just the most beautiful white blanket you could ever see. I did not belong there based on my life but there I was walking in a winter wonderland. In the fall, blueberry bushes, maple trees, mountains, clear rivers and streams with beautiful fish surrounded me. I was living in a place that my mom has never seen, a place my brother would never see, a place where people from my neighborhood could only see on television and in pictures. So, it was more than culinary school, it was me doing something for all the people back home who could never do it.

I never knew I lived in poverty until I saw what the world had to offer and people like me were the ones that had it. I never knew that I could be a part of something that you would think you could only have vicariously. However, here I was, a young man from the projects who thought that grass was the best thing in the world, living in one of the richest states in the US and really felt like I belonged. I was someone whose idea of good eating was hot dogs and french fries now eating gourmet food every day. During holidays I did not have to buy greeting cards or postcards, all I had to do was go outside with my camera and snap a few shots and there was beauty that you could never get from buying something generic from the store. I was finally living the good life; I was proud of myself and for everyone that would never experience this because of what life had set up for them. I made it out and now I have seen what this world has to offer and it is not one person’s, it belongs to everyone. Nobody told me that the road would be easy, but to me, I have arrived and it can only get better because I made a new friend.

 

Blog 1

Creative Nonfiction or CNF is a genre that is whatever the creator makes it into. The difference between CNF and Fiction is the basis and foundation of the story, which is truthful events. CNF is not an inspiration but an actuality with the "creative" aspect leading. According to Bret Lott in his essay Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction, "What creative nonfiction is will reveal itself to you only at the back end of things, once you have written it." This being said, CNF divulges its meaning after it is written, bring to light a hidden truth. What makes this genre cutting edge is in its delivery. Some take the creative aspect into an arena where the story becomes just that, a story while others put the creative edge on just to capture and envelop its readers. Lee Gutkind, author of The Creative Nonfiction Police encourages writers to "remember the basic rules of good citizenship..." this suggests that writers do not "create" elements in their stories that are fictional which is not so easy to do.

I believe CNF is an extension of the individual presenting themselves on the paper. there are different styles and methods but each unique to its owner. For an example, some CNF paint a story while others narrate stories. A style that I enjoyed was that of Roger Ebert's I Think I'm Musing My Mind where his approach was more conversational than writers and readers. I felt as though I was apart of his "musings" in a way that was unique to his personality.

CNF is what you make it so long as it speaks the truth. It does not have to be dry and burdensome as reading an encyclopedia as one would imagine and this is where the creativity makes its appearance. It is all in the approach and the eyes of its beholder.