A Look Back at My Angry Teen-age Years

The great poem I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes was read to me as a part of Owego Free Academy's English 12 curriculum. In studying this poem my English 12 teacher, Mr. Evans, had our class write our own I, too, sing America poem about a time in which we felt disenfranchised from society, as how Langston Hughes felt during the writing of his poem.

I thought this was a great idea as I could write whatever I felt disconnected me from society, and anyone who is a teenager knows that we always feel in some way disconnected from this society that we are trying to find our identity in. I wrote the following poem in response:

I, too, sing America

I am just a young adult, so they say.
Outcasted by the people "wiser" than I.
Everything I say is looked at with a critical eye. Stereotyped in my prime, forgotten in the days beyond.

We are the future, not just mindless adolescents. If I am not given the respect, I will take it. I will show you one milestone at a time. No matter what you say I can't be stopped. My confidence is like steel, unbreakable.

I am determined to win the battle and show you all that . . .

. . . I, too, sing America.

I wrote this poem for all the adults that will not give young people the opportunities some of us have earned. Nothing makes me feel more disenfranchised from society than when an adult tells me that just because I am younger that I cannot handle responsibility. I use this monthly column to make my voice heard, to speak out, and connect with an audience. I encourage all of you teenagers to do something like me, not just with writing - but anything that makes your voice heard; show the older, "wiser," adults that we should be respected and if we are not we will take that respect no matter what they say or do to stop us.

This is something I did for a 12th grade English assignment. Looking back on it now, it is amazing how much I've changed and how angry I sounded at this time. It's funny how people changed with age and maturity.

Is This Destiny?

I thought since I got caught up in the Thanksgiving day celebration I would do two blogs tonight to make up for not doing one on Thursday:

Being able to express my opinions and help people in the process gives me an indescribable rush. One specific event brought me back to where I was supposed to be; it was the kind of defining moment that comes along once in a life time, the moment where one realizes why they were put on this earth. This event was like no other in my life, one that touched my heart, one that I will never forget.

It was a typical night at Mario's Pizza, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary—I was just working at a solid, steady pace. Out of nowhere I hear my boss calling my name, her voice un-assuming, almost unsure. On the surface I thought maybe I had done something wrong and would now be reprimanded for it. As I make my way over to the counter I am told there is someone who would like to see me. As I make my way over to the register I see an elderly women with tears in her eyes. At this point I was frantic I thought to myself could I have possibly offended this women somehow—I had no idea what I was about to hear would change me, once again. All of a sudden she looks up at me with tears in her eyes and proceeds to tell me that she is the grandmother of Jarid Henry and that the article I wrote about her deceased grandson (he killed himself) was one of the few things that helped carry her through that summer.

Ever since that moment I have been in a daze; I have thought to myself does my writing really make a difference? Can it make a difference? Is this why I was created? This event certainly raised so many un-answered questions within my heart and soul. The thought that I actual helped fill someone's emotional void is unbelievable; a feeling which is undescribable. I thank Jarid's Grandmother from the bottom of my heart for she has helped me re-discover the passion that drives me—that is the best gift one could ever receive.

The moral of this story is if you as a reader have not found your passion, seek and you shall find. Everyone has a passion some just haven't realized it yet. I lost my passion once, when I was younger—but thanks to a lovely grandmother I felt re-born, and ready to serve whoever needs me. After writing this I can honestly say I have my passion, do you?

Scars

I've found myself doing some heavy soul searching lately and after much thought my mind somehow got on the subject of sign/symbols and how they relate to all aspects of life. I now see that almost everything is a symbol for something else.

The rigid scar behind my left ear is a symbol of when I could have lost everything. Serious ear surgery resulting from a growing cyst on my ear drum that could have cost me everything, including, my hearing, my ability to talk, my facial nerve, and even my life. It is a symbol that I will forever have with me to show that I shouldn't take anything for granted--especially life itself.

The cross I wear around my neck is a symbol that represents the life of my deceased Uncle Mike. It was given to me on the day after he passed away and I will always hold it near to my heart as a reminder of not only his life--but where I received my writing talents from.
The blue diamond ring I wear on my finger is a symbol of love, given to me by my Uncle Mike in his last couple months of earthly life. The ring is meant to symbolize love and the bond between two relatives close in spirit--but distant in miles traveled.

The OFA Class of 2004 ring I wear on my finger is a symbol of accomplishment. When I was a freshman, I was kicked out of OFA and given very little chance to graduate. I stayed determined and I never quit, regardless of failure. The ring is like a trophy from a time that I took on the establishment and won hands down. In the beginning I was given little chance or opportunity, by the end I was respected by not only my peers, but the administration as well. This accomplishment will probably go down as the single most meaningful one of my life and I have the symbol to prove it, now and forever.

What do some of your scars mean?

The Nothing Blog

I don't really have much to write about, the up-coming end of the semester has me pretty burnt out and I'm looking forward to getting home for a few days to relax.

The mini-sports blog:

The Mets really haven't signed any free agents yet. The Lakers still haven't traded Kobe (now I don't think they should.) Notre Dame still sucks, but they got a mighty win over Duke last week. Duke is looking good in basketball, but I don't think they can beat North Carolina. And I just found out hockey was still on TV, who knew? HAHA, just kidding to all you NHL fans out there.

The mini-personal blog:

It's hard to believe that after the break the semester will be over in just a little over two weeks . . . it always seems to go by faster and faster; not that I'm complaining or anything.

I hate suffering from burn out, everything just seems to become more stressful, it becomes more annoying as the end of the semester draws near. It always amazes me how college students deal with stress, but in the end, somehow, we all manage (at least the strong ones anyway) to get through it.

Being away at college, it becomes harder to connect with family and friends from back home; I always miss out on so much. At times I feel guilty for not being more readily available, especially for my parents. I guess it is just one of those necessary parts of growing up that comes with trying to achieve the dreams that makes a college education worth it.

I hope everyone has a good break. It is almost crunch time here, but don't take that into the break. Leave time to relax and enjoy the moments spent with family during the Thanksgiving holiday. I wish I had something witty to say to end this blog, but I really don't, not this time, but hopefully after the break I will . . .

I Hated High School

In 10th grade I almost quit school, got my GED, and took the easy way out. As I was about to quit, I was taken aside by my Global History teacher Mrs. Brown. In a total act of unselfish caring she explained to me exactly how quitting school would affect the rest of my life. She gave me the confidence to realize my full potential, and she did it because she saw something in me that not many did at the time. After hearing her words I had to stay in school, I had to graduate, and I had to turn myself into the person I knew I could be. Without Mrs. Brown I wouldn't be writing this today. Words cannot even begin to describe how much I appreciated that talk we had. Without it, I would only be a shell of what I have become today.

Even after Mrs. Brown gave me the strength to continue on, I still never thought I would miss OFA. I claimed to hate high school, as many students do. In essence I never really hated it at all. I was immature and I couldn't appreciate the benefits of a good high school education. Instead of having fun, going to dances, and playing sports like most of the other students, I was anti-school spirit, portrayed an arrogant attitude, and caused trouble for teachers and other students just for the "fun" of it. In the end, the only one who missed out was me. I kept myself from having the time of my life in high school; I was my own worst enemy. I would see other students having fun in school and I would often wonder "how, this place sucks."

As I look back on it now, I realize OFA didn't suck. It was actually the security blanket that kept me away from many harmful situations. I knew that no matter how alone I felt or how down I was about life, that I could always go to school and see all the teachers and friends that made me feel good about myself.

Rant: The Act of Drinking

A subject that has been frying my brain as of late, is when people go to these grimy downtown parties and then proceed to come to school and act like it is the greatest accomplishment of their lives that they got drunk there. I don't know how many times I have heard people at Cortland, dead to the world and say, "Oh, man, I got so wasted last night, and then me and my boys almost got into a fight." This sounds like a great time – I couldn't think of anything better to do with my time (obvious sarcasm.)

First of all, I don't care how wasted people got because half the time these people don't even get wasted. They fake it to be apart of the crowd. I have been to parties where I have seen people get "wasted" after one drink, and then they brag about how they downed a whole bottle of vodka. Sound familiar, anyone? Plainly stated, the act is getting old.

I hate it when people talk about club/party fights that almost happened. Everything is "almost." No one ever "does." I'm not a big fan of fighting, but if you are going to talk about it, then why not do it? I can't begin to count how many times I have heard people say they almost got into a brawl, but didn't. It usually starts with two people that have an issue and then all of the sudden it's a 10 on 10 ramble because people cannot fight for themselves. I'm sure there are some instances when fights do happen, but usually it's just more club style BS that does nothing but give American society a bad name.

This blog may catch me heat with some of my friends that live the "party scene" lifestyle. I have told them all on many occasions that I hate that scene. It's a terrible way to live and it causes nothing but problems. Many of you are probably saying that I am wrong in my thought process. That's fine, but at least prove it. I would be happy to hear the thoughts of anyone on this subject.

I am outspoken about the partying lifestyle because it almost destroyed people very close to me. People that I love deeply have almost been killed by abusing drugs and alcohol. It's difficult seeing friends that I care about, taking the same path as those I love. It's not about totally destroying the "partying" lifestyle, it's about enlightening people about the reverse side of their "good time," while helping them see a better path in life.

Why Do People Die???

The title of this commentary sums up the whole subject matter - I ask again - why do people die? Now, don't get it mixed up. I don't mean why do 90-year-old people die. That answer is simple - because they are old, they lived a full life, and now it's their time to go.

What I mean by this is why do babies die just after birth? Why do kids die at the age of 12 from car accidents? Why do kids die at the age of 13 from cancer? Why do kids kill themselves at the age of 15?

The reason I am so specific with the ages is because I know people, families, that have seen their children and friends die this young. My questions is why are some people born to die so young? Why are people born to die without living full lives? Without having a career? Without having a family?

I guess I will never understand why people are put on this earth to die young. I just don't see the point. One thing I know, is that I have always been scared of dying young. In general, I am scared of death. But, even more so, I am scared of dying without living everything that a person should experience in life.

In seeing all of this "early" death, I realize that life as I know it could end at any moment. Death is the one thing that no one can escape. This experience has given me the opportunity to be grateful for what I have and who I love. I have learned the hard lesson that life could end in the blink of an eye - my question is, have you?

Getting More Personal

Starting at the tender age of 16, I began working at Marios Pizza as a dish washer - a tenure that would last 69 months. In real time that equals five years and nine months, in teen-age time that equals almost an entire lifetime. At the time of my hire, I was nothing to be proud of—far from it actually. I had just been expelled from Owego Free Academy for making "terrorist threats," my clothes looked like something straight out of an inner-city gangsta movie, and my attitude toward people was generally less than acceptable. I was the typical adolescent—only a little more deviant.

My first few months at Marios were borderline pathetic. I broke dishes, I was careless with equipment, and my attitude toward fellow employees was just plain disrespectful. If something did not go my way, I would throw a fit, staining the air with more "colorful" language than a George Carlin HBO comedy special. To this day, I am still baffled that Marios kept me around. Perhaps they saw something in this brash, foulmouthed punk kid or maybe they were just desperate for help at the time, whatever the reason - I'm glad they did.

As the years passed, I changed . . . and so did my relationship with the people of Marios. Gone were the days of the angry, cold, and calloused Keith Zimmer. Upon replacing those old feelings with the emotions of caring, love, and compassion, a new Keith was born. Without the people of Marios, my change would never have been complete. Whenever I needed a crutch, someone from that kitchen was always there to give me the support I needed–something that I will never forget.

Even though every person in that kitchen has touched my heart in a special way, there is one man that sticks out above the rest. That man is Mr. Tony Pettinato–or "Mr. P" as he is often referred to by the kitchen staff. It is hard for me, as I sit here choking back tears, to put into words just how much this man has done for my life and contributed to the man I am today.
Mr. P is 75 years old . . . and he has not missed a single beat. I would love to see anyone challenge the man to a push up contest. Mr. P once told me that he often does more than 1,000 push-ups "just" for a morning workout. Most 75-year-olds cannot even walk, let alone do 1,000 push-ups every day at 6am. I do not know about, you, the reader–but if I even attempted 1,000 push-ups, I would be like a fish out of water, flopping around on the floor in unimaginable amounts of pain. Oh yeah, and did I mention that Mr. P still works at Marios . . . every day? I cannot remember a night when I did not see Mr. P out in the dining room working his PR magic or busing tables with the rest of the dishwashers; the man is truly amazing.

Plain and simple, Mr. P is an idol to me. Under his wing I have learned so much about work ethics, respect, and unconditional love. Over the years Mr. P became like a grandfather to me, a relationship with memories that will live on in my heart forever.

Reflecting on a Life Changing Experience

The hospital waiting room, a place of discomfort and mental anguish—it was a cozy room with a slight chill in the air, off to the side sat a television with the sole intent of easing a patients troubled mind. The impending ear surgery had a venomous grip on my mind, body, and soul. I see my parents to the left of me -- I can tell they are trying to be strong for me, but I can see the worry through the blank expressions on their faces. As the nurses feverishly work to do their jobs skillfully—with a hint of joy in their voices to lighten the mood, I notice the IV slightly itches at the point of contact with my wrist. The four hours of waiting felt like a decade of despair--the thoughts racing through my mind wondering what course of action my life would take after this day.

The surgery itself was four hours in length and of a very complex nature; over a ten year period a cyst had developed in my inner ear creating a very dangerous infection that not only destroyed my hearing but also easily could have caused me facial paralysis. The surgeon, a thirty-year veteran of the medical profession from the country of Pakistan, even had his doubts if I would come out of this in the same form as I had before the surgery.

The last thing I remember before actually going into surgery was being wheeled from the waiting room to the ice cold morgue-like room where my surgery would be performed—my thoughts raced, I thought of everything I deemed important in life, truly just trying to think of something different from the impending "hell" I was about to face.

The next thing I remember I awoke in a state of confusion; my mind had not yet caught up with my eyes that were trying to once again open to the free world. Over to my right I see my parents; my mom with tears of joy in her eyes; my dad as well as my step-dad stand with wide eyes and closed mouths—not showing much emotion, playing the man's-man character so to speak.

After clearing the cobwebs, I surveyed the damage; I found an abnormally huge bandage that completely covered my ear as well as most of the left side of my face. After feeling the bandage that was soaked with clear drainage, which came from having my ear canal widened, I turned my attention to behind my ear where the surgery was performed. Upon feeling behind my ear I found many stitches that were rough to the touch feeling almost as how rusted barbed wire would feel on bare flesh.

The next eighteen hours were the most painful of my life; for the first few hours the pain wasn't that bad as I had my parents and many other visitors talking to me at all times, not to mention the steady dose of painkillers they were giving me. As the night came and my parents left, the pain started to intensify; perhaps it was the night air, or maybe it was the fact of being all alone with the only comfort being the television on the wall. It was an endless night, with sleep not being an option. Every couple of hours a nurse would come in to change my IV or give me something to subside the physical pain. When morning finally came I realized that in only a few short hours it would be time to go home and try to move on with life. The doctor had told my parents that in his thirty years of performing this surgery that I was one of the worst cases he had ever had—and that it was a miracle that the surgery turned out as well as it did without any damage other than some hearing damage and no facial paralysis. My mom came in mid-morning, looking much better than the evening before; perhaps now she knew everything would be ok. The nurses as well as my mom tried frantically to get me to eat and walk two things I had no desire to; actually if I could have stayed in that hospital bed without moving for a week I would have, I actually never felt that down and out before; surely it was a helpless feeling. Finally after much resistance I agreed to eat and walk around.

The first mistake I made in agreeing to this was that I actually had to eat the hospital food; that by it self could kill a man. The food basically made the weight watchers program seem like a four star restaurant. On the other hand, the walking part was where it became interesting and rather pathetic; the doctor said that I would experience somewhat of a balance problem at first due to your hearing being connected to your balance, but what I experienced was nothing compared to what I thought it would be. As I started to walk I realized my legs felt like rubber, I was walking like an old man who had too much to drink. A simple thing like walking quickly became very trivial; once again I felt like an infant taking his first steps.

I figured it would take forever to regain my balance, but much to my surprise after two laps around the hospital I felt a little more confident, but still I was unsure about the legs under me or the life in general that lay ahead.

By late morning I was discharged from the hospital; finally it was time to leave and start my "new" life. I never really thought anything like this would ever happen to me; I thought I was just another healthy adolescent with a bright future ahead. Sometimes in life you need something major to happen in order for you to learn reality of the hardships you can be faced with in life; for me this was it. This surgery made me gain a newfound respect for life; I realized the small things shouldn't matter and that everything you thought you knew about life could be changed in the blink of an eye.