Nation: part 1

This is the first of a series, hope you like it!

The sound of water slapping the hull of the ship mingled with the rest of the crew's mutterings. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, the water changing from midnight black to a cool aquiline blue. Mindy rested her head against the railing, feeling her stomach heave with every turn of the waves. Andrew was doing just fine, looking out over the waters and laughing every time the spray touched his face. If he was a few years older, Mindy might have been afraid that he'd want to join the navy, or run away to join some sailing company. But for right now he was content to stay at his mother's side, no matter where she might take him.

“Girl,” a big man grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn around and look into his face. Most of it was covered with a large bushy beard, big lips sticking out underneath an even bigger nose. His skin was sun tanned from the sea, but the scars on his arms and hands gave away the secret of “ease” that could be had upon the waves. “How many times have I told you to stay away from the edge?” his voice was raspy, like those big lips hung onto every word he said before they were able to pull free.

“I can't,” Mindy gulped down the bile already reforming, “Unless you want me to vomit on the others.”

“I'd rather they be covered in vomit than chains,” he whispered, grabbing her arm and shoving her toward the cabin, “Get out of the light!”

“Aye aye captain!” Andrew saluted the man, before taking his mother's hand and leading her toward the inside of the ship. The captain shook his head, his eyes concerned as they followed the two. A mother and her six year old son. What were they doing at a time like this? Why couldn't people just stay where they belonged?

It was damp inside the vessel, even a cargo one like this, where the shipments should have been kept dry. Mindy kept her head down and clung to the walls so the heaving of the ship didn't send her sprawling. They had to make their way down a narrow hallway of stairs before they would reach the main holding, where 13 other people were mingling with each other. The stench was wretched, and Mindy almost threw up the remnants of whatever was in her stomach. Even Andrew wrinkled his nose in disgust. Many of the other passengers were sitting next to the wall, some holding their heads, others their stomachs, and some were just staring into space.

Mindy sat down next to the doorway, where occasionally a breeze of fresh air might wiggle its way down into their holding. “Mom,” Andy whispered, “Are we close to finding dad?”

“Hopefully soon,” Mindy whispered, stroking his hair, “Hopefully soon.” Andy closed his eyes and rested his blond head on her lap. Mindy knew that he wanted nothing more than for her to gather him in her arms, kiss his forehead and tell him that dad was coming home in fifteen minutes and that he should be patient. She couldn't do the last step, but she gathered him up and kissed him just the same, “Are you afraid?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head, “I'm not afraid of anything anymore.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Not even the soldiers with their big guns?”

“They can't hit me, I'm too little and fast.”

“What about the politicians, who smile and say things that they don't mean, like we should understand and trust them, when we know they're just going to stab us in the back?”

“Mommy, they lie.” Andrew shook his head like that made them less terrifying,

“They can't hurt me when they lie. I always know that they're lying, no matter what they say.” He said the last part fiercely, closing his eyes and clenching one of his hands into a fist. Mindy knew what he was thinking of. The man with the greased back hair and practiced smile, teeth so white it was like they blinded you just by looking directly at them. “Your husband will be returned safely to his homeland, Miranda. You don't have to be concerned. We are just strengthening the nations borders.” or later, once she'd learned the truth, “Go home, Miranda. Your husband is no longer a threat to this nation.” As if he'd ever been a threat in the first place. He'd had permanent residency, he'd lived there for 8 years. The only thing he'd ever been guilty of was being a foreigner.

Mindy put her head down, resting it on Andy's. He smiled and held her tightly. “ They can't hurt me when they lie. I always know that they're lying, no matter what they say.” He was a smart, brave little boy.

The ship jolted, thrusting a few of the passengers into one another. Mindy gulped, feeling the bile rise again in the back of her throat. She did NOT like being at sea. She wanted to go home, the image of her yellow house, blue blinds and flower ridden garden made her sick. Everything had been empty when they'd left. Every inch, every shamble of the place that made it look like home had been sold. She could still remember the look on her mother's face, the horror of what her daughter was about to do. “How could you? What right do you have to do that to your son??” but she'd had her reasons.

Mindy squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Andy rubbed her arm, humming softly to himself. He was getting too old, too old to be her little boy. “Mommy,” he whispered, “What do you think they really did to daddy?” Mindy shook her head. She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to tell him what she thought they might have done.

It had been sometime in October. A Saturday, the TV making ridiculous noises as Andrew sat and took in every word and image. The house lit with that bright yellow sunshine that only happens on particularly clear days. Mindy couldn't help the smile, even as she tried to push the memory away and held Andrew more tightly. It'd been beautiful that day, she'd been moving through the kitchen, grabbing the papers lying about on the counters. A few newspapers crumpled into little balls and thrown into a corner, most of the others were bank notices or other bills. They'd finally all been paid off. All of them. Mindy hummed softly to herself as she sent them through the shredder, leaving nothing but long, white paper lines to fall into the trash bin.

“Hey, shredder-butt,” Jason kissed her on the cheek as he passed, “Enjoying your morning?”

“Why yes,” Mindy grinned, sending another bill through the machine, it was oddly satisfying. “Some people never live to see this moment.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed, turning away, “I know.” Mindy paused, then continued shredding. She shouldn't have said anything. Jason was acutely aware of everything everyone was going through. She bumped into him, jabbing her shoulder into his upper back.

“No sad faces!” she kissed him, then skipped away.

“Oh, fine then,” he laughed, walking after her. The living room was messy, toys strewn around and the cushions lying in haphazard positions from where Andrew had arranged them as a sort of tent. He huddled inside them, waving his remote as the cartoon characters ran around screaming.

“They'll get you!” He yelled, his tiny little body getting into every action. It was in the middle of a battle scene, and he was actually quivering from excitement.

“Don't burst a muscle,” His father teased, peeking under the barricade, “How would you fight off the bad guys then?”

“My brain.” Andrew smiled, “It's strong.”

“Not if you keep watching these shows,” Mindy groaned, “They'll melt your brain into putty.”

“Noooo! They're brain builders! I know how to battle the king of snakes now!”

“Sure you do,” Jason laughed. A knocking sounded at the door. Andrew hid his face into on of the pillows, making a satisfying smacking noise. Jason threw back his head and laughed again, “Does this mean you don't want to answer the door, Andy?”

“The shooow. . .”

“I'll get it,” Mindy headed down the hallway, family pictures smiled from a burgundy table by the door. She looked through the peep hole, but could only really see a uniform. Something cold settled into her belly, and the breath in her lungs seemed to freeze. Why would someone in a uniform be here? They'd just finished paying all their debts. There was no reason for anyone in the government to be here. She opened the door, aware of the slight squeal of the hinge. “Yes?” she tried to smile at the man standing there, but felt like the muscles in her mouth only slightly twitched.

He was an older gentleman, his hair slightly gray on the sides and wrinkles around his eyes and jawline. He was well built, his shoulders way broader than Jason's, who would be as comparable as a tree limb to a barrel. He had brown hair, but it barely showed under the green uniform cap that he wore. His uniform was decorated with metals, and a small pistol hung at his belt.

“Mrs. Moore? Is your husband home?” He spoke with a clipped, brisk, professional tone. His voice a low baritone. Mindy hesitated.

“Y-yes he is. May I ask why you're here?”

“No, Ma'am. Our business is with your husband.” He stepped forward, gently, but firmly, pushing her out of the way. She stepped back into the house, feeling her body begin to shake a little. A few years ago she might have protested his entering her home without permission, but this was not a few years ago. This was now.

Jason came around the corner, looking surprised when he saw the officer there, “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Moore?”

“Yes?”

“You are in violation of The United States Purification act. As a Non-Citizen of this country I must require that you come with me until further notice.”

“What?” Mindy said, rushing to her husband she grabbed his arm, “What do you mean? He's a permanent resident, we have the papers if you want to check them over. . .”

“The rules have changed. Mr. Moore, please come with me.”

“You can't be serious?” Jason looked from the officer to Mindy and back again, “This is a clear violation of my rights! I . . .” The front door opened, two more officers stood there, each with a rifle. Mindy took a deep breath, feeling the blood drain out of her face.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Sir,” the first officer repeated, “You are coming with us. Please do not struggle. Anything you do can, and will, be held against you.”

“This is insane,” Jason said. Two steps forward brought the man within reach of Jason, he backhanded him across the face, sending the small man staggering backwards.

“You will not be so disrespectful of an American Government official. Please come with me.”

“No! He will not be coming with you!” Mindy stepped forward and the officer slapped her, she spun smashing into the table and sending the family pictures crashing to the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, digging into the palms of her hands.

Jason lunged for her, crying out but the officer grabbed him, spun him around and slammed him against the hallway wall. One of the other men pulled out handcuffs and snapped them onto Jason's wrists.

“You can't do this!” Mindy said, pulling herself back onto her feet. She wanted to lunge at him, kicking and screaming, but before she got a chance one of the other men shoved her to the side making room for the officer and her bound husband to be lead through. Jason struggled but the officer just slammed his head against the wall. “What are you doing!” Mindy yelled.

“Teaching the alien some respect.” The officer said. He turned his head to her, smiling slightly, “You might want to think about the people you want to be associated with, Miss Ibori. This is a time of great distress within our country. You'll want to be careful.” He shoved Jason out the door, blood slightly seeping from beneath his hairline, and slammed the door behind him.

Mindy stared after them, feeling her head spin.

“Mommy?” Andy whispered, he was peeking from around the corner of the play room, his eyes wide, “Mommy, where are they taking daddy?”

Time

No time to spare,
When the clock bells chime
No moment for those here around us.

No listening word,
When the kids all scatter,
There simply are too many,

Will there be a sight,
To pause the masses?
Will there be an idea so beloved?

When our lives are measured.
By what we attain,
Instead of by what we imagine.

Work comes in all forms,
But will minds be open,
To ideas and thoughts to be fed?

To reach for the sky,
Then be stopped by a wall,
Caused by far greater men to stumble.

But by stumbling, we fall,
By falling, we crawl,
And slowly move onward again.

Then our eyes will be clear,
Our sight will be given,
We'll know when to stop and to listen.

To see more than lines,
To see more than fences,
But discover and be more than living.

English

Literature has enabled mankind to remember a lot of different things. We look back through the past and view history through the eyes of people that wrote down the stories. The fictional ones, the real ones, the ones that commented on society and the growing norms, it doesn't matter. For hundreds of years we based the intelligence and growth of a civilization off of their literature, what they decided was important enough to be written down. The bible has survived 2000 years of civilization change, people change, ideology change, but still it remains, still it is a marker of something that is important to millions of people. Literature is what we used to think was the most important mark of an intellectual, the writer is who came to define history.

And yet, look at the English Major now.

I find it fascinating that what was once the most studied, the most important, and the most intellectual of all the subjects is now looked down upon. When I tell people that I'm an English Major, a lot of them smile little smiles of "oh, I see. You're just here to get married." Or, "Where are you going to go with that? Home with the children?" It frustrates me that so many people think I'm only learning about English because it's "easy" and I'm just going to college so I can say I have a degree but then never use it. It's so strange, because the history of English, the history of literature, is so rich and full of ideas. Ideas drive mankind, it's what leads us and pushes us to progress. Even now, when people look back at this time we'll see all of the technology advances, we'll see all of the change that has occurred, but how will we study it? How will we look at it? Through the literature that is being produced. Through what is being written down now!

I'm writing this for a variety of reasons. One of them is because I was having a little bit of an identity crisis for the past few months. I haven't updated this blog in so long because part of me had given up on the idea of ever becoming a writer, or ever doing something that would really effect the world. But, I recently came to the realization that giving up on any dream is foolish. Even if I don't do anything else, I can still be a writer, and I can still get my words out there.

A few weeks ago, I was trying to decide whether or not I wanted to remain an English major or change that major to something else. I was contemplating English Teaching, even though that had never been something particularly appealing to me. I was hoping that by teaching English perhaps I could feel like I was doing something useful with my major, actually developing a skill that I'd be able to market. But something continually held me back. Every time I felt like I had made the decision, that I wanted to be a teacher, I would start to voice that desire and immediately begin to doubt myself. It was an uncomfortable teeter-totter ride. I began to get exceedingly frustrated, and started talking to close friends about it. One of them told me I was looking at it the wrong way, and that I needed to stop thinking, “What can I market?” and start thinking, “What do I want to do?”

I took his advice to heart, sitting down with myself and really trying to think about what I wanted to do. What brought me joy, what was something I would love to do for the rest of my life? The answer came quietly, barely a whisper above all the other raging, arguing voices in my head. It was the voice I'd shut down as impossible, as being too irresponsible to actually pursue. It sounded astonishingly like a junior high/high school version of myself. It whispered, “I just want to write. . . I want to tell stories.”

I was shocked. I just sat there for a moment, dumbfounded. How could I have forgotten? How could I have let myself degrade so far that I had actually allowed my main goal since I was 12 years old fall into disrepair? I hadn't written a story in months, my ideas were fleeting and never seemed to last more than a paragraph at best. I hadn't invested any time into creativity, because I was “just too busy.” I'd failed myself.

But I'm not going to let that happen anymore. This story blog has been neglected for months, almost an entire year since the last post. I don't want that to happen again. I have to make time for storytelling.

So, the English major has been frowned upon by a lot of modern society, thinking that it is frivolous, foolish, and that it can't take you anywhere. But history tells us that it is the literature, the writers, that decide the future of the world. So let's see what we can do, shall we? Let's see what kind of history I, personally, can create.