Home

I'm not sure I like the idea of putting this one up here, but I'll do it anyway. This is another essay about another close topic. This one talks about home.

There's this street in my hometown of American Fork that runs exactly through the middle of everything. It's not extremely long, but it will take you from the New Walmart, to the library, through the fast food restaurants and all the way passed Macey's. It isn't the best street in the world-- No street within the borders of AF could be considered “The Best”-- but I cannot ride, walk, or look down it without having flashback mania.

Everything happens on that street. I worked on it; my best friend worked on it; it was the street we drove on to get anywhere and it was the street I walked on to travel everywhere! It was the street you could not avoid.

Once, after my best friend Caitlyn was finished working at the library, she, John and I were all hanging out around her car, staring out at that street. We were laughing, talking, teasing each other and texting everyone else in the known universe while we were doing it. I remember trying to keep things light while not actually looking at either of them since they would continually make goo goo eyes at each other, something that made me uncomfortable.

Knowing us at this period of time, it would never have surprised you that we were chatting with each other and texting every other friend known to mankind. Why? Because this was “The Era of Great Depression,” a period of time ranging approximately from January to the beginning of March. My senior year was terrible but January and February were the worst on dealing with it. So if we had a spare moment, it was spent hanging out with our friends and texting the ones that couldn't be there.

On this particular night, we were the unwilling witnesses to a texting battle we had been prepared for but didn't particularly want. It was between two of my closest friends, Erika and Amanda, and I don't even remember what it was about anymore. It lasted for. . . an hour? An hour and a half? Somewhere around there, and I played my usual role of jumping between the two trying to figure out what was going on. And at the same time was keeping up a pleasant conversation with Caitlyn and John and acting happy and hyper.

We were a bipolar bunch. Or we just had really good masks.

Even though I don't remember the specific reason for the fight, I do remember the sudden feeling of panic when Amanda sent out a text that said something along the lines of, “Whatever. It's fine. I just can't do this anymore,” and then stopped responding. Knowing Amanda at the time and the different things she was going through caused me to jump to a less-than-stellar conclusion as to what she meant. I launched myself into Caitlyn's Volkswagon Bug, Owen, (Yes, we named the car, and it was one of the coolest cars on the face of the planet. I swear, I spent more time in that beat up piece of junk then I did in my own house!) and told Caitlyn to drive to Amanda's as fast as she could!

I had been almost positive that Amanda was going to commit suicide.

I can't ride down that street at night without having flashbacks of that evening. It didn't turn out the way I thought it would; Amanda had no intents on committing suicide and had to talk to me for a good forty-five minutes before I would calm down. But as strange and anxious as the event was, it was only one of a long list of weird nights that I could spend pages upon pages talking about. See, American Fork is a dinky little town in the middle of Utah County. Nothing “cool” is ever supposed to happen there because it is Mormonsville within Mormonsville. The whole scenario is supposedly quite drab and altogether sleep-through worthy. And it was drab for most of my time living there. I had a few adventures when I was younger, but nothing too extravagant. Nothing that would scar me or make me remember every detail of a specific location or time for the rest of my life.
Until my senior year of course.

Then everything went a little psycho.

So home, to me, isn't home without the memories creeping up on me and sometimes forcing me into a little ball of pain. There have been many times where I want to hide from them and then turn around and realize that many of them were amazing On that same main street there is a park that sits right in front of our town Library. I sat there with the first boy I'd had a crush on in years and talked to him for hours. He kissed me in that park, on three different occasions. I can't walk through it without noticing the spots we sat, the places where he explained his life to me. It makes me smile even as it makes me sad.

In fact, I don't think there is a single spot in that entire city that doesn't bring back a rush of memories for me. Driving through the city with Caitlyn, running in the cool morning air, getting ready to have John teach me self-defense; getting my first bruise from said self-defense. I did a lot of crazy things my senior year. Not going to deny how fun it was, but it also left a lot of scars in a lot of places. The High School being one of the greatest. I never want to return there again, because the memories there are sharper than the memories on main street.

It was at the front of that building that the buses pulled up to a huge crowd of people, all standing silently with tear-filled eyes. I remember wanting to hide my face, duck down under the cushions and never come out. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, to pull myself upright and walk with the rest of my band down the aisle of the bus and walk out those doors and into the crowd. They were all clapping their hands, the tension building in the air because I could tell that many of them wanted to break through those carefully constructed lines and rush at us. To be able to grab hold of their friends and children and never let them go again. I had to turn away my face because tears were beginning to fall from my already cracked and tired eyes.

I'll never forget that night; the night of the bush crash where one of our teachers was lost and a fourth of our band didn't come home with us, but instead were taken in emergency vehicles to the hospital. That night haunted me for months, making me unable to sleep and soaking my pillow through with tears. No, I don't want to go back to the High School. Some memories are even more painful than others.

My room was probably the place that I can most assuredly call home. I lived in the rest of the house only kind of. If I was home, I was hibernating. Which isn't to say that me and my family weren't getting along just fine, I just often wanted to be alone. Of course, that's only when I actually was home. Usually I was out with my friends doing some stupid thing or other; but if I was home, I was in my room. And if I was in my room, then I was texting.

Oh the wonders of texting! Most people would be astounded at my mad skills in that area. I've had fights, emotional realizations, and therapy sessions all via text message. Lots and lots and lots of therapy sessions. Usually they weren't for me, though I'll admit that some were, but most of my therapy sessions were for the friends who were struggling the most at the time. I love them all dearly, but I also stayed up until three in the morning talking to a few of them to make them feel better about themselves without them remembering that I would be getting up two hours later to go running.

Not exactly considerate but, at the same time, I never blamed them, or told them to stop. I wanted to be there, because for some strange reason I thought that maybe my presence helped. We were all depressed, but we clung to each other in the hope that maybe it would get better. And not all of my conversations were depressing. Many of them were fun and happy! Those are the ones I wish I could remember better.

My room became a place of music to keep me awake, homework half done as I texted my friends, and novels. Lots and lots of novels! I couldn't get enough of them throughout my childhood, let alone through my senior year. My room was my refuge; my hidden space. I loved it there and can still close my eyes and remember it exactly the way it was, before we cleaned it out and moved me to Provo.

So what does home mean to me? To be honest, the feelings are mixed. The memories of home all seem to be sharply inclined toward pain, which was actually one of the reasons I decided to move to BYU in the first place. I was tired of the flashbacks, tired of being unable to go down a single street without being taken back to that moment, or that second, whether good or bad. But by the same token, I wouldn't want those memories to ever go away. I wouldn't want to ever forget. Because those are the memories that shaped me, that shaped who I am today.

So I guess my only definition of home would have to be the result: Me.

Memory

Okay, this isn't a story, but it's an essay and it's for creative writing so I think it's okay.

I really like this one.

I have a lot of really good memories. I have memories of days I took on dragons and monsters and knights in battle armor. I have memories of picking locks and stealing goods for the poor, or being Princess Peach and battling Bowser. I have memories of arguing with my step-brother about whether or not Wood Elves were better than Light Elves, and of acting out a story that would later turn into my first novel. Going through my drawer of memories is like watching a movie of adventures; half of them fake, half of them real. I know that some of my childhood extravaganzas will go away and fade with time, but the real memories, the ones I breathed in and saw and felt, will remain with me forever.

I've mentioned in a few essays about how this last year was life-changing for me. I've talked about how it was difficult and how it was filled with pain and challenges. That's all true, but some of that pain led to the most memorable experience I have ever had. And for a change, it isn't one that will haunt my nightmares.

Sadly, the wonderful experience wouldn't have occurred without the tragedy that preceded it. On October 10, 2009 the American Fork High School Marching Band was coming home from Pocatello, Idaho after sweeping, or winning every caption, of the Pocatello competition. I can still remember how good we all felt! I was laughing and talking with my friend Zoe and sending a random text every once in a while to my friend Shelby, who was on a different bus because she was a woodwind and played clarinet. It was a little unusual that I actually had my phone on me, since I had often forgot it in my case or at home during those days.

I will never forget the moment Mr. Arnold, our assistant director, stood up and shouted at us all to “Shut up!” His voice was panicked, a phone to his ear. The message was delivered down the bus as the vehicle pulled over and sat there. I didn't know what to think, what to do. It was several hours later that any of us knew the extent of what had happened in that second.

One of our buses had overturned, the driver passed out at the wheel. They had narrowly avoided falling off a sheer cliff side only a few feet to their right. It was the woodwind bus. Our teacher, Heather Christensen, had jumped forward the instant she saw the driver begin to teeter at the wheel. She'd grabbed it, barely managing to maneuver the bus away from the drop beside them; she was thrown out the window and smashed beneath the monster for her troubles.

She saved all of those children's lives.

Everyone I knew had started to call, or text, my phone. They asked if I was okay, asked about what had happened. I gave them all a mechanical, genial response, unable to think past the fog in my brain. At first I had panicked, thinking Shelby had been on that bus, but she hadn't been. She'd been on the Color Guard bus. She, Erika, and John had all waited for me because I had been late and they hadn't been able to find a spot on the woodwind bus that day.

It was my fault that my three best friends in band weren't on that bus when it crashed and flipped.

Am I a bad person for being grateful for that? Am I horrible and evil for thanking God that I had been a few minutes late? How dare I be grateful that my closest friends weren't on that bus when others were. How dare I feel even a glimmer of happiness on that night when the world went to Hell.

I've kept my phone on my person every second of the day ever since that moment. I didn't even march without it in my pocket. Leaving it for even a moment makes me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. What if something happened? What if I couldn't reach my friends in time?

Unfortunately, it's necessary for me to explain this experience in order to understand the one that came after it. My world was shattered that night; a quarter of my family, my fellow band members, had been on that bus. Had been in danger. We all became so close as a band family, it's hard to even comprehend one of them being lost. Because of Heather, not one of them were taken away from us. The police made sure to push this point home to us, over and over. This was a miracle.

They all should have died.


Our band tour that year would take us to the Western Regional Championship. My first year in marching band the American Fork Band got second in the Western Region for the first time since we'd been founded. I still consider that one of the best memories I have. In 2008 we had actually won first place in the entire Region. That memory is one of the shinning points of my life.

And yet, that doesn't hold a candle to how what it felt when we marched onto that field in 2009. This year, this time, I wasn't marching for me. I wasn't marching for anything that I wanted. I wasn't marching for glory or for the chance to win the championship. I was marching for the person who saved my family. The person who protected the people I care about. Flashbacks played underneath my eyelids, bringing that night back to me with perfect clarity. Sobs were clogged in my throat, but I held my head up high, eyes shinning as the rest of my family marched around me. They were all there. Not one of them was missing from this most important of all performances.

It was because of her that they all had been there, standing and marching beside me.

I prayed hard that night, closing my eyes in those moments right before we marched onto the field. My friends surrounded me, the trumpet section being more accepting than I had ever known them to be. They were literally my brothers and sisters. I hugged each and every one of them, individually. Then I went and sought out John, Shelby, and Erika. Then I went and looked for Zoe's little brother, Sam, who had been on that bus that night. I hugged him too. It was time to perform.

There are no words. No words that could ever give justice to marching onto that field beneath that crowd. No words to explain the lights that shinned down, to explain the goosebumps that erupted along my skin as I looked up at the screaming crowd as they leaped off their chairs and cheered us on. No words to describe the feeling of the tears falling down my cheeks and onto my beautiful silver trumpet.

I wish something I wrote could ever give it justice. I wish something I spoke would ever be able to explain, but it won't. I could never even come close.

We performed. We performed in a way that I have never done before nor sense. Even when we went to Grand Nationals afterward, something nobody thought would happen, it didn't match this moment. It came close, but I had been hoping for another performance after that one. On this occasion, I thought that this would be my final show. The final time I would stand in that uniform, perform this music. On this occasion, I thought it was my final chance to give tribute to my hero.

I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire stadium. I know mine weren't; the tears cascaded down my cheeks but I had to ignore them. I couldn't focus on them, because I needed to perform that night. And tears would only get in my way. I played with everything I had. I tried to put my soul into my horn, put my heart into the music. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. I never stood straighter, held my horn higher, or looked upon the judges with more pride.

We had a purpose. We were one family and we had lost a member. A beautiful wonderful woman who had saved her children. We were playing for her.

For Heather.

When it was finished, not a single soul remained in their seats. Not one person attempted to stop the flow of moisture from their eyes. The lump in my throat grew into an unbearable size and my tears flowed unhindered. Looking around me showed the same for everyone else.

So if someone asks me, “What is your most memorable experience?” Or asks what I have accomplished in my life so far, I will always give them an answer. I will always tell them it was the night I played my horn for a hero. I will tell them it was the night we won Western Regionals.

It was the night Heather Christensen looked down from heaven and smiled.