In the mood for some satire? About immigration perhaps?

A piece of satire follows. It’s supposed to be in the style of Jonathon Swift’s wonderful baby-eating essay “A Modest Proposal.” But about immigrants and homeless people. It’s a diamond in the rough, so criticism is seen as super duper OK.

Cultural Shocks of the Acclimatized Kind

As the great Sir Aristotle once said, “Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime.” America has felt the effects of this evil spawn, as poverty has ravaged the home of the brave time and time again. The American government has a duty to provide a safe environment and equal opportunities for all. Poverty prevents the skills of an individual to fully bloom to its highest potential because it creates an aura of inferiority that obscures the individual and misguides onlookers. Realistically, the possibility of completely wiping out poverty in America is slim to none. Nevertheless, America needs to take a stance and help supports all its citizens, including the ones that cannot be reached under normal circumstances. The government needs to seize action and create a bigger and better program that will help all those in poverty. The American government should gather all those who live below the poverty, put them in trains, and send them into Mexico where they can be trained to make the most of their less than fortunate lives. Africa would have been first choice, as apparently that country knows how to take advantage of its regrettable circumstances; however the cost would be too great to send families overseas as opposed to across the border.

Relations between the U.S. and Mexico have been fragile as the immigration problem has appeared to gradually become a thorn in America’s side. However, if this free government program is approved, terms with Mexico will improve drastically. Why have an enemy crossing the line behind your back when you can have an ally at your side? Illegal immigrants can find jobs working for both sides of the government. Their job description can include guiding the poverty groups to and from the border if they are unable to fit the trains (although cattle boxcars can always be transformed into handy transportation as well). Certificates would be issued by the U.S. to these guides, thereby guaranteeing their knowledge of the border and were to lead our poor American citizens. Moreover, these certificates would also double as a green card or a VISA to immigrants, thus increasing the demand and value of the job. The age old accusation directed at immigrants “stealing the white man’s job” would cease because the position of Po-Guiders (short for Poverty Guiders) can only be filled by immigrants. American families would be assigned a Mexican family. Each member of each family would be partnered with their respective mentor, or mentór, of the same age group and/or gender.

The underprivileged men of America could stand to learn some lessons in self-confidence. With their Mexican mentors (can be abbreviated to M&M’s) the men would be wiping and washing the windshields of cars all day despite the protests of the vehicle owners. With this newfound confidence, upon return to the states, the men can apply this lesson to their everyday life. Not taking “No” for an answer is what some would call essential to the job application process. The art of construction is a skill that Mexican praise and can teach to those poverty-stricken men that are in the program. Their Mexican mentors may also teach them how to have better hygiene and dress properly when approaching somebody for labor. In a recent poll featured in Fortune magazine, 73% of all voters said that if a Mexican and a ‘hobo’ approached them looking for work, both offering the same amount of wages and labor, they would choose the Mexican. When asked why, there was a cumulative agreement amongst the voters that Mexicans had the better reputation for hard labor and gave the appearance of a trustworthy worker. Through this program, American poverty holders would be given the chance to improve on their appearance, thus improving their chances of getting hired. The men of poverty would undoubtedly become the American soldiers of poverty as their knowledge base expands.

Women and children would also benefit drastically from the teaching of the Mexican mass. Women would learn how to take cheap and unwanted food products and create edible food for their family. Kids would learn how to form alliances with other ill-fated children and stalk the streets of the ghettos with a friendly gait. How to sell small treats, such as gum or candy bars, and accessories could also give the children life long lessons in marketing. As it were, Mexican families would get monthly checks to help support their added baggage in the household.

Both American and Mexico could stand to serve the people of their country until the more attention to the adverse mass of society. As Hilary Clinton once said, “Let there be a colorful friendship between those of ill-fated circumstances that reach across borders.”

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Hell’s Bells

Author’s Note: I also wrote this about a year ago. The theme was taking something of a “Sacred Cow” in American culture and turning it around. I chose to express my lack of excitement for turning 21.



Hell’s Bells



First 13, 16, 18 and then the big 21. It’s the last age before there’s nothing left to look forward to except retirement. Thirteen-year-olds and up dream of reaching 21—becoming a grown-up and looking cool—because by 21 you’ll have a future set and beer and/or bar picked out for your first legal alcoholic purchase. Twenty-one is the age when you get asked for your ID, a smile appears on your face because this time, you’re legit. Enter the liquor store and walk confidently toward an alcoholic beverage that an older friend has recommended to you. I mean, first you’ll dribble in glory at the irrational selection of beer and liquor, but after, the recovery period will begin as you wonder where that Malibu Rum is located. After fulfilling your Quest for Malibu, you’ll head to the cashier and mentally check your inventory for your license.

“Hi, did you find what you’re looking for?”

A “YES,” accompanied with a happy grin.

“Hm… that’ll be $14.32.”

Are you not going to ask me for my ID?

“Oh, and your ID please.”

Yay! “Sure…. Here you go.”

A quick glance and an assured nod.

Oh, snap. Sweet legal victory.

It’s the dream of the underage college student who wants to party but can’t always because you’re in the post-jailbait stage but haven’t reached the top of the “cool” food chain yet.

The age between 18 and 21 is the awkward in-between stage. You aren’t quite a teenager anymore, but you’re not a full-fledged adult yet. You can buy lottery tickets, buy cigarettes, be tried as an adult, marry without parental consent, get a tattoo and/or piercing, join the army, rent a hotel room and buy porn. Added to the perks at age 21 are purchasing alcohol, renting a car and legally owning a handgun. Ironically, it’s at 18 you get the majority of rights an adult does but it isn’t until 21 comes around that you really feel like you’ve gained something special. Probably because that’s the last line of defense in society’s efforts to keep you sheltered. So long, the age of innocence and goodbye immaturity (in theory). You can still be an addict for dramatics but acting your age will be expected much more often.

Turning 21 means I don’t have to get those annoying tags whenever I enter a bar. I’m not much of a drinker, but it’s nice to accompany a group of friends and laugh at their drunken antics, especially, when I can convince them to re-enact scenes from Jackie Chan’s “Drunken Master”. Drunks are hilarious. The hilarity of drunk martial arts is almost ruined because it irritates me whenever I look down and I’ve got an X, a smiley face or one time, a Mickey Mouse stamp on the back my hand to mock the fact that I was born a bit later than everyone else. They scream “CAUTION: BABY IN THE BAR.” The blurry ink of the markers or stamp leaves behind a lingering buzz, like cacophony of knocking in the back of my head. My stamps pulse with annoyance and the unrelenting reminder that even though I’ve had my fair share of life experiences, I’m still not cool enough to drink. I’ll get my dignity back when I turn 21. My friends, the alcoholics, the drunks and the bartenders will see my clean hands and look away, trying to search out some other schmuck with the mark of Cain.

Nevertheless, that’s all I have to look forward to. I’m not that excited to be seen as an adult. I already am. It won’t make a difference to me that I’ve added another tally to my years, except in the bars department. Turning 21 doesn’t mean I get to stop paying bills or my rent or working 39 hours a week to support myself. If anything, there’s more of a burden placed on you because being a teenager means you’re exempt from real-world responsibilities. The two-one means that whenever I go home now, my dad will send me to all the Valeros, Shells and Texaco’s of my hometown to buy beer for him. Twenty-one will be the stage of my life where I have to decide whether to feed my father’s alcohol addiction.

I’ll be in the living room of my home, lounging in the old leather couch that doubles as my bed, flicking through the channels and admiring the Guide feature that comes with our cable. Then I’ll hear it. The bellow of my father’s deep voice will cause an echoing discord throughout the halls of my house.

“MIJA!!!!”

I’ll stay silent, hoping to feign sleep and escape daughterly duties.

“MARICRUZ! MIJAAAAAA!”

A pause.

A phone call.

The beginning of “Hell’s Bells” will ring because no one ever said my father wasn’t insistent or lazy. He loves that I chose that ringtone for him. My fascination with AC/DC matches his love for guitars with badass beats.

I’ll answer.

“Huh?”

“Go get me beer.”

“Aw, why can’t Mom do it?”

“Because she’s not your slave. Now go get me beer.”

“UGH. Fine… Gimme money.”

“OK, come get it. And hurry up.”

I’ll get up, walk the few feet from the living room to my parent’s room and wait impatiently while my father digs out a ten from his wallet without moving from his recliner.

“Here. Keep the change.”

He always lets me keep the change. When I was younger, I’d ask for five dollars and he’d give me 20. He’s always been generous when it comes to giving his kids money.

“OK. What do you want?”

I know what he wants. I just pretend I don’t.

“A six-pack of Miller Light. And hurry up.”

I’ll head to the store and bitch under my breath the whole time, wishing I were back on the sofa and basking in the atmosphere of lethargy. I’ll get his six-pack of Miller Light and the only highlight of my trip will be when the bitter store clerk asks for my ID. I’ll smirk triumphantly because I’m old enough to pass the legal test. Then I’ll go back home, sink-sigh into my favorite couch and wait for my father to howl again in a couple of hours so I can fetch him some more.

And I can’t refuse to go and buy him beer. It’s not how it works with him. His temper overwhelms and consumes everyone. I still don’t know if he’s more of an asshole off or on alcohol. I don’t think I want to know, because I like to think the alcohol makes him worse. It makes me feel better to use the alcohol as an excuse for his crap behavior. My interaction with him sober is limited as is, mostly because he works nights and I go to school during the day. Essentially, 90 percent of the memories I have of my father feature a beer in his hand. The beer-in-hand will trigger two modes in him: the loud and funny drunk or the glowering, belligerent drunk.

My dad and I have a history of rotten verbal exchanges and violence. At 13, I developed insomnia because I made the mistake of falling asleep before he got home and he hit my mom. He’s always been an aspiring party animal. He would go out to the bars every weekend and come back the next day, smelling of smoke, perfume and ruined parentage. Multiple beers in his system transformed him from an awkward father trying to get in touch with his family to a belligerent jerk ready for to yell. He’d get home and try to start fights with my mother. Understand I’m not the type of person to hide in the face of adversary, so at 13, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let somebody get away from messing with my mother. None of this hiding under the cover business. I’d sleep at 3 a.m., at least an hour after he’d get home to ensure my family’s safety. For some reason, I couldn’t stay awake one night. I fell asleep on my vigil. I woke up two hours later to the sound of muffled arguments and a clenched heart. Usually, I intervene and keep my dad’s fist at bay. He refrains from hitting his children but he has no qualms lifting his hand to the wife. So logically, my presence between him and my mom will escalate yelling but keep violent levels brimming but not bursting. But on the night I gave in to sleep, this one night of all nights, he hit her. I fucked up. I failed. I wasn’t there to protect her. I hadn’t been there to stop him and he hit her. I haven’t slept before midnight in seven years because of that.

At 16, I got kicked out of the house because I got the courage to give him shit for borrowing money from me to buy beer. He’s what some would call “pig headed” and because I am my father’s daughter, the argument exploded and I evacuated the house. It was the weekend so I hid out at Barnes and Noble for most of the day, taking updates from my mother and waiting for the moment when I could walk back in my home without crying. I wasn’t apart of the family for one day and six hours, until he sobered up and realized what he’d done. My mom asked me to come back finally. I had made my way through the science fiction section and settled into the fiction before I received an invitation. When I got home, he said he wanted to stop drinking less because he knows how he gets when the beer takes over. He didn’t apologize though. Too stubborn to do it. I didn’t either. If he didn’t apologize, I sure as hell wasn’t going to for standing up to him.

At 18, I remember hiding my mom and brother in my room with a bat in my hand, my back barricading the door and listening to him pounding and pulsing for us to come out. He’d exploded after my mother and I had cornered him and started lecturing him on his drug use. We should’ve waited during the day, when he was sober. We started in the garage, an argument ensued and a volcano erupted. He argued, my mom yelled back and I cried.
My dad may be a jackass and an asshole and every other curse word imaginable but he’s also my father, which means he’s family and that means I love him unconditionally. I can’t help it. He’s my dad. He’s made his mistakes, I know full well he does, and I may not like him that much, but I still love him and I still care. It’s not like he’s a purposeful asshole. One time, when a news story came on about a local family whose house had burned down, my dad went through our junk pile in the garage to donate to them. He’s always lending out his tool collection to neighbors or friends who need a helping hand. I just don’t think he knows how to be a dad. My parents had me when they were 18. My mom fresh out of high school and my dad a high school drop-out for two years already. They did what they could and the loved me. I always had the fleeting suspicion that my dad wanted a boy, just because it would make it so much easier for him to talk. Just because my dad and I are of the same blood doesn’t mean we automatically connect. There’s an awkward tension between us but it’s not hostile. It’s a quiet disconnection. I’m pretty sure our thoughts are on the same wavelength in each other’s presence.

Should I ask him about work?

Would it be weird if I mentioned the Cowboys to him? Crap, I don’t even know who’s who now… who’s the quarterback again? …I’ll just sound stupid.

What should I say???

When I left for college is when my dad and I really started to form a better relationship. Why? Because he missed me even though we didn’t interact all that much at home. How could I tell? He drunk-dialed me just about every night. Our conversations were short and sweet.

“HIIIIII MIJAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I could always tell he was drunk because he shrieked into the phone.

“Hi, Dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m studying. How about you?”

“I’m here with your mom. How’s school? Everything OK?”

“Yup. Everything’s fine. All my classes are going well.”

“Do you have money?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some. I just got paid and everything.”

“Well, good, because I don’t have any because your mom took it away from me. Can I borrow some?”

“Um, NO.” Mild annoyance.

A chuckle from him. “Well, call your mom if you need anything.”

“K.”

“Love youuuuuuuuuu!”

An exasperated sigh from me. “Love you too, Dad…”

End call.

I looked forward to these calls all the time.

At 18, I became the co-conspirator to his unhealthy lifestyle by scoring his cigarettes. I’d hand-deliver his pack and watch him inhale the smoke that rots away at his lungs and heart. Those small white cylinders dispatch tiny carcinogenic razors into his body and eventually led to his heart attack.

My father is a 39-year-old diabetic. His heart tried to commit suicide when he was 37 because of his excessive drinking and smoking. When his heart tried to quit, we were two days away from Thanksgiving. My father is the kind of guy who isn’t going to stop something until he gets a warning. A major warning. It’s like laws. The government didn’t realize you were supposed to wear your seatbelt until people started flying with twisted metal and shattered glass. Then people started whispering and thinking that when others met their death while trying to pull an unintentional Cirque de Soleil wasn’t a good idea.

My dad is like that. When his heart attack happened, he quickly changed his ways and went cold turkey for six months. It was great. He lost weight. He said he felt better, but only after he detoxed because a guy who’s been smoking and drinking since he was 14 can’t quit quick without after effects. My family had some extra cash because we weren’t wasting it on beer. He stayed at home much more often. Before he’d spend a few nights out of the month at a bar or waking up in places even he didn’t know. Now he was home all the time and I got a decent amount of sleep because I didn’t have to stay up for him to get home. However, things can’t always stay classy.

He slowly started sneaking in cigarettes and light beer around the seventh month. I remember walking out to take my brother to Wal-Mart and seeing him outside with a burning ember in his hand. I double-taked.

“What’s that?” I asked in disbelief and disgust.

“Mija, it’s just one. It’s not going to do anything.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mija… C’mon, it’s OK.”

NO, it’s NOT.

I didn’t say anything. I kept walking toward my car.

Said he felt so great he thought the doctors had reset his lungs, liver and arteries. Now it was as if he had a new body to destroy.

The jaded journalist in me squirmed. Yaaaay, my dad really is an alcoholic. This is gnarly material for when I go through my Emo Stage…

Since then, his drinking and smoking habit have returned full force, knocking me down and leaving the family feeling helpless three times as bad. We know what it’s like now to see someone you love gasp for breath and cling to the dashboard as you drive them to the hospital. Now I know how pale he can get. He’s a full-bloodied Mexican, red-skinned because of the sun. He shouldn’t ever be that white. It’s weird. The white sheets of the hospital bed don’t help contrast, they emphasize.

Turning 21 means sentencing my father to another round of “Epic Heart Failure”. Starting my car to go to the store thickens the fat in his arteries. When I open the door to the freezers and grab the handle to the beer, I’ll see large fatty globules latching onto his liver cells and making plans for D-Day. Giving the store clerk the money and stepping out of the door will reflect the day I have to run out of my house to get the car started for the race to the hospital. Turning off the ignition of my car will stop the beating of his heart. Handing him the beer will signal the death of my dad as he flat lines on a stiff hospital gurney. I’ll never hear “Hell’s Bells” again without crying.

I don’t want to turn 21. Even though I think getting marked at bars is one of the most irritating things in the world, I’d much have the whole spectrum of colors represented on the back of my hand than buy beer for my dad and watch him kill himself. It’s not Peter Pan syndrome. I’ll take paying a mortgage and a 401k any day. I’m a semi-insomniac and emotionally retarded because of him. By all standards and statistics, I should be following in his footsteps, drinking myself into oblivion and swapping hospital beds for bar stools. I don’t get drunk because I’ve seen what it does to him. I don’t smoke because I’ve seen him out of breath from climbing up two flights of stairs. I avoid confrontation because I’m afraid I’ve inherited his temper. I appreciate that though. I wouldn’t be who I am now if it weren’t for him. I just hope he can see me grow up to be his opposite.

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Three Second Remedy

Author’s Note: This was written for my essay class about one year ago. I decided to write it on my one-time-only freefall that I pulled. I still don’t really understand why I did it, but here’s my attempt. I don’t regret it but I do still question my sanity at the time. Happy readings?






Three Second Remedy

It’s not that I’m afraid of heights. It’s really not. It’s not that I’m a pansy either. It’s the thought of falling from a great distance that really intimidates me; so it doesn’t make any sense that I would agree to go bungee jumping for a friend’s birthday, unless I was in a drug-altered state. But, I don’t do drugs; so, it still doesn’t make sense. In my mind, the bungee-place existed so drug-addicts could proclaim their love for Satan as they plunged toward the ground, fulfilling their adrenaline rush of the night.

Nevertheless, on a Friday night in the middle of November, I and nine other people found ourselves at Zero Gravity in Dallas. Ten people received a group discount, so of course I had to go with them. Never mind that I didn’t know the majority of their names. To them, I was the $10 off their bill. To me, these people were my chance for a new set of friends. Falling to my doom at 150 feet is fucking ridiculous. It should have had me crying like a toddler who lost his or her mother in a wax museum.

In high school, lots of people knew me and enjoyed my company, but more often than naught, I found myself turning down invitations and choosing to stay at home to play video games with my brother or be dorky with my mom. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the friend I had. I just liked being at home with my family. I’m one of those people that needs to be forced to emerge from my isolation. Once I’m out and about, I’ll have a great time and think to myself, Why didn’t I want to come out again? In college I finally became emotionally attached to a group of friends that I considered my Best Fucking Friends 4Eva. We would hang out just about every day, spend the night at each other’s places on the weekends and criticize teenyboppers for their horrid emo fashion sense while we shopped in places like Hot Topic. Then 2008 reared its fat, ugly bloated face and ripped me apart. My immune system became the first letdown in a series of giant “Fuck you”s that year. I felt ill at least once a month, which forced me to either miss work or make me want to study less. My car decided to commit suicide and began over-heating regularly, which also caused a massive dent in my budget and spirit. Every time something showed improvement, something else would tackle me right in the midriff and create a wave of disbelief in my head. Why are so many things breaking down?

2008 became the Year of the Meat Grinder. It tested my faith in people and helped me better understand the depth of Wheeler Wilcox words’ “Be glad, and your friends are many; be sad, and you lose them all.” My friends, although supportive at times, began to tire of my sullen situation and depression. Every time something would go wrong, I’d grow a little sadder and their patience stretched thinner. I became stressed and maybe even needy. There was a few times where I went to one of my friends crying because something else went wrong and all I was looking for was a, “It’ll be all right.” I wasn’t trying to push them away. Some days I just needed to be alone to recover, sometimes literally when my health hit low points or emotionally when I felt the world sucked. I knew I was asking a lot to have them be there for me so I would back off every one in a while; nevertheless, they just didn’t want to deal with me anymore. One of the girls, a real bitch with a face to match, took advantage of my absences. I should have seen it coming.

“OH my GOD, Mari is acting like such a bitch. I swear if I hear another thing about her stupid car, I’m going to vomit.”

“Maybe let’s not hang out with Mari today? What if she’s contagious?”

“Um, we probably shouldn’t call Mari. I don’t think she’s got any money anyway.”

Ugh, what a bitch. I hope she gets rabies.

It sucked because I thought I had found people I could rely on. I had no qualms about trusting them to help me through the worst of it. In four months, one intervened and played Brutus while the other followed like a pathetic sheep that bleated for attention. One fateful day, they called me to meet up at Chili’s. I knew what was going to happen. They were going to let me go, going to cut me from the team. I didn’t want to go, but I went anyway because I wasn’t going to run away from them. I arrived with my head up and expecting to be blown away by meanness.

I totally was.

When I arrived, they were already there sitting on one side of the booth, right next to a blazing guitar and a picture of Charlie Chaplin. My first clue that they were going to tag team my beat down. I sat across from them, and stared at a neon pepper on the wall. I don’t want to be here. After a humiliating display on my part at a Chili’s restaurant, they bombed the last of my spirit and our friendship ended. We had planned to live together the following semester. They dissolved that. It was the end of April too, so I only had a week before school ended to look for another place to live with other roommates.

“We haven’t been happy with the way you’ve been treating us.”

“You need to get your shit together.”

“I don’t think we should live together anymore.”

Shit. I didn’t have a place to live. How am I going to find new roommates and an apartment for next semester? I can’t afford to live by myself. SHIT. What am I going to do?

“My parents don’t want me to live with someone who’s emotionally and financially unstable.”

What? “What?”

Did… did they just call me poor? And bipolar?

They took the best of me and left me with nothing more than a snotty nose, red eyes and a bleak future.

Emotionally and financially unstable.

That’s what I was to them. Even though I’m not known for erratic behavior and I could recall quite clearly how some new oh-my-god-total-drama arose from bad hair, pregnancy scares or the need for a new wardrobe at least twice a month. I think what chipped away at my self-esteem most was the latter. Because I was “financially unstable”, I was ostracized. My car picked one hell of a time to break down and become the variable that made my budget fluctuate for a couple of months. Sorry they were filled with too much douche-baggery to realize my attitude deteriorated with my situation and my streak of bad luck didn’t come before my desperation. I believe it was crappy car, annoyance, the flu, irritation, my car again plus money spent, and finally depression. So what? Did it warrant that kind of harsh treatment? I thought the characters in “Mean Girls “were just characters.

Since then, I’d been lacking in the socializing department. Even though my new roommates who adopted me into their apartment were the greatest I could ask for, I didn’t want to put myself out here anymore. I keep imagining more assholes would come and shake the ladder as I tried to climb back up to feeling normal; but then, one girl I was beginning to know better invited me to join her and her friends on an anti-gravity birthday extravaganza. This was my chance for new friends, for a new social life and a new personality. I wouldn’t have ever considered falling from an absurd height with my old Scooby Gang. As if any one them would have even had the guts to do what I was thinking about doing. I accepted because even though I am a firm believer in the idea that humans shouldn’t fly unless surrounded by engines and heavy metal, I wanted to make a friend.

Any adrenaline junkie would cream their pants over Zero Gravity’s toys. At least 10 massive contraptions filled the lot. All of them guaranteed to get your blood pumping and lungs compressed. The hour and 18 minutes it took to get there I was thinking, Yeah, this isn’t that bad. I can do this. Loser people do this all the time and I’m not a loser! YES, this makes sense.

Zero Gravity’s location did not put me at ease either. Right in the middle of a patch-grass lot with one heavy-duty florescent light to lure unsuspecting citizens into their lawless clutches. Each ride consummates the art of big metal and elastic. More than half the group I’m with decides to do more than one “ride”. I faced my cowardice and bought one ticket: the freefall.

I’m an idiot, a moron, someone who can’t tell if the yellow one is the lemon or the lime. After a not-so-careful deliberation, I decided on the freefall –not the bungee where at least you have something tethering you, or the weird Superman swing where my engine and metal theory is half-fulfilled. I chose to drop 100 feet from a height of 150 feet because if I were a Crayola Crayon, Two Day Bruise would fit me best because I am NOT the brightest crayon in the box.

Four girls and one worker boarded the swaying white metal box that night. The box reminded me of those creepy crane contraptions window washers use to climb buildings, expect bigger and with more square area. All that stood between an accidental fall and me was one thick bar made of yellow-teeth metal. The tower we were to fall from looked like the Eiffel Tower, but with less metal and more fear. The box lifted us up to the top of the tower, which was 150 feet high. The instructor then hooked you onto a bungee cord and lowered you a few feet below the box. You were then released to fall approximately 100 feet into a net that stood 50 feet above the ground. Once you fell into the net and stopped bouncing, the net would slowly descend to the ground where you could live out the last of your adrenaline by running around and yelping out gratitude that you survived to yelp. And I just can’t stress the height enough. 100 feet to 150 feet –what the hell, why? Why was I doing this? Was I going to win a prize at the end? Like, what, honor? No. You don’t receive anything, not even those yellow smiley-face stickers.

I wasn’t allowed to wear my glasses to the top and our jackets stayed on the wonderfully solid ground. I feel like a cripple without my glasses. My eyes need glasses to see like old people need fake teeth for corn. As we rise up into the apex of the tower, the fact that I can’t see two feet ahead of me becomes less important as the night shifts to the foreground. It doesn’t matter if I can focus or not because there’s nothing to see except the fuzzy gloom and creeping steel. It’s just dark.

A black harness wrapped around our thighs, waist and back. I breathed in deep as the harness clicked together. One step closer to falling to my doom. It was like the harness committed my lengthy drop. The back lay stiffly against us to keep us from falling sideways when we fell. The instructor had us stand each against a corner of the box to keep it balanced. In an effort to comfort myself, I squinted at the instructor and started asking questions.

“Have people ever died up here?”

“Nope,” the instructor replied with confidence.

“Have you done this one before?”

“Oh yeah, it’s pretty awesome.”

“So how long have you been doing this?” I tried to focus on her instead of the groaning of the box.

“Two weeks.”

“………………… Oh.”

WHAT THE HELL? WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS! LIE TO ME DAMNIT.

“Wait, so…. Have you done this before?”

“Oh yeah, I do it like twice a day.”

What a freak.

Up that high and without my glasses, all I could see was darkness and blurry patches of light from streetlamps and houses. It’s hard to be scared when this pretty faux-space surrounded the outside of the lame little box. Like I mentioned before, I’m not afraid of heights. In fact I’m peachy keen standing up that high, just chillin’. I mean, we were all nervous but for them it was more like they knew they were getting a car for Christmas, and the apprehension came from not knowing if the car was cherry red or piss yellow. My anxiety felt more like waiting in line at the dentist’s for a root canal.

Then Birthday Girl went. The box had a hole right in the middle to lower people a few feet on a cord. The instructor released the unsuspecting victim without notice, probably because they thought it was funnier that way and because they were sick, sick people. She giggled and brayed as the instructor hooked her harness. I had avoided looking down but as my eyes followed her movements, I unintentionally focused on the ground. Or what I could see of it. We were so high up it didn’t matter if I was blind. I closed my eyes and cringed as the instructor released her. Her scream echoed off the metal of the tower as I gripped the box harder. The panicked litany in the back of my mind suddenly turned up the volume.

I don’t think I can do this. I REALLY don’t think I can do this. WHY did I agree to this!? I’m going to die. This is bad. OHMYGODWHATTHEFUCK.

Next up, a tiny girl who made me feel ashamed of my terror because of how eager she was to fall. We’re all looking at each other wide-eyed. The last two’s mouths slowly formed a smile whilst my face twisted and cringed and twitched from anxiety.

As Birthday Girl was lowered to the ground by the massive net, a conversation began.

“Oh my gosh, you guys, I’m so next!” said Bones.

“UGH, fine go ahead. But I’m totally next. Unless you wanna go, Mari?” the Eloquent One asked.

“NOPE. I’m great. Save the best for last right?”

Bones pranced forward in the box, smiling the whole time as the instructor hooked her on.

When she was released, my stomach constricted as her scream burrowed itself there. It bounced, jumped, and made me want to vomit.

“Are you OK?” I couldn’t tell who asked. I was too busy trying to keep my cool.

“Er, yeah totally. I’m super, thanks for asking.”

I think in this moment, the instructor and the Eloquent One took note of my internal panic attack because some sympathetic vibes were being thrown my way. I couldn’t see their faces but I felt the atmosphere grow heavy with anticipation. I gripped tighter, breathed deep and told myself this if I did this, I’d be a new me. New Mari would be way awesome and totally gnarly and kick ass on a day-to-day basis. Old Mari could stay up here crying and weeping, dreaming about the old days when friends didn’t abandon you because they didn’t want to deal with anything saddening. Old Mari had the self-confidence of a hairless Chihuahua and trust issues so bad, Fox Mulder could have been her idol. New Mari would have the strength to tear down comfort zones and build new relationships. New Mari would be victorious.

Another scream shook me out of my awesome trance. Apparently, during my me-to-me monologue, the last one had dived right onto the cord and let loose a yell as gravity violently brought her down.

The instructor asked if I was ready. I took a deep breath.

“I can’t do this.”

“Fuck it. No way am I doing this, this is crazy. I’m a coward, I can’t, I really really can’t, I want to go down, don’t make me fall, Ireallydon’tthinkIcandothis,” I said as I fumbled for breath.

“What? Seriously? You won’t get a refund. I’ll take you down but you’re going to regret it.”

She stared at me like I wasn’t about sit on the box and cling for my life.

I started crying. I felt the tears sting trails against my cheeks because of the cold.

“You can do it. I’ve seen lots of people almost back out of this and not regret falling. C’mon, I’ll just strap you in and you can get a feel for it and decide if you don’t want to do this.”

I thought about it. The least I could do after paying $20 is get strapped in and at least think I could go through with this. I nodded and very slowly started to make my way towards her, the whole time trying to hold back my sobs.

It was pathetic. The second I heard the click of the harness I clung to the rail of the box.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Yes you can. C’mon, just let me lower you a bit. It’s not like you get a chance at this every day. I promise I’ll bring you back up if you don’t like it.” What a bitch. She could have been one smooth salesperson in a past life.

“I’m really scared.” My voice wavered as tears bubbled in my throat.

“Let’s go,” she said sternly.

“…OK.”

I unclenched my hands and fisted them into my thighs. My head was bent and my shoulders sank as she slowly lowered me down from the box.

“You’ll be fine. I bet you can do this. Are you sure you want to go down?”

My breathing slowed and I finally took the time to assess my situation.

I looked up to her, my eyes watery and my face blotchy. “Pull me back up,” I said as calmly as I could, clutching the harness cord tightly in my fists.

“I was out of my mind before. I’m thinking rationally now. Pull me back up.”

The instructor smirked. That bitch. “Nope, sorry. Once you’re there I can’t pull you back up.”

That lying bitch.

“Are you ready?”

A whimpered reply.

“No”.

A click and coil of the rope later, I fell.

One Mississippi.

I screamed. I closed my eyes and screamed as loud and with as much force as I could. It didn’t help.

Two Mississippi.

My muscles clenched and I stopped breathing. My stomach disappeared into my throat and my knees clamped so tight I think I could’ve crushed a walnut. I wish I could say it felt like being on a rollercoaster but sadly, I’ve never been on one. Way to fly before I walk.

Three Mississippi.

“When am I going to hit?” The last thoughts of a human on the verge of death.

Apparently, it takes approximately three seconds for the human body to cover 100 feet.

I didn’t notice hitting the net. It took me another second to reorient myself but as soon as I felt something beneath me I hooked my talons in and didn’t let go. A sob of relief escaped as I tried to regain control over my muscles.

The ground was the highlight of my night. My back thumped softly as the net reached ground zero. It took me another second before I realized I could let go. My eyes opened as I re-oriented myself. I shakily grabbed my breath and bearing as I looked around.

Everyone was clapping, probably because they realized the minute longer it took for me to strap into the harness was spent crying like a little bitch.

I smiled. “Welcome to your new life, Mari. Face your fears and all that jazz.”

Old Mari could stay in the box, looking down at what she’s missing out on. The healing process was complete. Old Mari never would have done that, nevermind the fact that I was tricked.

I blinked the tears from eyes and looked up to the cheering of the instructor.

“YOU DID IT!”

The hallelujah resonated throughout the park.

Yeah I did. And I won’t ever do it again.

Maybe.

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