any editing would be appreciated!
Every morning, I stand in reminiscence of a broken reflection. I have my mother's eyebrows, dark brown pupils, and slightly flat nose. Everything else remains a mystery.
My biological father is a forbidden subject. Thirteen years ago, my mother tore me out of his arms. He stood against the winter wind, eyes blazed, tight jawed and fists clenched. I was thrust into a vehicle, my tears withheld. My face pressed against the frozen glass. His flare, soaked and torn as he stared after us. We vanished, much like the distant memories of him.
I wonder if someday I'll see him again. The same man with the vehement semblance that grew smaller and smaller as we drove away. So far, my reflection has become a constant reminder that I only knew half of my identity.
These thoughts never left as I matured. Obsession motivated me to secretly prowl through my mother's personal documents. Slowly, the pieces fell together, and finally, a ten digit number was in my possession. Just ten numbers. Ten numbers answering my every question. Ten numbers restoring the bleached memories of a man I never knew. Ten numbers completing the broken reflection I stared into every morning. Ten numbers that could fix me.
Yet as I picked up the phone and pushed on the first digit, I paused. My entire existence flashed before my eyes. For the first time in seventeen years, I saw myself as a whole. I was neither a broken piece nor a fragile reflection; it didn't matter that I'll probably never see the man who resembles my other half. Thomas Szasz once noted in The Second Sin, "The self is not something one finds; it's something one creates". My identity is constructed from my personal experiences. I do not live to seek myself in others, but instead I create my own image.
(awkward transition). People tell me I walk with purpose. Shoulders back. Chest leveled. Head high. Eyes looking straight ahead. In a sea of students racing for the cafeteria, lunch time is my greatest battle. I hoist my backpack as I maneuver through the crowd. Thirty minutes to drop off my papers for teachers, interview the campus aid, print out lab notes, stop by the counseling office and finally, grab lunch with friends. At times, there is no indication of a clear path, but my determination urges me to push on. I learn to bypass everyone in my way, keeping my eyes focused on my goal. As I cross off each item on my to-do list at the end of the day, I feel invincible. A sense of satisfaction engulfs me as I realize not only have I created an identity I can call my own, but I've also become my own motivation. When I didn't have a man who was there to cheer me on as I slid backwards down the slide for the first time, I simply learned to cheer on myself.
Every morning, I stand in reminiscence of a broken reflection. I have my mother's eyebrows, dark brown pupils, and slightly flat nose. Everything else remains a mystery.
My biological father is a forbidden subject. Thirteen years ago, my mother tore me out of his arms. He stood against the winter wind, eyes blazed, tight jawed and fists clenched. I was thrust into a vehicle, my tears withheld. My face pressed against the frozen glass. His flare, soaked and torn as he stared after us. We vanished, much like the distant memories of him.
I wonder if someday I'll see him again. The same man with the vehement semblance that grew smaller and smaller as we drove away. So far, my reflection has become a constant reminder that I only knew half of my identity.
These thoughts never left as I matured. Obsession motivated me to secretly prowl through my mother's personal documents. Slowly, the pieces fell together, and finally, a ten digit number was in my possession. Just ten numbers. Ten numbers answering my every question. Ten numbers restoring the bleached memories of a man I never knew. Ten numbers completing the broken reflection I stared into every morning. Ten numbers that could fix me.
Yet as I picked up the phone and pushed on the first digit, I paused. My entire existence flashed before my eyes. For the first time in seventeen years, I saw myself as a whole. I was neither a broken piece nor a fragile reflection; it didn't matter that I'll probably never see the man who resembles my other half. Thomas Szasz once noted in The Second Sin, "The self is not something one finds; it's something one creates". My identity is constructed from my personal experiences. I do not live to seek myself in others, but instead I create my own image.
(awkward transition). People tell me I walk with purpose. Shoulders back. Chest leveled. Head high. Eyes looking straight ahead. In a sea of students racing for the cafeteria, lunch time is my greatest battle. I hoist my backpack as I maneuver through the crowd. Thirty minutes to drop off my papers for teachers, interview the campus aid, print out lab notes, stop by the counseling office and finally, grab lunch with friends. At times, there is no indication of a clear path, but my determination urges me to push on. I learn to bypass everyone in my way, keeping my eyes focused on my goal. As I cross off each item on my to-do list at the end of the day, I feel invincible. A sense of satisfaction engulfs me as I realize not only have I created an identity I can call my own, but I've also become my own motivation. When I didn't have a man who was there to cheer me on as I slid backwards down the slide for the first time, I simply learned to cheer on myself.