I have published my latest short story in Cardinal Arts Journal (the literary arts journal at Gadsden State Community College https://cardinalartsjournal.org/telling-our-stories )
Carnival
The Carnival came every year in the summer and took over 91st Street west of Commercial Ave. There was a Ferris wheel. There was also a Tilt-a-World, a ride that spinned you around the platform while rotating you in place. I looked down at the asphalt and my mind played out my skull crushing into the ground. When the ride ended I threw up next to my sister. While I was panicking she was laughing aloud while looking at me. We walked home.
I saw Bree, my friend from school. She is black. She sat on my lap once (more than once) when the teacher, Mrs. Collins (Eternal Rest) was away. She claimed me. She was there by herself. She was talking to a roadie, one of the workers, a white guy older than her. We were only thirteen. He must have been in his twenties. He gave her a plushed, stuffed animal. She looked down and let her bangs and long hair fall over her face.
I had never seen her alone. She was my crush. I thought she wasn’t in danger. She had little brothers who I saw her with. She always put out the “horses” on the street. The horses were blue, wood signs that blocked the street and had “Chicago Police Department” on them in white. The horse was a blue, wood long plank with two pairs of legs on each side end resembling a pyramid. She and other volunteers used to get out of school early to put out the wooden structures and wait until the after school crowd calmed down. She used to ask the teacher “Are we going to put out the horses?” Mrs. Collins would say “wait,” showing her manicured nails in red or brown. She used to sometimes smoke a cigarette. She at times smelled like it. After we came back from lunch. Our Math teacher who had the next door classroom was nicer and taught us in a better way than Mrs. Collins. Perhaps because we only had a limited amount of time for our Math class before we had to “switch” back to our regular classroom, Mrs. Butler gained a reputation for being warm, guided by sympathy and empathy, and a force to understand. Her Math was not hard to understand even though it was from textbooks and on grade-level. Her tests and quizzes were passable. Our understanding of Math grew with our understanding of her.
My mom never attended the Carnival with us that weekend. It lasted three days. I remember the Blockbuster in that corner was still open but closing down. My friend Chema used to rent video games from the store and take me.
The next day I walked the grounds again. The carnival was not same. There were less people and less rides. There was not much food except popcorn. The carnival eventually stopped coming. On the second day, my mom finally went with us. My sister won a stuffed animal (a giant Winnie-the-Pooh) and took it home. She won it at the water gun station shooting the gun to race the rubber duckling to the top.
We are born but never die. When we are created by our father and mothers we are created as a soul. A soul is born. At conception a soul is born. A soul does not die even when the body dies. The soul goes on. Our faithful departed are alive through their souls.
My sister never met Bree. When I was little, women that I loved were always around me. My mom and my sister are the two women I love unconditionally. I loved Bree the way I loved them, but I had to let her know. The image of me seeing her talking to a carnie (a Carnival worker) much older and me doing nothing is traumatic. She was only thirteen. She was talking to the carnie as if she was flirting. I stared and wanted to tell her to come with me. I stared and stared. I could not understand. I was by myself that Friday after school with her. She had a cup of corn with cheese crumbles and butter and chili powder. I wondered where her mom was. I remember she had a dog.
“The dog is fierce. The dog chased me around the block,” she told our mutual friend Chattel one day during class. Bree was my girlfriend. She was in a relationship with me, but we loved each other how we could. That day we were looking for each other. I heard her call. I saw that she was alone and she needed me by her side. She seemed to be looking for love. She needed to be safe by my side. I told my mom when I got home, “I saw her. She was by herself. She didn’t have a partner with her, or her parents or brothers or sisters,” I furthered exclaimed. I wanted to take her home. She was one of the girls I liked. I had other friends in the classroom who were girls. Vero, Lorena, and Erica. They were Hispanic like me, and two of them had a boyfriend.
Lorena once passed the girlfriend note to me.
“Hey I found this paper. Did you write it?” I asked her.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I said no,” I said.
“It does not matter who the note is from,” she said with slight anger. She took the note and crumbled it up. I saw her a couple of years later when we were in high school driving her car. She parked in front of my house. She was living with a boyfriend and had a baby. I remember she was pregnant. I was happy for her. I was happy for her. I remember another Lorena who I had a crush on.
She used to ditch school and hang out in the neighborhood. I saw her a couple of times walking down 88th looking to hang out. She did not want to go home. She wanted to escape from home and school. I always wanted to invite her to hang out when I saw her. She had blonde hair, wore her light blue jeans, and had blue eyes. She only spoke Spanish since she had recently arrived in the U.S. from Mexico. I liked her a lot. I had a huge crush on her. I saw her three times and waved at her the third time. She waved back and said aloud, “Hi, Rodrigo.” I was glad we were talking and looking for each other. I wondered where her mom was when she was out in the streets. I never had a real girlfriend until my junior year of high school. I was sixteen and she was fourteen. She asked me out and I said yes. We made out. Our relationship lasted a couple of days. I walked her home one day along with another friend (her ex boyfriend who was jealous and wanted to get back together with her and see us apart). She probably wanted to get away from her ex since he was dating someone else (me). I was the last and he was the first. I even took her home. She kissed me in the intersection before she went home. We were on her corner. Her home was North of mine. We had to cross 87th which was the neighborhood border. She lived in The Bush, a neighborhood along 83rd. I was in South Chicago on 88th. The kids from the neighborhood were not supposed to cross the borders because of violence. Even though I was never in a gang the kids still used to get beat up. There were always people on the news or kids (especially after the fifty schools closed in CPS in 2013 years later) of kids being shot, hurt, or killed because they were walking in a neighborhood that was not their own.
The same day I saw Bree, my mom and sister attended the Carnival (a block away) with me. Bree was gone. My mom paid for the scary Tilt-a-Whirl spinning ride where I thought I would smash my head on the pavement. We walked the one block East-to-West that the traveling
Carnival took over. I never saw her until the next Monday in school. (The Carnival was Friday, Saturday, and Sunday). She began to miss mysterious days from school. She used to hug me and hold me for a long time. Her body felt right in mine. My mom that day spent a few dollars from babysitting to attend the carnival. We did not have any money, but we survived. We were destitute at times but had hope. We lived-off welfare. The Carnival also had a Ferris Wheel that I was scared to get into. My mom and sister got in. I waited for them at the bottom of the ride. I looked up at them and my sister waved. I waved back. When she got out she was enthused, relaxed, and determined to make the most of the event. In past years, the Carnival was bigger. It was the same Carnival, company, and family. Their business got smaller. This was in the early 2000’s. I remember being in seventh grade, thirteen, and the year was 2001. I miss her hair. She had long black soft hair. It curled slightly around her face. She had cat-like eyes. They were big, white, and black. She loved me most when I did not try to catch her. She came to me and snuggled up with me at times. I liked her.
My sister who was in fifth grade met Bree once. My mom picked up my sister. I could go home by myself in those days. She waved hi to me when she was by the “horses.” My mom asked me who she was, “She’s Bree, ma,” I said. She could tell we were involved, in love, or attracted to each other. Ella me quiere, I thought. The next year I did not come back. I changed classrooms. I kept seeing her in the hallways. I kept missing her. I wanted to hug her again.
The Friday before the Carnival at dismissal she was by the “horses” with the Chicago Police Department sign and she rejected my plea for mercy. The thought is wrong, but she showed a lot of mercy, love, and compassion. She did not care where I came from, who I was, or how I smelled. She cared about me. There was something attracting us to each other. Something beyond the physical connected our love although the physicality offered by touch (intimacy) and provided a congruence of souls. During breaks when my teacher would be outside the classroom she would jump up and calmly walk to my desk (which was grouped together with three other desks of students for a complete four) and sit on my lap. I kept my hands still. I got close to her neck. She would stare back over her shoulder and catch my eyes. The beauty of her eyes would melt me right away. She would freeze me. I understood we were dating in our sense, or our own thirteen year old way. I knew she loved me, and I loved her. She blew a kiss over her shoulder once when she was sitting on my lap. I was flabbergasted. I was picked but happy. I wanted to figure out how to kiss her (for real). I needed her lips. I have a vague memory of her actually kissing me and me getting red in the cheeks. We did not kiss again. Another girl transferred in the middle of second semester, a Hispanic/Latina girl, who sat next to Bree in her desk group. Bree did not come to me that often. She was mad of course. I flirted with the new girl, Brenda, and she flirted with me. Everyone knew we were going to date, but I did not want to leave Bree. What if Bree and I start dating? I thought. My friend Veronica once asked me, “Who do you like?” I could not answer. She wanted to set up our Question-and-Answer (our boyfriend girlfriend asking scene) event for Brenda and me. We were supposed to ask each other out and ask each other if we wanted to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I sincerely answered, “I don’t know,” and shook my head. Did I like Brenda? Was it because everyone assumed we liked each other? Or, was I hiding my feelings for Brenda to stay loyal to Bree? Bree showed her frustration over our deep friendship and lack of flirting by being on behavior and letting me know she was upset. We would caress each other and now we did it less. We were almost intimate. One day we were having a free period in our classroom. Music was playing. Some people had candy (sour apple gummies) to share. We were all standing on the edges of the classroom leaning against tables and walls. She was by the board. She was holding a number two pencil. I was on the opposite end. She pointed the pencil with the lead side out and launched it at me. It missed. She grabbed another one, and I started moving around. She let it go. She then grabbed another pencil when I calmed down and again I moved around. She screamed at me in a low-tone, “Rodrigo, stand still. I can’t hit a moving target!”
After that things were confusing. The event I mentioned when she neglected me was not major. I did not ask her out, and I did not ask her for affections although none of those things she would have rejected. I asked her to sign my yearbook. This is wrong. I remember the love and all the things she did right. She loved me and took care of me. She used her affection to let me know she had faith in us and our relationship. She had the sun in her face and said, “it’s too hot!” and handed me the yearbook back. I walked away, I was sweating as well. I walked home with Lorena, Veronica, and Erica’s signatures on my yearbook, but not the one I had a crush on. I knew I had to do something. My mind is always on her. How did she grow up? Is she still in South Chicago? Did she move out of South Chicago and come back like me (only to get kicked out again)? Did she have kids? How many? Is she married? Will she marry me? The Holy Bible states to marry your childhood friend. To marry someone without noise. To stay away from the promiscuous woman because she has bad intentions. There is a different woman for each category above in my life. She is the childhood friend. I am sure we all have our one childhood friend we thought we were going (or wish) to marry (maybe high school boyfriends/girlfriends, friends from grammar school, and people you see as adults from your childhood). They are the ones that got away. The usual love story involves two lovers (like Romeo and Juliet) that find their love while everyone in their world tries to break them apart (other suitors, parents, and jealous elders and enemies). I forgive her. That is what I want to say, and I want to love her again.
When I used to visit my mom I felt her presence on the way to the train station. At times, I felt her scream and cry when I got on the train on 87th and State (the Red Line). These are friends that I cherish and would gladly get back together with them.
Those two days of school and Carnival were memorable. They were the two days I remember the most about Bree, and my experience with the Carnival. I spent the rest of semester with Bree and Mrs. Collins. I never had a real girlfriend in seventh grade. I waited and waited while everyone started dating. I knew I was loyal (to Bree). I remember Mrs. Butler and her voice. Her voice was gentle. We all struggled that year and we unified as a class. She was taught by the teacher. She was the one who she called when the teacher needed favors to be run. She had younger siblings. One time she wore short jean shorts and I felt comfortable and close to
her.
The lunchroom that day (the day of the Yearbook-a Friday) was weird. No one ate food. The whole class would starve for six hours plus of the school day. We all walked to the benches in the lunchroom while everyone else ate their food. We would go into the lunch line together. I don’t know why. If one person got lunch more people would enter the lunch line. But if one of the leaders (like Bree) ignored the lunch line and sat on the bench we would all follow. That day we sat in the bright orange lunch benches with black trimming and stayed in silence. Food was our alimentation. Food was how we took care of ourselves. Food brings us together. Why did we not eat? Did we not want to get along? I am sure we would have acted nicer with full stomachs.
We should have a conversation with food while eating. She was a good writer.
We kept growing up (here and there we met with a slight glance at each other). We kept living and believing we would see each other again soon. I always reached out to her when I was walking alone on Commercial. I would look for her. I looked her up on Facebook. I messaged her. Now, I wonder how she is. I wonder who can bring us back together besides us. I need to find grace and speak to her. God thank you for Bree. I have a thought of potato chowder. It has to have salt. Bree had a sexual body. We were young and noticing ourselves. We jumped on each other and our bodies. She sat in mine. I welcome her. I felt her body lay on mine. I felt her presence. I felt her butt on my scrotum. I felt her weight on me. I welcomed it. I ran my fingers down her spine feeling her bra strap on the way. I did it multiple times. She curved her back. I loved it. I held her hands. I leaned my head against her back. I held her close. I felt her hips. I went all the way to the (most) bottom part of her back while she was sitting on me. I did it again and again. We were thirteen. We needed to fly.
I miss her dearly. One time my future eighth grade professor caught us (found us) handling each other (hugging each other-I held her for a long time). We were under the stairs leading up to the old building (the old building was connected to the new building through a hallway). He came up to us and asked angrily, “What are you doing?” We let go of each other and walked on. Why did he have to do that? I thought to myself as I let her go. Mr. P went up the stairs in silence. I followed after him confused. He kept looking forward. Going up the stairs he looked upset, angry yet wanted to say something else to me. I understood my relationship with Bree. Her body always called me. I instantly leaned in to her and told her I loved her with my body.
I did not like it when other people touched her. There was one other guy, Rae, who touched her body and she ran away from him. My friend Ruben touched her once her and she told him no. We were able to keep ourselves safe. We were able to still keep ourselves together.
She looked at my eyes when she drove other men away. At thirteen, I felt like her man. Mrs.
Collins never objected to our touching.
I need to calm down and be me.
I shared candy with her. She shared “Now and Laters” with me. We shared our hands. We held hands together. We also shared food when we had it. We shared love. We shared our writing. She had a best friend who was Chantel. She also had a real boyfriend. They were always together. Out of a sense of rightness, they never talked about me. I admired and loved their friendship. She was the smartest girl and student in class. She was the teacher’s pet. She was the prettiest girl in the classroom. She was the center of everyone’s attention. She behaved as if all eyes were on her (at all times). She had long, shoulder-length, straight hair. One time she curled her hair (it must have been picture day). She looked beautiful, gorgeous, and her eyes radiated a confidence (constructed by her beauty). She looked like a princess from a fairy tale Disney movie waiting to come down a glittering staircase. I saw her as a princess. She was gorgeous. She had small breasts. She had a big butt for her age. She had a skinny body. Her tummy was flat. Her arms were thin. Her face was triangular and skinny. Her eyes were the main emphasis of her face. Her face started at her eyes (two points which were the main feature of her face) and elongated down into her chin. Her lips were delicious. They were small, but her lips accentuated her face. Her lips were rosy.
We got along fine. We dated how we dated and were friends how we were friends. We were classmates, crushes, and teammates in life. I always wanted to love her. She was the one I wanted to be with. I asked her for sex once. She told another classmate that I had asked her. I was less than ten feet away. I heard the words “sex” and it did not feel good. She lowered her head turned to the right and told the guy. I saw her lips move, her teeth together, ready to pronounce the “s” sound. I asked her one day when I was outside. I was in my white polo shirt. I was by the horses waiting for her to talk to me. I wanted her deeply (and her kisses) like a kid who wants a Popsicle and wants more once it’s gone and eaten.
“Do you want to have sex?“ I asked.
She was shy. Her face was red. She was obviously shy. It was the first time I saw her face red with anguish. She did not look in my eyes afterwards. She looked down at her shoes. The next day she told the guy who was in her desk group. The guy looked at me not out of jealousy, but out of disappointment. Why’d you have to ask her? I read his eyes. He was angry that I was slacking and not acting. The girl was mine and she came to me. I never understood why that happened.
I was always urging for her presence. I was always fantasizing about her. I would go home and think of her. I missed her when I was not with her. I felt lonely and alone without her at home even though I was with my mom. When I was with her at school I felt elated, happy, and
satisfied.
I thought about Bree every second that I was away from her. I thought about her when I wanted to write. I thought about her when I wanted to love. I thought about her when I wanted to live. I needed to pray. Bree was my life. Bree was who I wanted to be with. I did not care. I saw the hairs in the back of her neck and wanted to kiss her neck. I loved her the way I love everyone else. While she sat on my lap I wanted to love her, kiss her back, touch her body. I wanted to touch her butt, I wanted to kiss her lips, I wanted to kiss her eyelids. l wanted to tell her that we could date. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be alright. I wanted to live. I wanted to live with her. I wanted to love her. The seventh grade was my best grade. It was the grade I fell in love. Seventh grade with Mrs. Collins and Bree was the grade to grow up, to learn to cry, and to laugh. I wanted to let her know I was there for her. I wanted to go through school with her. She did not go to Chicago Discovery Academy (CDA) on the Bowen High School campus. She might have gone to another school, a charter school, or moved. She must have gone to main Bowen school.
When I was in high school I remember that I saw Kanye West in the fourth floor attic room give a surprise concert. They chased him down the hallway after the concert. I stayed still. The floor was a bright, yellow-gold, hardwood floor. The attic had a stage and he brought a sound system. This was in 2006 before he went big and the year his initial album came out.
I spent the seventh grade with Bree. We kept touching each other, hugging each other, and talking to each other. When we switched classrooms with Mrs. Butler (for Math and Science) she sat far away from me. I dreaded when we switched classrooms. It meant her being in another desk group not close to mine. She had a best friend, Chantel, who she got along with fine. She also, Chantel, was a classroom girlfriend. They were legit, meaning they were true, they kissed each other in the classroom, and made known to the world that they loved each other. I struggled to make my relationship known to others. Other than our special moments when we cradled each other while she was on my lap (we did not have much privacy). The days when we did not touch each other I was frustrated, sad, and down. I desperately wanted to find a way to hug her by the end of the day. I wandered around her desk group, throwing away the trash, or hanging by the door (sharpening my pencil). She looked over her shoulder while I walked behind her. She looked behind both her shoulders wondering if I would (and waiting for me to) touch her. I wanted to and that was my aim. I wanted to let her know that we were still together. I wanted to leave with my heart in one piece. Her eyes always told me “Come” and “I love you.”
I never found her again. I never took control like I should. I never could give her the love she and I deserved. She is lost now to me. I have hope I will find her, hopefully soon. I hope she has pitbulls and still runs from them. I hope she is a mom. I hope she is happy. I want to tell her that day meant nothing to me. I saw you in danger Bree (I want to tell her). I never wanted you to be alone. I should have called you. I should have taken you away from that man. I should have forgiven you and talked to you. I want to say in this letter if you read this that I want to meet. I want to know if we can sip hot chocolate. I want to know what kind of seafood you like. I want to know what time you sleep. I want to know if you drive your kids to school. I want to know your husband. I want to know your kids. I want to know if you remember my mom. I need to know grace. I want to know if you like beer and what kind. I want to know if you like New York City. I want to know if I should go back to Chicago. I want to know if you have been to California. I want to let you know that I love my mom. I want to let you know that I love you as well. I want to tell you that I have been reading Thomas Pynchon and Gravity’s Rainbow. It is non-sensical in the way that I understand the novel is supposed to make sense only if you follow one plot. I have also started Othello by William Shakespeare. I want to tell you I understand the roles are changed. Do you remember when I read Harry Potter aloud? Do you remember the vocabulary words we had to write every morning, and the sentences, paragraphs, and stories we had to write? I liked that part of our classroom routine the most. I want to tell you that we are thirty-five years old (you are thirty-four). I want to tell you I met a girl in student-teaching and her name was Destiny. I want to tell you I write narratives. I found a girl in San Francisco from the suburbs of Chicago that I met ten years ago. I recognized her right away, I want to tell you we are not lost. I want to tell you I need to write. I want to tell you I want to learn how to write. In order for me to write I need to read more. I have to finish the novel I am reading. I want to know how to write a serious novel. I want to write what I read. When will I get to that level? I want to tell you there is a plot for our story. It has not ended but it began.
I want to tell you that I passed seventh-grade and went onto eight. I got transferred to Mr. P’s classroom at the request of my mom. You probably saw me and this is known information as you remember. He was the teacher of M., my eldest brother, and my mom wanted some continuance. My sister also transferred to his classroom two years later. I also made it to high school. I know we wanted to wear the purple Bowen High School shirts for the eight-grade Rising Program, but they discontinued the program in our eighth grade year. I made it to Bowen, at least to the campus. I went to Chicago Discovery Academy: CDA. I am not sure where you went to high school. Maybe you went to Bowen as well. I want to let you know that I made it to college, but I also want to tell you I skipped my freshman year at Bowen. I went to Carver
Military Academy. It was alright. I had a job as a junior lifeguard at sports 37 with After School Matters, the after school job program at age fourteen. We had to get a work permit because we were under sixteen. I swam and swam afraid to sink in the school’s pool. I could never float without foot fins although I could swim from one end to the other login diagonally. I enjoyed my first year there although I wanted to come back home and go to our neighborhood school. I want to let you know that I applied and got into The University of Illinois at Springfield. I liked my time there. I met my first roommate and friend K. there. I also rode the train, the long Amtrak ride from Chicago to Springfield. I also wrote for the student newspaper. I met neat people there. The Black students on campus did not get a lot of support although some persevered and came back for sophomore year. I then went The Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio. I spent a year there and then transferred happily to Northern Illinois University in Dekalb, IL. I went to school to come back home. I came back home after college at the age of twenty-three. I spent a year at home then moved to Albany Park. I moved around the city. I also visited Dekalb again a couple of times. I joined a frat. I had a girlfriend. I went to Northeastern Illinois University. I worked at Wal-Mart. I bussed tables at Gino’s East in downtown. I kept visiting my mom in South Chicago. I keep looking for you and thought I would run into you. I want to let you know that I don’t have kids. I want to tell you that I want to be a father. There is a possibility I will be living in South Chicago soon. I will probably see you soon. I want to let you know I miss you. I have been to Mireles Academy again. I once went into the Assembly Hall to see a performance of my nephew Dan for a concert. The room looked and smelled the same. There was not any noise since they could not figure out the sound system. I remember Mr. L. was trying to fix his laptop. I went with my mom at the top of the hall waiting for the concern to start. They never let us up there. Now I was up there.
I never doubted our ability to get along. I once doubted our ability to share a kiss. I never doubted our ability to touch. I once doubted whether we should be together, but those thoughts went away. I wonder when this obsession over the past will simmer down. Will meeting calm our enthusiasm over each other, or merely increase it? What if we do not have plans? What if I meet you on the train? What if we meet and get along without knowing each other’s names? How sweet will that be? What if I say hi and you don’t? That would be painful. What I have written before has happened? And dreams that I write down never turn true. Only the dreams that I have and do not write down turn true. Do you ever have an image and then that image turns true. You discover how wrong you are. But you can avoid these images. We have free will. Our free will comes from Above, from our Creator, from ourselves. We have the free will to sin. But what is sinning? Sinning is doing wrong and going against the image of right which is God. Will you harm someone when you know you are harming? What will become of teachers? How will they teach? What will they teach?
Sincerely,
Rodrigo Haro
