At seven years old, I wanted to be a writer. At seven years old I had long, brown, wavy, hippie-style hair with a hint of red when it was allowed to be seen by the sun. At seven years old, I wrote my morals in stone. Actually, I should say “moral,” because I had only one. I made up my mind that never in my life would I ever under any circumstances do illegal drugs.

I was only seven and had already seen the horrific affects drugs had on my friends, family, and neighborhood. I watched my next-door neighbors being dragged away by the men in their blue uniforms as the sun beamed off their silver badges and into my curious, youthful eyes. I saw the hurt in the children’s eyes as their grandma cradled them in her fragile, worn–out arms. Her eyes made her easy to read, for the whole world co

During my eleventh year on earth, my parents spontaneously made a decision to move to my dad’s “hometown.” I was not included on the decision-making committee; perhaps they thought my feeble mind could not make such a decision. But yes they sure thought my feeble mind could handle the drastic change that was about to occur. My mind couldn’t handle it. In fact, my mind was the first thing to rebel. Next, my heart hardened toward everything and everyone. I found acceptance to some degree while hanging with the kids who dressed in all black with at least three abnormal piercing each. Although they were labeled the “freaks”, they were my only source of reality. Everything else in my perplexed world was pushed as deep as can be pushed in the back of an eleven-year-olds mind. I was hurting, confused, and so completely empty.

One night, long after the city curfew, we were all roaming the town looking for something to do, like a mother bear searching for her cub. We’ve done this many times before, and the cops never bothered us. Tonight they must have been bored, because they flashed their lights and turned on their sirens while following us through fiel

Some topics in this essay:
Orleans Louisiana, , moral choice, feeble mind,