Tag: creative non-fiction
The Day I Died About 3 Times
by The Cowl Editor on November 19, 2018
Creative Non-Fiction
by Jessica Polanco ’20
I remember being able to see nothing. It was pitch-black and all I could hear were crickets, moths buzzing near my ear, thunder and branches cracking under my feet. I was surrounded by people I had only met one month ago. We were stuck in the middle of a hiking trail in North Kingstown, Rhode Island. The sun had betrayed us about 40 minutes ago and the only light we had to rely on was the strength of the flashlights of two iPhones.
An hour ago, Irfan was showing Dev and me how to measure the horizon to calculate how many hours we had left before the sun went down. At this moment, everyone insisted on continuing down the trail knowing the rest of it was going to take us like another hour and a half, while I begged them to turn around. I knew the sun was about to set and we would get stuck trying to find our way out. Gracefully, they agreed to turn back.
Irfan was leading the group because he claimed, in his Middle Eastern accent, that he got us, he had done this a million times back when he lived in Afghanistan. I believed him, until we lost the dots on the trees ahead of us and we almost landed in the pond near us. In my head, I was praying to God to guide us, but out loud all I could say was, “We’re going to be okay right guys!?” Everyone seemed to be pretty nonchalant, even after getting off trail so I decided to hide my anxiety. I chose to put all my trust in my friends. I didn’t know how we were going to get out of the woods at that very moment but somehow, I knew we would get out, even if it meant waiting for the sun to give us light.
Anthony, who stood in the back of the pack, remembered which way to go. Don’t ask me how he remembered what pile of branches were the right ones to lead the way. I guess it was a good idea to mark every tree that stood at every mile we walked and placed water bottles to remind us when it was time to turn around. Thankfully, we were back on track and I was able to see the dots on the trees again. This time we followed the guide on the hike trail app.
“Did you guys hear that?” Tyler whispered into our ears.
I tried to listen closely over all the bugs who wouldn’t shut up.
“What did you hear Tyler?” I asked.
“Those gun shots.”
“Yeah, I heard them too,” claimed Anthony.
Everyone seemed to hear them, except for me.
“Um, what?” I said, “Are you sure that’s not just the thunder we heard earlier?”
“No Jess, I grew up in the hood where I was forced to learn the difference, I know those were gun shots,” Anthony reminded me.
I began to panic. Plans A through Z ran through my head. How the hell are we going to get out of here? All of my power to control my destiny kept slipping away. What if those people with the guns had planned to close us in once we were driving up to the trail? What if they had known we were the only ones in those woods? Did they know we were unprotected? Irfan witnessed me panic in silence, he knew I wasn’t built for this lifestyle so he yelled, “Alright, alright guys, come on, Jess is going crazy, let’s chill out and focus.” I admired the fact that Irfan was looking out for me, and most importantly that he made an effort to keep me from worrying. I admired it even more when the rest of my friends did too. I wasn’t sure if they were recollecting their sanity just for me or for the sake of their own fear. Whatever it was, my heart accepted their kindness and my instincts assured me I’d be fine.
We kept walking and every time someone’s foot landed I heard their breaths getting louder and louder. Every bone that belonged to the bottom of my leg kept begging me to stop but all I could focus was on the end goal; the end of this trail. I still couldn’t see anything, Irfan was in front of me and my grip to his shirt kept getting tighter and tighter. I held on like my life depended on it. My left leg let go of the ground and when it landed on the wooden bridge built over the tiny pond, I felt the ground shake. I screamed out of exhaustion of thinking that I reached the end of my life. Irfan laughed, “Sorry Jess, I should’ve warned you the bridge was wobbly. You’re fine don’t worry!” I slapped his back in a friendly way, I hated him for not warning me. He knew I was scared as hell. As I began to recollect my breath, I looked up and saw my car. I rubbed my eyes to see that I wasn’t hallucinating. We finally made it to the end. I hurried to the driver seat, remembering we heard gun shots forty minutes ago. Everyone jumped into the car trying to warn the mosquitos that we would kill them if they tried to jump in with us, and we hurried on out of there.
City Walking
by Portfolio Co-Editor on October 4, 2018
Creative Non-Fiction
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
“Last stop, everybody! Don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here!” The conductor’s shout pulls me out of my sleep. The train slowly rolls to a stop at the station, and I drag my body off the seat. I get in the line of people, and we trudge our way through the train till we get to the doors. I put my headphones on and turn the music up to 11. Once I am off the train, I get into one of the infinite lines of people packed together that are trying to make it out of the station. I look at my phone and see that I am late, which means the race has already begun.
I begin to bob and weave through the lanes of people to get out of the station as quickly as I can. One second I am in the middle, and the next I am in the right line. I am merging in and out of lines like I’m driving 80 on the highway at night. The mass of people all quickly become a blur, as everyone becomes indistinguishable. Brown hair becomes blonde, tall becomes short and vice versa. I finally find my way to the exit of the station. Now that I am out, I walk to the stoplight and wait for my race to begin again. Sweat streaks down the back of my neck as the summer heat beats down on me. The light turns red, and I’m out onto the crosswalk faster than the walk sign can come on.
The sidewalks are narrow and packed, but that does not stop me. I twist and turn to lead the pack and to avoid those around me. My head is on a constant swivel, as I avoid people with shopping bags, coffee cups and outreached hands. Even in my fast pace the combined heat, dirt, and trash all blend together to create that distinct, inescapable city stench. I pass the construction workers with jackhammers, and I see the finish line in front of my eyes. My second wind begins to come alive.
Suddenly, a bird swoops down in front of me. I swerve to the right and knock down the person next to me. He goes to the ground, but he lands on his backpack. Tourist, I don’t even have to ask. I stop to help the guy up and give my apologies.
He says, “Oh don’t worry, things like this happen every now and then. Where you headed?”
“To work at the State House right ahead, just a little late.”
“That must be so cool to work in a building like that. And to walk through this city everyday, I can’t stop staring at the skyline.”
I look at the skyline, out of curiosity. I’ve never actually stopped to take a look at it, I guess I never have time to do so. I continue to talk with him on my way to work. I stop at the coffee shop before the finish line and buy him coffee. We part ways, and as I walk the rest of the race I begin to look up instead of straight ahead.
God’s Nationality
by Portfolio Co-Editor on September 27, 2018
Creative Non-Fiction
by Jessica Polanco ’20
I thought I had it all figured out—until I figured it out. I was only about twelve years old when I met Aylin. Her demeanor was that of an older woman who’d just finished dying her white hair to black just so her wisdom wouldn’t show so much. Aylin was twelve, too. From what I can remember, this was the day I met my soul sister.
Aylin was tall. She always walked with her chin up and somehow always knew what to say. I liked having her as a friend because she introduced me to Dominican rituals, and something called Bible Study. I knew several Dominican rituals already, but I guess I didn’t know all of them until I met her. And I’d heard of Church, too, but I had never visited a church that was in a basement. She invited me over to her neighbor’s house one day and I went, but only because she mentioned there’d be food. When we arrived, we passed by the kitchen, where the scent of Dominican-style yellow rice and beans cooking wafted up, only to run away when we entered the basement.
I was greeted warmly by wearied eyes and welcoming hands, but all I could hear was “Welcome to the House of Christ.” House of Christ? I questioned in my head. Well this is kind of a shitty place to house a King. I’d been to churches before but never any with seven-foot ceilings, people dressed like they were homeless, and a division between the seating of women and men. Yeah, for some reason they believed men and women were a distraction to each other during Bible Study. I disagreed…until the pastor started preaching and all I could do was stare at a young, beautiful boy across the aisle. Reminding myself that I was only twelve, I shifted my focus back to the six-and-a-half-foot dark-skinned man sitting in front of us. I honestly don’t even know how my thoughts could go astray because when this man spoke, it felt like he was piercing my soul. This was definitely a different style of preaching I was experiencing for the first time. It sounded like he was just talking. I actually enjoyed it because it felt like he was talking to me directly. And the most intriguing part of it all was that he actually expected us to respond to him, almost like a conversation. This made me feel awkward, of course. I didn’t know anyone in the underground room except Aylin. However, I had appreciated being challenged out loud. I was nervous, no doubt, but everyone around me was patient and knew I was just meeting Christ for the first time.
After the service, I was happy to finally be able to taste the cooking I could only smell before. Along with the intake of delicious food, there was mingling throughout the room. I remember a man approached me, asking if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart. I felt like it would have been impolite to say no, so I said yes. He asked me a series of questions and I replied…mostly truthfully. Sometimes I lied about my answers because they were still secrets for the universe. When he finished, he said to me, “You’re a Sinner, and the only one who can save you is Jesus. Do you accept Jesus into your heart as your Lord and Savior?” Of course, I said yes, I mean, who doesn’t want to be saved from their wrongdoings? He smiled at me and asked if he could hug me. We exchanged hugs, and when he walked away, I felt the pressure of everyone’s eyes and smiles directed at me. I just made a pretty serious commitment today, I thought to myself.
Growing up, I was always awakened by a peaceful knock on my soul—a beautiful voice singing Spanish gospel songs and reciting Bible verses. My grandma had been a believer of Christ for as long as I could remember. She would always remind me of the Ten Commandments and tell me what God could do for me in my life. Sometimes she dragged me to church with her and made me sing on stage. (Thank God there were better singers standing next to me who could actually sing because I would’ve broken all the glass in that building!)
I always thought God was Latino until I visited Bible Study in the basement with Aylin. God was definitely not Latino up in this basement, and he sure wasn’t demanding either. In that basement, God felt like a friend. God taught me how to read His word properly, how to worship like a Believer, and how to save people using the same technique that gentleman used with me my first day. Although I grew up with a Latino God, I liked Black God too.
A Day in the Kitchen
by Portfolio Co-Editor on September 13, 2018
Creative Non-Fiction
by Sam Pellman ’20
It was a humid and sticky day. The clouds were just starting to move, and the sun was beginning to peek through. I parked in my normal spot and immediately felt the hot air on my body. “Ugh, can’t wait to sweat all day today,” I thought to myself, sighing. But, as much as the hot, sunny days sucked and I would sweat from my head to my toes, I’d rather it be a hot day than have it be raining and nasty. See, I work at an outdoor restaurant on the water—well, there is an inside, but it’s mainly outside seating—so of course, I make the most money when it’s nice out. On a rainy day, forget it; not a soul shows up. But on a beautiful summer day, even though I can’t breathe, the money is insane.
It was 11 a.m., and only one other busboy, a waiter, and I were scheduled to open, which meant we had to set up the outside. This had pretty much become a habit for me. I had just closed last night and here I was again opening the next morning. The sun was glaring down, I could already feel the sweat on my back, and I hadn’t even gone into the kitchen yet. See, I work here as the “runner.” So I’m not waitressing, but I am the person who brings out your food. Unlike most restaurants, the waitresses and waiters here do not bring out the food…like, ever. It’s all me. I’m in the kitchen getting the tickets they send me and making sure everything is in order and that the food is leaving the kitchen in a timely manner. Although it doesn’t seem stressful, my responsibilities are key to the restaurant running smoothly. Without me, the food wouldn’t be out in time or go to the right tables. And when it gets busy…yikes. The cooks honestly turned out to be my best friends. We work as a team. I keep them on track and let them know who’s antsy and why. I knew today was going to be hectic. I was working a double, so I expected to be there until 9:30 p.m. “Just think about the money,” I struggled to remember with every shift.
Something always happens to keep me from walking out and leaving, so today I was hoping something extra funny would happen. Then my coworker Brendan, the owner’s son, came in. Brendan is probably the sweetest boy I’ve ever met. On the other hand, his dad is the scariest man I’ve ever met. Brendan is my age, so I don’t mind working with him, and it makes the shift go by faster. He waits and runs, but always helps me in the kitchen if I’m the only one on for the day shift.
The rush started at 12:30 p.m. We were moving pretty steady, the kitchen was working but not exploding, thank gosh. It was boiling in there—the thermostat read 110 degrees. Was I dripping? Yes, most definitely. Brendan was rushing around, but was helping me as much as he could. Then the skies all of a sudden began to darken and the clouds looked gray and ominous. I knew rain was coming. Luckily, lunch was just about over and there was only one table still chatting outside. Brendan just dropped the check and they were about to pay. The man slipped a 50 dollar bill into the holder, and just as he released it from his hand, the wind scooped it up and brought it all the way into the canal! I cringed when I saw the man’s face—he looked horrified. There went 50 bucks. I know I’d be upset if that were me. But, Brendan being Brendan, had to save the day. And what does he do? He dives into the canal. Luckily I got it on video, because I knew all our coworkers would get a kick out of it in the group chat. Not so much his dad…The table gave him a round of applause and even let him keep the 50 dollars just for his act of heroism. Although Brendan has to live with the reality that we’re all afraid of his dad, he’s one of the most selfless people I know. I’m just lucky to have gotten to work with him for a summer and experience the craziness of “Smuggler Jack’s” each and every day.