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reeves12
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Name: J.D.
Country: United States
State: Oklahoma
Metro: Tahlequah
Birthday: 10/23/1987
Gender: Male
Interests: I enjoy trying my hardest in everything I do, even if I'm not the greatest. Racing dirt bikes, playing guitar, and trying to be a little Christ.
Favorite Music: Dashboard Confessional, Brand New, Senses Fail, Subseven, Bright Eyes, Thursday, Silverstein, Emery, Anberlin, White Stripes, Death Cab for Cutie, Jack Johnson, Jack's Mannequin, Something Corporate, AfterEIGHT, Mid-America, Cake, Chris Tomlin, Hawk Nelson, Coldplay, Hawthorne Heights, Switchfoot, and that's about all I can remember.
Expertise: I'm almost an expert at many things but not really an expert at anything. Wait! I'm an expert at not being an expert at anything.
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
MSN: yeah, add me! junkyarddog12@msn.com
Member Since:
12/15/2004
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| To my mother.
To my father.
To my grandma.
To my grandpa.
John Brewer- in the hot summer sun, I'd run up to where you were laid to rest. A man at work told me he knew you. He said you had big biceps. When I was young, and you were still around I didn't notice things like that. But now, I probably would. I guess that's what I'm like now. I used to run in the summer when I was home. Up that hill to the cemetary. One day it was 107 degrees. Not to mention the black asphalt. Sometimes I'd take a pee in the woods, not too far from you. I wonder what you'd say?
At school it feels like a different world. Sometimes I have 15 things to do in a day. And I get to 10 and decide to move 5 to tomorrow. I shouldn't. I want to be the guy that doesn't. Sometimes I change clothes a few times.
But everyday, I have your strength in my muscles. All of you who have made me who I am. Sometimes my stomach turns over and over for you. And I wonder if I'm making you proud. I try.
Sometimes I think about how old I am. I thought I'd have it figured out by now.
The doorbell rang tonight. I answered. It was a girl selling books for her Christian school.
Her backpack was full. She showed me her favorite. "It has scenic nature photos."
It was 10 dollars.
I bought "Happiness Digest" for a dollar twenty five. It was on a donation basis. I'm in college.
She wanted to pray with me before she left.
"Anything particular on your heart?"
"hmmm...well I'm about to eat. We could pray for that."
She smiled. And giggled. And prayed. It was adorable.
She might've been an angel. She enunciated like I'd imagine one would.
Sometimes I smile in solitary silence and wonder if God is smiling on me.
I'm not always this pensive.
I want big biceps like grandpa.
I want to write stories and songs that hit people right in the chest and make them wonder.
Make them wonder if they're making the people they care about proud.
Hey, I'm trying my best down here.
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| Dear diary,
My name is Kamal. I work at a garment factory in Narsingdi, Bangladesh. Garment factories, are big business in Bangladesh. In fact, clothing accounts for 75% of my country's total economic exports. Over half of the clothing my nation produces ends up in the United States. At our factory we work for 10 to 12 hours a day. Most weeks we work 7 days, but some weeks they give us a day off. I make $450 a year. I make $450 dollars for working 12 months. Today at work was the worst day I can remember. Work isn't usually so bad. It's all I have really, since I spend so much time there. My brother Rashed runs the machine next to me. When the boss is out of earshot, the hundreds of sewing machines produce a droning roar and drown out our voices, we make remarks about him. We laugh secretly about his windblown, thinning hair. If he ever heard us, we would get whipped. Literally. Possibly across the face. But Rashed and I love to keep the mood light so our 12 hour work days pass a little bit faster. But things will never be the same after today. Today as we worked quietly and diligently on some polo shirts, an electric gun behind us that we use to shoot spot remover onto stained fabric sparked. We heard the electric pop and saw a flash. The cloth below it was soaked with spot remover, which is highly flammable. Immediately it burst into flames. Rashed and I jumped up. We knew something had to be done. I saw the white in his wide eyes contrast wth his dark skin. We grabbed handfuls of shirts and began trying to smother the fire. Workers in the long room began to notice the commotion. We all knew that the room was filled with highly combustible materials, but thought we could isolate the fire and put it out. It was only affecting one table after all. But before long, it began to spread rapidly. There was nothing we could do, but get out. It began to spread faster and faster. We began to move. Literally over a thousand workers were sewing today. How were we all going to make it out? The bosses had packed us in too tightly. They only thought of production and not comfortability or safety. We all struggled to move, bumping together and fumbling hurriedly toward the single staircase that led toward the street. Luckily, me and Rashed were strong and fast. We were also located relatively close to the staircase. So we hoped our chances were good. We led the rush down the narrow staircase that opened toward the busy street. We finally reached the bottom.
"The gate!" yelled Rashed.
"Open it!" I screamed back at him. As a crowd of workers hit my back.
A metal folding gate had been placed at the bottom of the stairs to keep workers from leaving. It was locked tightly.
They were holding us in all right.
We tried to turn back, panicked. We thought quickly. Was there another way?
In an instant, lives were changed. The group at the front turned back, only to collide with the wave of workers stumbling down the stairs. Hundreds and hundreds colliding in a moment. Screams. Wide eyes. Open mouths. Terrified faces. Thrusting legs. Pounding hearts inside our chests. What would we do?
I heard a familiar voice. Rashed yelled for me. I saw his young body fold underneath a powerful crowd of shifting workers. The wave hit me, too. It hit me harder than I had anticipated. I fell backward, hitting my head on the gate that held us inside. My head was split open and I was knocked unconscious. This was the last panicked moment I remember.
I awoke a few moments later. The echoes of screams still echoing in my ears.
But everything was much more calm. I was lying in the street. People still moving all about. But we had much more room now. I touched the back of my throbbing head and felt the cool blood on my hand. I stood slowly. And began to walk, dizzily down the sidewalk. The people were moving in all directions. I could see them, but recognized no one. I could hear sounds of voices, but could understand nothing. Finally I saw a face I recognized. Anika, a girl that worked a few machines down from me was jogging by. I grabbed her, spinning her around.
"Have you seen Rashed?" I asked her.
With sad, scared eyes full of tears she pointed to a row of lifeless bodies on the sidewalk.
I saw my brother. The life had been trampled out of him. I rushed to his side and checked for a heartbeat anyway, but it was pointless. Rashed was gone. 52 factory workers died today in Narsingdi. Did you see it on the news?
Dear America,
Today, at the golf course. Look down at your polo shirt. We might have made it. It may have been sewed in the hands of my brother Rashed before he died. Before he lost his life for your cause. Young man, tonight as you go to the movies with your girlfriend, look down at your shirt. As you see the mist of your cologne become embraced in the blue fabric. Think of me and Rashed. We might have made it. America, did you know that if you keep your food in a refrigerator, your clothes in a closet, you sleep in a bed, and have a roof over your head, you are richer than 75% of the world's population? Did you know that if you own a car you in the top 5% of wealthiest in the world? Did you know that 20% of the world's population possesses 80% of the worlds wealth? You leave the other 20% for 80% of us. Eighty percent of us. America, I know that you love to spend. You love to own. But America, (you Christian nation), have you read James 5? It says your gold and silver will corrode and will testify against you. It says you have lived a life of pleasure, but that you have condemned and murdered innocent men that were not opposing you. America, to sit back and do nothing is to cooperate with the oppressor. Didn't you know? When you wear you clothes, think of me and Rashed. And how we might have made it. I know you love your stuff. But I loved my brother. And I'm not even asking you to stop spending. I'm just asking you to appreciate your things. Our labor might not cost much, but don't you dare believe that your things came cheap. Cause they cost me more than you'll ever know. Think for a second, America.
Thank you, Kamal
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| Tonight, me and some OBU buddies went downtown at about dark thirty. We had coffee, coats, and blankets for any needy people we happened to see roaming the streets. As soon as we got downtown, we saw a man digging through a dumpster in a dimly lit alley. We assumed he was digging for food or some neccessities. We got him to come back to our car to give him some blankets and see if we had a coat to fit him. (he was a very husky man) We asked him what exactly he was digging for.
"On Tuesday's the radio station throws out their old music, so I go through that dumpster and find it! I love music. I love the Partridge Family!" He said with a smile.
We asked him his name.
"My real name or my nickname?" he asked.
"Nickname!"
"Well, my friends call me 8-track." He said. We were beginning to tell that he had some mental problems. He wasn't completely all there, but he had that joy. Joy like a child, about the smallest things.
"Why do they call you that?" We asked.
"Well, cause I fix 8 tracks and cassettes. I'm good at fixing broken music. I love music." said 8 track.
We called for the other group to come because they had bigger coats, and none of ours fit him.
"I wear 5 X" he said plainly.
We gave him the biggest we had, a thick, warm, red jacket.
"T'won't zip!" He said with frustration. A wrinkle on his forehead.
We gave him a soft red blanket.
"In that store right there, they got a Sanford and Son DVD. It's 20 dollars. Where am I going to get 20 dollars?" 8 track wondered.
"You like Sanford and Son?" I asked.
"It's funny. It's about these 2 black men and they have a junkyard!" he laughed.
"Yeah, I've seen it. I like when he says 'Elizabeth, I'm coming to join you!'"
"Where will I get 20 dollars?" 8 track wondered.
He was round, had a coat of his own. But the zipper was broken. He was wearing overalls and was very clean and aware. His eyes lit up frequently and he alternated between being talkative and giving one word answers.
I searched through the dumpster with 8 track. We found 3 CD's. He put them in his new coat.
"When's your birthday?" 8 track asked.
"October 23." I said.
"Ask me mine!" he smiled.
"When is yours?" I asked.
"It was Sunday."
"How old are you?" I asked sincerely wondering this from when I first saw him.
"Guess." He said, his eyes lighting up.
We continued to guess, 8 track laughing, "higher....lower!.....higher...."
"52?"
"52!" he said proudly.
We continued to talk for him for a while....
"Do you have a car?" we asked.
"No, I just live over on Park and 9th." (in low income housing)
"Do you want some coffee?" we asked.
"I'm not a coffee drinker." He replied.
"Would you like a ride home?"
"Yes."
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
"Do you work?"
"No."
"Are you ready to go home now?"
"Yes."
A couple of other students took him home and 3 of us stayed behind. We talked to a few others, but they seemed to have what they needed. We prayed. We nearly cried. For some reason, 8 track impacted us all heavily.
Please think about 8 track. And think about us. And me. And pray for us. That he isn't lonely. That he enjoys his CD's. Pray that we will find him a bigger coat. And pitch in to get him Sanford and Son. And make his life better. And have the words to say. And bring heaven down.
I hope tonight wasn't the last time I see 8 track. His face still projects on my mind's eye. His words resound in my ears.
"I'm here every Tuesday and Thursday. That's when the station throws out the old music. I love music."
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| Today was one of those days where I felt the weight of my regret. Granted, if I had to things over again it might not turn out too much different. Because I try to be man. I try to make grown up decisions. I try my best to follow my convictions and listen to the Spirit. But I don't always do the right thing. Please don't think I am depressed by any means. I am not. But I think we all have those days where we feel ghosts of our pasts haunting us. And it was today for me. So this is for you. I'm sorry that I've hurt you. I'm sorry for the times I put myself ahead of you. It's so contradictory to what I always preach isn't it? I guess I'm a fraud. I'm sorry for anytime you've felt that sting of disappointment. Because I've felt it too. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Much less someone I care about. I hope I'm done. I hope I never let you down again. Because hurting you, hurts me. And I promise to never do it on purpose. I thought when I was 20 I would be grown up enough to always do the right things. But I don't know if that day ever comes. I'm beginning to doubt it's arrival more and more as the years pass. I hope that this recognition of failure is enough of a salvage for you. I hope a divine hand will intervene and fix all this. Because God knows I can't do it on my own, and I'm starting to recognize it too. Above all, just know that I love you. Always will. | | |
| Today, as I walked to Sociology class (fittingly) I had a sudden revelation about why people are the way they are, and act the way they act. I had only been awake and out of my warm comfortable bed in Agee dormitory for about an hour. You know how in the mornings it's almost as if any little thing feels like a toothpick jabbing at your brain stem? Well I felt like this. When I am feeling this way, I do my best to make it point to internally mutter words like "Dear Lord, until I am feeling completely ready to face the world in all of it's vexing annoyance, please give me the patience and will to not snap." And that works, usually. Today I was walking by myself, and there is this area behind/beside the chapel that is sort of an intersection or fork in the sidewalk, if you will. And a particularly annoying young lady that I know was walking toward me. I happened to notice that the young man next to me was a friend of hers, and I subconsciously waited patiently for her inevitable response to seeing him. Simultaneously, another apparent friend of hers was coming up the street from the other direction. She was surrounded by people she held dear. Precious. Her response, for whatever reason, not so precious. "Oh, my loves. Coming toward me in all directions. I love you, and I love you, and I love you. And that's why I love this school.... So many of my loves are here...."
Ok, whatever. No big deal, right?
Just a happy girl, excited to see friends.
But for some reason it annoyed me and I thought about it. I chewed on it and rolled it around in my mind. My stream of consciousness enunciating, "She must really want the people around her to realize that she has quite a few close friends at this intersection. Does this come from an insecurity? Maybe she was unpopular in high school and is proud to have so many friends now. Why does she love OBU so much? Maybe she's insecure about whether she should be here or not, and feels she must reinforce to herself that she's doing the right thing."
Am I ridiculous? Yes and no. Though it seems mildly odd to deduce causes and effects only minutes after emerging from a slumber, I don't think my methodology or findings were completely unfounded.
So here is the conclusion I reached. Which should probably be written down somewhere as a groundbreaking social hypothesis: Every person acts the way they act, says the things they say, and believes the things they believe, due to some occurrence in their life.
So there it is. Sounds simple enough. But lets dig deeper.
Why did that girl say those things? This is the tough part of my hypothesis. I don't believe we can know what factors cause the effects.. We can speculate situations like, "You abuse people, because you were abused."
That seems to hold up.
But what if you abuse people because early in your life, abuse was portrayed to you with a positive connotation through film and literature?
In either case, something made you abusive. An event or influence in your life causes you to feel the need to inflict harm on others. Can we ever put our finger on it? I don't think so. Even if one was abused, that may not be the reason they abuse.
But there is certainly correlation between what we do, and our past experiences. What was annoying about her? What is inside of me that made me feel annoyed? Maybe it was because I hadn’t been awake very long. Maybe I had heard someone I respected say, "It's annoying when people say things like that." earlier in my life. Who knows? Why didn't I react, spouting "Shut up!" or with a less severe scoff? Maybe I was raised to sometimes withhold my true feelings in an effort to spare the feelings of others. Maybe I had acquired this trait on my own.
But whatever the case, there was a group of people, a case study at an intersection of sidewalks, and we were all acting a certain way. We were being ourselves. Upright walking masses of bile and meat, breathing and thinking and living. The same way we always do.
People are who they are, and it’s the way it is.
I am convinced genetics have to do with it.
People have intrinsic qualities specific to hereditary situations.
I am convinced upbringing has something to do with it.
Teachers, peers, and parents influence people’s lives.
I am convinced we decide some things on our own.
“I won’t be like him, I’m going to be this kind of person.”
But regardless, why should we hate?
Why should other irritate us?
In one of my favorite books, SexGod by Rob Bell, he says “This is always about that.” Something is the way it is because something else happened. She’s scared of opening up because she’s been hurt too much in the past. He’s too strict on his kids because he knows what happens when he was given too much freedom as a teen. This stuff happens. And this really is about that.
It could be that the dude in line at McDonalds snapped on the poor cashier because he was raised in a violent home in which yelling and being forceful was the only way to get what you wanted. Or maybe he woke up in a bad mood and was running late to his first day of work. The point is not that identify the source of one’s qualities. But rather that we acknowledge that they are there.
So what do we do about it?
How do we live because of this?
Do we seek to find and expose the faults or differences in others?
No.
We love people just exactly how they are.
I’m not meaning to turn sociology into a sermon.
But really, how much of a weight does it take off of us?
People are who they are.
They’re weird.
They’re arrogant.
They’re hurt.
They’re confused.
They’re tattooed.
They’re gay.
They’re addicted.
They steal.
They lie.
They cheat.
They cuss.
They scream.
They snap.
They harm.
They kill.
People are who they are due to what has happened in their life.
Usually a deficiency of love.
When no one cares for them why should they care?
Where is the source of their compassion?
They are empty because no one has ever poured into them.
Love them for who they are.
They’re not stuck like that.
They’re still malleable.
Be the channel through which Gods molds them into what He wants them to become.
Love them for who they are.
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