Red Lips

He saw her walk in.

Why did he see her? It didn't matter, he thought. Or did it? It wasn't as if he had noticed her before, but tonight, he saw her. She was standing with some friends talking and laughing, enjoying herself. He wanted to approach her but found himself unable to move.
"Who are you staring at?" his friend asked.
"Who?" He snapped out of it. "No one." His friend laughed and looked in the same direction. "They look nice don't they?" He laughed again, attempting to sound normal. "Do they? They all look the same, wearing the same dress and stuff." But that was a lie and he knew it, because he only noticed her. "Why don't you ask one of them to dance?" his friend asked in a daring tone.
"I will. Later."
"Suit yourself," his friend said and he saw him approach the group of girls. Again, he attempted to walk towards her and then stopped. His friend had asked her to dance, very well knowing that he had been staring at her out of the group, but why? It didn't matter, he thought, as he watched them dancing.

He saw her move effortlessly on the dance floor. She loved dancing. Her smile would glow bigger with every spin. He saw his friend pull her closer to him, she was having fun, after all. The song finally ended and she  walked back to her friends. That's when she looked his way and smiled at him.
The eye contact made him panic. But he never panicked, so he ran away, avoiding his feelings. In an effort to forget her, he made his way to the dance floor, grabbed the nearest girl to him  and unfortunately, didn't hear the girl tell him she didn't know how to dance. She was also a stranger who he had never seen anywhere else before, but he didn't care because he wanted to have fun. He tried spinning her and failed. She also stepped on him twice and nearly slipped once. To make matters worse, the DJ kept mixing in songs making the dance drag for what seemed hours. Finally, at the third song, he decided to ditch her and felt lucky he hadn't asked her name.

The party continued but he felt suffocated. Was it the dancing? The crowd? The heat? He didn't care, or at least he tried not to care. That's when he saw her. Again. This time, she was dancing with some guy he didn't know. That guy obviously couldn't dance and he could tell she was annoyed. The song ended and she smiled at the guy before walking away. He let out a chuckle and walked to the bar. "Scotch please," he told the bartender, and drank slowly, feeling the burning sensation of the alcohol in his chest. But even then, he could still see her reflection on the glass. She was coming his way, which made him panic, again. "I'll have the same thing he's having." She rested her chin on her wrist and smiled, looking at him straight in the eye. "Hey" was all he managed to say, trying to avoid her eyes. He took a sip of his drink trying to numb his feelings, effortlessly.
"You look lonely. That's not like you."
"I know." The bartender gave her the scotch.
"I didn't know you drank." He teased.
"Then I guess you don't know much about me." She smiled. He stared at her lips as she told him those words. Bright red and perfect. They left a print on the cup. "Why haven't you asked me to dance?"
"You looked busy."
"Busy?" She let out a laugh. It sounded like glass breaking, but so beautiful; it made him laugh along. He finished his drink and pulled her to the dance floor.

Her hand seemed so frail in his. It was soft and smooth, so he was gentle. When he put his hand on her waist, they started to glide across the dance floor in a synchronized rhythm, moving to perfection. He pulled her closer to him, close enough to smell her sweet perfume. The scent made him nervous, so he released her in a complicated spin. However, he was no match for her and took it as a challenge in which she came out victorious once they were face to face again. He noticed her lips again, red and vibrant so he pulled her closer to him, gripping her hand, feeling the sweat on his back, afraid to have her so close and enjoying the moment at the same time. He didn't even notice when the song ended and she slipped out of his grasp.

The water he splashed on his face felt cool and refreshing. It was only then, standing alone in the bathroom, when he noticed that he wanted to have her. Even if he tried to lie to himself, he knew that for the past few months, he had been thinking of her. Every smile, every fight, would replay in his head all day. No one knew, except for himself. But he could not tell her. He was aware that she had only wanted to be friends since the beginning. This time was different. Having realized this, he decided to leave. There was nothing else for him to do. Giving up on her would mean keeping her, at least as a friend. For some reason, he hated the thought of it, he just couldn't let go of her. He felt selfish for wanting her since years ago, he swore to himself to be alone, to never accept a girl's feelings, nor to develop feelings himself towards anyone.

But this time was different.

Before leaving, he watched her once more and remembered how they had met. It was at a party as well, eight years ago, they were so young and naïve, unaware of anything and with a desire to live life without regrets. She was looking for a dance partner and so his friend introduced them. She felt awkward and he felt clumsy. He tried to lead her but kept messing up and all she did was laugh. That beautiful smile of hers, he knew even on that first encounter that she was different. She was bold and delicate at the same time, mysterious and unexpected. This had always made him nervous, but he had managed to keep their friendship close. He could always trust her, she was a strong-minded person but mature as well. Nothing could stop her, and he loved that about her. Her only flaw was that she could never hide her emotions, whether it was anger or excitement, or fear or sadness, even joy.

She was standing in front of him and he hadn't even noticed.

"Where are you going? Its still early," she smiled.
"Where?" He wasn't aware that they were standing in the parking lot. She was standing so close to him, and they were alone, under the moon. Her eyes shone bright like fallen stars. She looked so perfect to him, with her beautiful gown and her wavy hair draping over her shoulders. He just couldn't hold it in anymore.

The moment suddenly exploded.

Without giving it another thought, he grabbed her hand, pulled her close enough and kissed her. Those gorgeous red lips, he had wanted to have those lips all night and finally he had her in his arms. His insides were bursting with fear and joy, wondering why he had waited so long to do that. He slid his hand down her back holding her closer while he caressed her cheek with the other hand and it was then that he noticed the tear running down her flushed cheek. He released her.

Her glaze was blank for a second, she wouldn't even blink, but tears were pooling in her eyes and finally he felt the shock on her trembling hand which he was still holding. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, trying to avoid her eyes. She pulled her hand and touched her red lips. No words came out of her mouth when she made the attempt to speak, so he did the only thing he could think of. He embraced her, and she finally started sobbing. His arms felt numb and a sudden anxiety rushed inside of him. What could he do or say? The action could not be undone, and that was his biggest fear, to finally give himself to her and not know what to do afterwards. Even though, he felt low and dirty, he wanted to make her stop crying. He wanted to see that smile again, the smile that warmed up his heart. She finally ceased and pulled away. "I... don't understand," she whispered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.."
"I know, that's why you hurt me. Because you didn't mean to." And with that said, she started to walk away, but he managed to grab her arm.
"Please wait, I'm sorry. I just don't know what came over me."
"That's always been your excuse."

He watched her go back inside, but didn't go after her. He felt so guilty but she was right. More than anyone, she knew how many times he had led on other girls, because he was afraid of commitment. And so, he let her go, knowing that perhaps he had lost her for good.

My week with the Poet

I got on the train this morning to go to class and I realized there were a lot of homeless people sitting, just riding around. This is normal for this city since we do have a lot of homeless people roaming around the streets. I see this one man wrapped in a blanket and across the row there was another man who was munching on some peanut butter crackers. I wanted to stare at them because they simply made me sad and I wanted to ask them so badly how they ended up homeless. If I had been in the same situation three weeks ago, my reaction would have been different. I probably would have gotten mad because these men, along with a few others, were abusing the metro system by getting rides all across town going absolutely nowhere. I would also say that they were probably mentally ill and could not afford medication. Lastly I would have been mad because I think anybody can get a job at McDonalds. But that was me three weeks ago. Today I feel pure empathy. What changed? Well, I met a poet.

I can say it one, two, three, five hundred times. I hate poetry. I realize that a few years back I posted a poem or two. I posted those poems because the person I loved claimed to be an excellent poet. I was still in high school trying to get a grasp at iambic pentameter so I thought that if I sat down and grabbed a thread of inspiration, I could come up with an equally amazing poem. Many years later I realized I would never be like him and therefore I assumed I was bad and my loath for poetry was born. I don't like reading it and much less studying it. I like fiction. I'll even go as far as liking nonfiction. In my eyes, poetry has a lot of gray areas of interpretation; you can think a poem is about a certain subject and in the author's mind it is something completely different. Then there's all that rhyme and meter stuff. I was told over and over that a poem did not have to rhyme and that is true but then there is the meter nonsense. And style. My goodness. I took a class last semester to study poetry and although I technically passed, I cannot keep the grade, so I must take another class to replace that credit. I had a great teacher, but the subject...I just don't like it. I don't like reading it, I don't like writing it, I don't like revising it, I don't like interpreting it, I don't like thinking about it, I don't like it.

And then there was him.

I will abstain to say his name for personal reasons, but we'll call him The Poet. This guy came in to our school and immediately, my teachers began talking about him. We were required to get his books for our classes and start reading them immediately. They went on and on about how great he was. Then one of my teachers said that he would give us extra credit to go meet him. And so, being a very dedicated student, I went. When I saw The Poet come in, I thought, "Wow, this guy looks so ordinary." I had imagined a very well dressed man wearing an expensive suit and maybe even a fancy briefcase. I imagined a man who talked with great wisdom and eloquence. A man that carried himself like a god. I mean, my teachers made him sound like this, but this guy was totally normal. He looked like one of us. A common man eating his sandwich talking asking us who we were and why we were in the university. Out of curiosity and more motivation for more extra credit I went to every event he held in the university. We got to know each other...very well.

I don't know what it was about him. It wasn't the way he talked or what he was saying. I guess deep down I just liked that this man was so normal. He wasn't arrogant or conceited. He lectured in two of my classes and picked on me constantly. He liked me, you see. And I liked him. It wasn't like I saw him as my uncle or grandfather. I guess he was just the voice I had inside. There are a lot of things that I want to write. Things that I am too scared or embarrassed to write about. I feel like in this space I have written about more personal stuff than I would ever dare discuss in public. However, there is still a lot inside of me that wants to come out. And then there is all the nonsense about the educational system that I am very passionate about. If I could take anything from my week with The Poet, it would be that I cannot give up. I should not care what anyone has to say about me being a high school teacher. I should not give in to the popular idea that high school kids are the worst. I should not judge people's present circumstances because everyone has a past. Even I have a past that I am not too proud of! Life is very hard and we live in a system that wants to swallow us whole. We cannot allow that. We have to fight in order to remain true to ourselves. We may be beaten down and oppressed, but even when times get rough, we cannot let the system beat us. Its all about survival.

I don't care if I never see him again, he left a part of him in me. I walk down the hallways thinking that I'm going to run into him. I feel like he's still here. I can hear him telling me "You need to go to Stanford, they'll love you there." Well I'm not going to Stanford because I cannot afford it. More than anything I want to write and teach. I have other goals, spiritual goals. Those are more important than anything else. But my desire to teach remains. My desire to write remains. One day I hope that I can be the teacher kids remember. For me, it was Ms. Purser. I still remember her as if it were yesterday. That's the thing about people that make a difference in your life, even after they leave, you still remember them.

When I got on the podium, I thought I was going to faint. I could feel my fingers going numb and my legs turning to jelly. My eyesight got blurry as I addressed the auditorium. I don't remember how I managed to read but I did. I remember feeling a sense of accomplishment and pride. It was a moment that perhaps many students wished they would've had. I don't think of it as my 5 seconds of glory. I think of it as my 5 seconds of light. In college, I want to remain invisible. I walk with my head low and only speak when I have something to say. I try not to socialize. Solitude is a better friend to me in this building. I like things this way, so having him ask me to come to the podium to read in front of an audience was perhaps the scariest moment in my life. It made me realize I don't want to be popular or famous. I want to be a teacher. I want to continue writing. I want to embrace my identity. I'm not only glad I met him, I feel at peace. I see people different and although he thinks of me as someone that will make some kind of social difference in the future, I think of myself as someone that will continue to see people with an eye of kindness and love.