Because I was eight years old and the only girl in the neighborhood at that time, my ten-year old brother always let me tag along with him and his friends. When the boys played baseball, my brother would say to me, “Hey Sis, you're so good in the field, go over to that spot and wait for a fly.” That spot was not just in “out” field, it was in “left-out” field. But, at the time, I was too young to realize what was happening and way too enthralled with the idea of being part of my brother's team. At the same time, my brother, Frank, although making sure I didn't get in harm's way or the way of the game, every now and then, asked his friends to hit a ball in my direction so I could “field” it. Naturally, that play never counted but it sure made me feel important and like I was someone incredibly special. Despite being only 27-months older than I was, Frank always found a way to do just that – make me feel special. However, there was one day in particular that, to this day, brings a warm feeling to my heart. It was the day we climbed the Iron Man. In a section of the park near our house, sits a statue. I didn't know it at the time, but the statue was and still is a memorial commemorating the battle between the U.S.S. Monitor and the Merrimack, which was fought in 1862. The Monitor was only six months old at the time of its sinking and the street on which we lived was named after the massive and historic ship. The statue is huge and made of iron. It depicts a man in a semi-sitting position holding desperately onto a rope that stiffly hangs just below the ship's deck on which he sits. This was a favorite place for the boys as they would climb the statue and sit for hours looking at everyone who walked through the park. From that height, a child felt you could see for miles. On one of my “tag along” days, Frank and the other boys decided to climb the statue. I stood at base looking up helplessly. I, too, wanted to climb the big iron man, but was too small to reach. Finally, my brother stretched his hand down. “Come on, Sis, grab hold. I'll help you up.” As I took his hand, he explained where I should place my little feet and what part of the statue I should grab to hoist myself while he pulled me up. Within seconds I was sitting in the lap of this great iron man. I was on top of the world. I looked around and as my heart fluttered with excitement, saw the wonders around me that the others had seen from such a great height for so much longer than I had. As the boys laughed and joked among themselves, I was quite content to sit in silent awe. Eventually, it was time for dinner. One by one, the boys climbed down. I was the last to begin the descent, trying carefully to place my feet around the iron man's wide arm. My legs were just a bit too short. I couldn't get down. My brother realized my plight and ran to help. “Hey, Sis, turn around and kneel on the spool. Wrap yours legs around the rope. Then hold on to his arm and let yourself slide down. Once you get low enough, let your feet drop and then let go. I'll catch you,” he said. While I trusted my brother with my life, I didn't trust my life with my little hands and legs. Frank assured me I'd be okay. He stood directly beneath the stiff iron arm. I knelt at the edge and did what my brother suggested, but with one added thing. I closed my eyes. If I was going to fall and kill myself, I didn't want to watch. Suddenly, I felt Frank's gentle hands grab me. “You're down, Sis. Safe and sound. Let's go home.” I opened my eyes, gratefully and happily, as Frank gently put me on the ground. He grabbed my hand to walk the short distance from the center of the park, across the street to home. It didn't matter to him that his friends stayed and watched. After all, he was the big brother taking care of his little sister. As we approached the parks exit, I turned to give the big iron man one last look for the night. As I did, I realized I'd learned some particularly important things from my experience. Although for a while I felt like I was on top of the world, I didn't need a statue to keep me there. My brother's love and protection did that better than artificial things could ever do. I didn't need to climb a statue to see the beauty and the wonders of the world. They were right before me – at my own eye level, in my mind and heart. As we grew, I married and moved away, my brother enlisted in the Army and was sent to Viet Nam. Although he returned after his Tour of Duty, he did not return whole. There was something lacking in his spirit. Years later, we would find out that he contracted the cancer that would consume him before his 51st birthday. Several decades have passed since then, and although Frank is no longer a physical part of my life, I think of him daily. When I recall that day when I sat atop a statue, I smile and realize: my brother was my Iron Man.

As a child you never notice the reality that plays around you. The broken playground in the backyard can be visualized as an evil lair, with the cracks that sail across the streets containing hot lava instead. In a darker sense, the arguments held in your parents room can be seen as the monsters you're always hiding from. There are a number of truths that lie behind a child's eye that become distorted for their own understanding of the situation. As a child I would always live in my head, a tv show would be running in there 24/7, where everyday was an episode and every major event that had happened in my life was a finale that would tie up the whole “season” together. The last season I created as a child was a major shift from the playfulness of the world to the actual reality of it. The season kicks off when I'm about 8 years old, living in an impoverished household. Though in my eyes, this so-called “house” was the main setting to my show. While I ran around the house, fighting henchmen and saving the world, my mom was in the kitchen cooking spaghetti. The smell of tomato sauce and boiling noodles roamed across the house, it consisted of the emotions you get on a warm, sunny day. What added on to that feeling was the fact that my mom was cooking which is something she does when her body isn't fighting against her. My Mother would stay in bed most days because of the aching pains she would feel all over, I never knew why and never really asked. As an 8 year old, all I really needed to know was whether she was sick or not, as long as my mom didn't feel sick that day I was fine. Either way, my step-dad was occupying the bed so my mom couldn't lay down even if she wanted to. About a good hour later my step-dad wakes up, already angry at the world but more specifically, my mom. It was almost out of nowhere, every step my step-dad took resembled an earthquake. The anger shown on his face reminded me of a monster I visualised before, I thought the monster was gone but it only came back stronger than ever. It was strange to view my step-dad that way knowing how delicate he was with my siblings and I. Stomping towards the kitchen, he yells gibberish to my mom, frightening her, as if she can see the monster I see as well. This episode played out differently, instead of me being the hero like I always am, this time I was simply experiencing this. I watched as the whole scene played out. My step-dad pulled my mom by her arm and into the garage. I could see her struggling to get out of his grip and failing over and over again. My step-dad placed my mother on a bed we had in the garage. I saw my mom crying, helpless from the attacks the monster brought on her. I sat there, letting the episode play out. My younger siblings eyes were wide, I could see the fear their facial expressions painted. “Mano, come to the room with us”, my sister screamed, holding my little brother's hand. “It's ok, go to the room and take Ricky with you.” The whole time my mom was getting hit I just sat there pretending like nothing was happening. I was used to hearing the fighting but I never witnessed it, then again it shouldn't be something a child should witness. After being hit jab after jab, she finally got my attention. “Mijo, call the cops!”. As soon as she said that I got up and it finally hit me, this wasn't a show I was just watching, it was real life. My step-dad finally stopped and gave me his phone telling me to call them as well. After I called 911 things calmed down and by the time the cops came, my siblings and I were as good as new, riding our bikes outside as if nothing happened. My mother told me that they took my step-dad to get some help, I saw him in the back of the cop car not being able to look us in the eye, the sad part was that I wanted him to be helped and come back to us, because even after looking at him like a monster, he was still my step-dad. Even after coming back, I still recognized a monster. That monster was the main antagonist for the season, and I lived with it, watching it affect my mom and my siblings for years. I wanted it to disappear, to leave my family alone, and to just let us be happy, but it was always lingering behind us. Until finally, CPS had come to the house and after a couple of visitations, they finally got rid of the monster, breaking a family apart as well. This season finale, it wasn't the one I wanted but it was the one I got. I wonder if the monster still lives in my step father, or if he finally became the dad I remember him being before this monster got a hold of him. Although my visualization of the world is no longer playful, it is still bright and hopeful. I try my best to take that childish view of the world and combine it with the reality, giving me space to dream big and see more than what is shown through reality. I just hope that vision never leaves my sight and I keep that vision no matter what's to come my way.

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My grandfather and I were going to have dinner when lightning flashed outside the window and a few seconds later thunder rumbled nearby, confirming with its grunts that rain was about to fall. Large raindrops hit the pane of glass with force, tapping the sad melody known only to them. Sitting in a warm room with a loved one and watching the bad weather outside the window gives a unique feeling of comfort, peace, and inner harmony. I know that my grandfather had a very difficult life. He survived war, famine and the loss of his beloved wife. What strikes me most is not that he, despite all this, lived to be 90 years old, but that he has been carrying around his whole life the cheerfulness and the indestructible faith in humanity that is sometimes so cruel. I ask him about it. He takes a drag on a cigarette. “In 1944, I was arrested and sent to the Buchenwald camp. Appendicitis partially saved me. I was operated by a prisoner of war. And then every day I ripped open the wound so that it would strongly fester, and I would not be forced to work. I was in the quarantine block, where 1000 other people lived. We were packed in like sardines. Every morning 10-12 corpses were pulled out of the barracks and taken away on a gig to the crematorium. Before burning them, clothes were removed and golden teeth were ripped out. The commandant's wife regularly went out to the parade ground and openly chose people with "beautiful", in her opinion, skin. The prisoner got a commemorative tattoo, and after his death, bags and purses were made of his skin.” He lifts the sleeve of his pullover. “Look” He shows a light strip of skin on his left forearm. IT was here. The number that he got tattooed when he arrived in Buchenwald. Number 23724. He says that after his return from the concentration camp, he became an atheist. “I swore to myself that I would not bring Jewish children in this world. The world was saturated with anti-Semitism, and I did not want them to be offended or killed at any time, simply because they were Jews.” He sits in silence for a moment, takes a sip of the tea, looks out the window. On the terrace, several alpine violets bravely resist strong gusts of wind and the first winter colds. “I joined the international underground organization of Buchenwald, which was preparing an uprising. A receiver was hidden in the bucket of one of our members' hut. The Americans easily entered Buchenwald, whose liberation had already begun from within by our underground resistance. Later many wondered: how could a group of deadly exhausted people break through the armed guards and meet the Americans? What inhuman willpower had to be possessed? After all, every day only half of the prisoners returned from the quarry. The rest perished from exhaustion. In fact, those who are called people with a strong will are just people who know how to long for what they are fighting for. For a desire to be effective, its strength must be directly proportional to challenges that must be overcome on the way to the goal. This strong desire cannot, however, be blind, unreasonable. It should flow from the firm values and the principles of behavior of a man, should be determined by his worldview. I will never forget the night on the train bound for Buchenwald. It was snowing everywhere. The compartment was deadly cold. We were left for many days in wagons without beds, thus, without the possibility of somehow warming ourselves. An old man, who was very loved in my city, was sitting next to me. He was trembling all over and looked terrible. I wrapped my arms around him to warm him. I hugged him tightly to give off some heat. I rubbed his hands, feet, face, neck. I begged him to stay alive. I encouraged him. Thus, I kept this man warm all night. I myself was tired and cold. My fingers were numb, but I did not stop massaging the body of this man to warm him. Finally, morning came, the sun began to sparkle. I looked around me to see other people. To my horror, all I could see were frozen corpses. All I could hear was the silence of death. The frosty night killed almost everyone. Among the few survivors was the old man and me. The old man survived because I did not let him freeze, and I remained alive because I kept him warm. Let me tell you the secret of survival in this world. When you warm the hearts of others, then you will warm yourself as well. I do not call for abstract humanism where everyone should help everyone in everything and turn the other cheek when somebody hits them. But fixation only with oneself and one's problem only aggravates the situation. It creates an artificial wall between the person and the rest of the world, which leads to loneliness. When you support and inspire others, then you also receive support and inspiration in your life. As Zig Ziglar famously said, “You will get all you want in life if you help enough other people get what they want.”

Writing has always come easily to me. That isn't to say that my writing is anything special, only that when it comes to sitting down and putting a bunch of words together I think I'm pretty dang alright at it. I've met people that say they have such a hard time writing but it's difficult for me to understand that. Those same people always try to attribute my lack of understanding on the matter to my education (I have a degree in English) but the truth to that is I wouldn't have pursued a degree in this subject if I wasn't already good at it. I'm being 100% honest – being pro-active is not my strong suit. If it comes between making a decision of taking the “easy” route or the “hard (but, in the long run, more beneficial because it teaches you about hard work, perseverance and blah blah blah)” route I'm not going to think too long on which one I'd prefer to take. Essays in college were a breeze, although I'm still sometimes shocked at the quality of work I was able to produce under the circumstances I put myself in. Example: its 8pm the night before my 16 page essay on [insert some literary debate here] is due. I have yet to open a word document. Sure, I've put some thought into what I want to write. That's the hardest part, right? Sitting down and putting all my thoughts into words in one cohesive structure just came so easily to me. I think it has something to do with the amount of privacy you have while writing. No one is listening to you stumble through your words or hearing your attempts at constructing a well worded sentence. You have complete privacy to say what you're thinking. You have the ability to rewrite and reorganize your words. You can take a minute to think on exactly which word best articulates the thought you are trying to express and, if you don't like it, can decide to change it later. You can't do that when you're talking. Well, I suppose you could but it would be weird. This brings me to my road bump when it comes to writing – who will be reading my words? Because, like I said, I consider writing very private. Concern of who will read my writing once I'm finished is a huge deal to me. With college essays it didn't matter much because I knew the person reading my essay would be someone educated on the subject I had written about and would be judging my words based on my display of knowledge on the subject. That isn't too intimidating because it's not creative writing. It's not something that would unveil ideas and thoughts that completely originated in my mind. I once took a Science Fiction class in college and for the final we had to write a creative sci-fi short story. That terrified me. Completely and utterly terrified me. I couldn't hide behind facts and information that were accessible to everyone on a subject that has been widely discussed for years. These would be words and thoughts that were 100% my own. Had this not been an assignment and I was writing something for myself that I could decide who, if anyone, could read it I think I would have enjoyed writing it much more. Once the story was done I began second guessing all of my ideas. Is that really original or am I completely ripping something off? Is this plot even believable? Does it make sense at all? Those were my road bumps. The actual process of writing the story came effortlessly – thoughts into words. Easy. Having to deal with my thoughts on them afterwards – yikes. Turns out my instructor thought it was great and so did the select few I shared it with. They all told me I had a “gift” and should be very proud. This made me feel uncomfortable. Receiving praise for something that came so easily to me didn't seem merited or earned. I truly felt as though I made no effort. I've always sort of blushed when people make comments like these and brush them off faster than they can be laid on me. Only recently have I decided to try to embrace this “talent” I have and attempt to open myself up to the possibilities it may grant me. The catalyst for this change of thought occurred yesterday when someone told me how talented and gifted I was after reading a cover letter I wrote for a job. A cover letter. A simple, short, nothing-special piece of writing that I was trying to use to convince someone to hire me. I finally decided that I should try to start sharing my writing with people. So here I was with this brave (ha) new confidence. I went online to see where I could put this bravery to the test. The first think I came across was Biopage, and they were asking for people to submit writing on the subject of… anything they wanted. Well shoot, if there's anything else further from a prompt I don't know what it is. This project called for me to come up with something 100% on my own for others to read and it was perfect. So here I am. I sat down and just started writing. I figured talking about why I was here was as good as anything else I could come up with. So now I'm ready to get my ideas out there, terrified as I may be.

Long ago, my health became detrimental to normal life. First intermittent, now it's more often having escalated at a city shelter. I could no longer continue to work or finish my university studies pending health changes. Shelter food made me choke, vomit or sent me to the loo. It affects me daily. Every meal is sheer torture: I never know if I'll keep it down. A fluoroscopy confirmed that frequent up-chucking has narrowed and scarred my esophagus irreversibly. These dark times must pass. Like a boa constrictor who regurgitates barely-digested animals complete with that sticky gelatinous saliva, my choking is a lengthy painful process. Unfortunately, my constant throwing up isn't seen as an ingenious way of avoiding danger. The turkey vulture purposefully pukes up an entire stomach's wing-heavy contents, so that a rare predator will turn away from the maggot-infested stinky shit and rotting carcasses. My purging is just plain embarrassing and uncontrollable. Like boas who feed on rodents, songbirds, lizards and other small mammals, my normal diet is varied. My favorite meal is fish/seafood, rice/risotto and grilled vegetables. I like chicken, beef, lamb, and pork but can't consume these proteins without painful hard swallows. I can relate to captive boas prone to Inclusion Body Disease characterized by chronic regurgitation and abnormal painful postural positions: their challenges are like mine with Eosinophilic Esophagitis and other serious ills. Like a non-venomous boa, I wrap my coils around my faith. With God around me, I trust that things will improve henceforth. Also coiling myself around my friends, church family and sister, they act as the editors of my life and writings. Like the monogamous vulture, I'm fiercely loyal to those I love. Now others need to stick by me through thick and thin. Dark days must soon pass. Like boas whose habitat is threatened, so is mine, as Toronto's housing crisis means rising costs and limited affordable accessibility. As boas have adapted their perambulation to a straight line, I adjust to the times. Extinction threatens vultures too: they are poisoned by eating dead livestock given medication toxic to them. Shelters have fed me food months-to-a-year-beyond-expiration dates, poisonous to my now-delicate system. By picking dead carcasses clean, unsuspecting environmentalist turkey vultures are on clean-up and recycling duty to prevent the spread of disease. Their acute sense of smell has helped gas companies detect gas leaks as vultures circled attracted to the smell of gas also found in dead animals. Concerned with the environment, I enter contests funding tree plantings, clean-ups, and literacy programs. When migrating or searching for food, vultures congregate in ‘kettles' flocks of several hundred. I feed off the Salvation Army Bible study groups, kettle-crazed too. Like a baby boa, I was immediately independent, somehow discerning appropriate food without instruction. According to my father, I was ‘contrary' from birth refusing to drink my ‘milkies' and spewing up formula. My parents fed me pediatrician-recommended melted ice-cream. Somehow, I survived my first year, lactose intolerance then unknown. Again, I puke up constantly: it's hard to get nutrients into me. I'm not like others. I never thought as others do. Research is in my blood. An independent thinker, I can figure out most things with little or no instruction. Nowadays, Google becomes my first line of defense when faced with an unknown. Similar to boas and turkey vultures I hiss if threatened or encountering social injustice or iniquities upon the vulnerable. My sometimes-biting words are intended to propel others to act. Now I observe people's movements and utterances. Like an eagle-eyed vulture, I wait for the next juicy story. I write stories for contests. I may win one or not. But either way I'm the better for honing my observational, research and writing skills. Contests keep me alive. Everyday I write to achieve self-imposed entry deadlines. Too busy to worry about all the exigent conditions around me, including my own life's horrors, I focus elsewhere. Dark periods will lift someday. Till then, I keep my mind active even when my body fails me. Sometimes I write in floods like the expulsion of a boa's or vulture's stomach contents. Virginia Woolf's stream-of-consciousness. Other times I hover, searching for words. Like a vulture circling its prey from high to low altitudes, I scavenge for details to fuel my stories by people-watching. My prey is not physically dead. Yet like the city's forgotten vulnerable many are dead in prospects, motivations, hopes and dreams. Like the turkey vulture circling overhead, I hope for that tasty tidbit. Rather than with menacing size, I want my writings to stand out shining a light on social injustice. I want to change minds - ‘What ifs” to ‘right now.' I'm different. Boa-Turkey-Vulture Me.