Final Reflection

Throughout my life, I have encountered certain hard times in which I needed a safe-zone. These examples include when I was separated from my family and moved to Illinois; when I transferred schools; when I was rejected by my church; and, after having serious arguments with my mother. Usually when I needed to escape, I would go on a walk. However, going on walks alone in a strange area is never a good idea. So the next best idea was to go over a friend’s house. This same concept is demonstrated in Keesha’s House, in which teenagers would often escape over to Keesha’s residence in order to find a “safe house,” or a temporary sanctuary.

                Like the characters in Keesha’s House, I too found myself crossing unintentional borders when I would camp out at a friend’s house. Because I consider myself lower-class (I come from a one-parent household and my mother is the only family I associate with; I am considered a racial minority; I’m a little stingy with money) and all my friends are higher social standing (two parents, have extended family; Caucasian; spend money all the time), I thought that I would not fit in at all with their lifestyle. On the contrary, I found myself agreeing more and more with the parents of my friends than my friends themselves, being able to understand the pains of allocating money and the need for frugality. In addition, I thought it would be a good thing to put myself to work. I cooked, cleaned, tutored, and even counseled in order to stay on the good side of my friends’ parents. But like the definition of a safe house says, it was only temporary. So I eventually returned to my own place and status and used the knowledge of my experiences away from home to see if I could build bridges with my own mother. It seemed to work.

                However, sometimes staying with my friends didn’t go so smoothly. Just as Harris was approached by some strange person in the middle of his transition from one sanctuary to another, I was too. This person, however, happened to be a relative of my best friend at the time. For my own safety, I was required to break off the friendship. I lost a safe-house because of it, but I was able to form new relationships with other people that probably wouldn’t have formed otherwise. By distancing myself from one place, I formed connections with other outcasts, others who were looking to find their places in life. This became my journey throughout my senior year.

                My senior year, in a way, reminds me of the Yuma 14. Many of us in my graduating class came with our own baggage, with our own issues, from our own families, and we came to high school in order to try and get a better life for ourselves. By pursuing the road to higher education, we chose to believe in ourselves and our dreams.  Some of us were the first in our family to go to high school and try to get to college, just as those in The Devil’s Highway were the first to go to America. However, the road to acceptance and education wasn’t an easy one. Sure, we didn’t have to travel through a desert and die of dehydration. But there were physical barriers, like our neighborhoods. I had to figure out how to address and skip over boundaries, as the high school of my choice was not in my recommended zone. After careful negotiation with my school board and a number of entrance exams, I was allowed to attend. I needed someone to speak on my behalf, just as the native Mexicans did, and so these people were my instructors from middle school, freshman campus, and even community college.  My teachers acted as the bridge necessary for me to make the jump from one school to another, and I know that the admissions counselors did the same for many of my peers.  Sure, not all 900 freshmen crossed the stage, but some of us did, and though we made it with our own battle scars, we made it and now we are able to tell our stories.

                Before this year, however, I don’t think I ever found it necessary to tell my story or focus on the borders, bridges, and boundaries of my life or education. I didn’t think to interlink my problems, either, in order to show a bigger struggle for those who might be in my same situation or demographic. But through compilations like The Wind Shifts and A Capella: Mennonite Voices in Poetry, I realize that I am able to actually share my story in such a way that it can prove educational to readers as well as bridge connections to others that can ultimately help me in a way to grow.

                I suppose overall my interests have now focused towards creative writing in both a fiction and non-fiction purpose, and that this class has prepared me in ways of connecting to my reader by forming bridges with connections that occur in life. Ideas for this concept occurred to me while I was writing my poetry imitations of Di Brandt, a poet included in the A Capella anthology. Poetry writing has always been a passion of mine, and I believe it was my best subject not only in high school, but also in my Introduction to Creative Writing course. Creative non-fiction for the purpose of entertaining and educating my reader has also drifted into my papers for Expository Writing class, in the forms of my personal stories and through my perspective pieces about demisexuality and my lack of comfort in regards to personal displays of affection. Perhaps by continuing to address borders, bridges, and boundaries in everyday life, I will be able to teach others not only about myself, but also a little bit more about the human development.