There are promises we make in life. We make promises to our families, our friends, our neighbors, our children, and even ourselves.
I promised myself certain things. I set rules. I made goals that I would not give up, erase, and certainly would not forget.
But what if you have to break your own promises? How do you live with yourself? How do you convince yourself that it’s okay, that it’s just another broken promise?
I’m alone in my head. I have to live with my doubts, my own hesitations, my own battles. I try to fight, but I don’t always win. When I lose a battle, I’m left in a sea of doubt. I’m lost. I’m powerless against myself…I can’t bear it…I can’t stand it… I can’t…
Today I’m fighting…I’m fighting hard…and…

In the online world, speaking is so easy, so informal, so flexible. There are no eyes to watch out for, no stares, no judges, no juries, just you and a screen. You can laugh without the noise, you can smile without the teeth, you can even cry without tears. You don’t have to be afraid to write the words you don’t really mean. You don’t have to be afraid to have your feelings hurt. There are disguises that you can display. You don’t even have to be you…
Online, I’m known by certain screen names, certain smiley faces. But offline, I have to play my part. I have to be me, right at that moment. whether I want the role or not, I play my part, almost automatically…
Sometimes I wish my world was online so I could just be me…maybe what I really need to do is change what’s inside my head, what tells me what to do or what not to do when I’m not sitting in front of a computer screen. Maybe I…
I shut the computer off…for now there is no way out…the other part of me is now offline, invisible, simply unavailable.

The blue sky in front of me stretches farther than I can see. I don’t want to think and I’m not thinking today. I’m listening to music and I’m not here. I’m looking out the car window…everything looks peaceful, the clouds, the trees, the houses. But the calamity in my head, the hackneyed thoughts that were never recycled, the desperation of wanting to break through the glass window, through the traffic..
Stop.
I see a plane above me and I pretend I’m inside it. I pretend there are no unresolved issues, no worries, no uncertainties…I hate uncertainties.
I’m somewhere else today…and I don’t know where, I don’t care where. I’m not crying. Life is too short. I’m just taking a break from thinking. I’m going to listen to another song…I’m going to escape, just for tonight…

I have a pen. This pen is my only power, my only savior, my only weapon. If I let it go, if I let it slip out of my hand, I’m afraid I’ll fall. I’m afraid I’ll be just a shadow again, a silhouette.
If something is intrinsic, like your personality or your talents, should you be afraid of losing it? Is it possible to lose the most important thing that makes you who you are, that defines you, that lets you breath? Is it possible to lose the thing that keeps you going day after day?
The first short story I wrote was about two girls making masks. I was in Ms. Ford’s six grade class, feeling unfit to my new American life. I didn’t know English well. My sentences were choppy and full of errors ; I was a novice writer. After a lot of editing, Ms. Ford helped me rewrite the short story and later read it to the whole class. She made me feel special. I suddenly felt like I existed, that I was worth something.
Along the way, you meet certain people who make huge impacts in your life, who give you so much without waiting for paybacks. I’ve met many of these people along the way. Because of them, I’ve been able to hold on to my pen, my power. I’ve been able to keep it by my side and I intend to keep it there. They’ve taught me to make this pen valuable for myself, make it intrinsic.
I have power…I won’t lose my pen.

Speak. Say something. What are you afraid of? Don’t think, just speak.
At some point or another, I lost my ability to speak up, to use my voice, to open my damn mouth. Maybe I never had the ability to begin with, or maybe I did.
I tell myself I have power. I tell myself I have so much to be proud of. I tell myself that I feel confident. But…
I want to tell you that I couldn’t have gone this far if you hadn’t believed in me. I want to tell you that if I’m a good writer, it’s because of people like you. I want to tell you that you helped me appreciate my words, the words I once thought meant nothing. I want to tell you that I always look forward to your class because every time I walk out that door, I feel like a better writer. I want to tell you that you’ve made a difference in each and everyone of your student’s lives. I want to tell you, but my lips are locked. I’ve always wanted to tell you.
Hopefully, some time in the near future, I’ll learn to speak for myself, just like I learned to write. But until that day, let me use my simple words to thank you.

“Coming back
Coming home
The queen of love enters the room,”
Mr. G. begins singing Dispatch’s “Prince of Spades”.
I’m listening to his amazing voice. It’s a sexy voice. Charming. I want to hear more. He continues, as if he knows we’re waiting.
“Silence ensues…
To the king what have you done to my life
Did you you take me for a fool or for a wife,”
His eyes are closed as he sings. Nura and I are wondering what’s going on in his head.
The song is about a prince who yearns for the love of a king who only counts his diamonds. But, we don’t find this out until Mr. G. is done singing. The story is not important right now. What’s important is that a young physics teacher is singing from the bottom of his soul for two strangers. Nura and I are interviewing him for a story. He is allowing us to enter his most personal and private moment. A moment which lasts like eternity for him. A moment in which he meets the prince and his father, forgets what he does for a living, and…
“And the king is in his court
Counting all his diamonds
One by one they do fall,”
I get chills. I look at Nura. She looks at me, and we both smile.
I don’t want him to stop playing the guitar. I’m afraid that at any moment, he will open his eyes, put the guitar down, and we’ll have to leave. We’ll have to leave this pure moment, this small, live concert.
If he stops, reality will come back. Nura and I both know that. I want to know what the queen says…
“Says the queen our pride the prince of spades is coming home
It’d be nice if you could find some time alone
After all he’s in line for the throne,”
The Prince of Spades has bewitched me. I want to meet this prince and tell the king…
“So now just get up off your ass and
leave all your treasures behind
your son is coming home with you to spend time
show him how a good king should be
and don’t ever forget the day
when your turned your back on him and me
still I stayed.”
I want to tell the king to stop counting his diamonds. I want…
This is the last verse. Mr. G. opens his eyes and I clap. We want to tell him that he made our day. That he surprised us, amazed us, and that we enjoyed every minute of this short and beautiful song.
“Ecstacy,” Nura says and I agree.
Instead, Nura and I simply thank him for this pleasant treat.
We never think teachers could have hidden talents, hidden identities. We think teachers were born to teach. End of story. Mr. G. is one of many teachers who has more than one job, loves kids, and enjoys the hobbies that make him who he is. I’m sure there are many others that have their own hidden talents. They, like us, separate their jobs and hobbies to live life to however extent they want to live it. Mr. G. doesn’t want to be a rock star. He wants the simple life, where he can teach his students and surprise them once in a while with a guitar and as Nura and I say, a “sexy” voice.
Moments later we’re in the empty, quiet halls. Behind us is a classroom that belongs to a talented, young teacher.
The song is still in my head. It’s another Tuesday afternoon and I’m thinking of the Prince of Spades…