Writing a book

It never occurred to me that the person in the mirror was the very same one who could keep me from doing anything really productive or magnificent. I’m not sure if that’s the basis under which we judge ourselves, but I certainly have believed for a very long time that I was capable of reaching great heights – only to be reminded that “You ain’t jack shit, kid.” It all starts with the playground.

You better believe it was a task to navigate those old school yards where one starts to sense what tribes they could be a part of. I was a new kid often, which meant that the proving ground to become the “man” as opposed to the “weirdo.” When I had first moved to Naples, Italy at the tender age of 9, I was fresh off of the island vibe life that I had left back on the island of O’ahu. I remembered even at that age how aware I had been at all the weird stares I was getting from kids that I did not know. It comes as no surprise that those kids were but kids probably confused at the slight change in their environment. It’s almost akin to a whiff of field manure that disrupts the smell of fresh scented autumnal air.

On that playground, I needed to prove myself. The first thing that I saw was a concrete field at play. The American kids and the local (Italian) kids were facing off on the unforgiving gravel, going back and forth the field. I approached a set of twins in my class, Tomo and Leon, the only kids that were willing to show me an ounce of mercy.

“Just go in for one of us,” Tomo said. Leon nodded his head. And so it goes, it was the beginning of my lesson into the mirrors we learn to look at in childhood. Desperately, I followed the “Super Santos” branded football, its orange hue smeared by endless layers of dirt and kid shoes. I targeted my first opponent, a bespectacled, bowl-haired boy that looked to be a bully – just because. Kid logic begs to pretend it knows something, but even in that moment, I could attribute my rage toward this random kid to my now relegated status of low-tier citizen amongst the playground elite. Once I danced and shuffled with him on the defense, he began to get, well, defensive.

“What are you doing dude?” he said.

Rats. I thought. It turned out that this Italian kid could get the vibe that I was trying to get mine. I was relentless. I started to kick at his feet. I aimed for his shins. I knew that this would be a weak point because I had certainly been kicked at that spot. When I finally had exhausted him enough to take the ball, I swiped it with my right foot. Immediately, I felt both of his hands push off on me. My instinct was to hawk a loogie and spit it at him. I watched as that phlegm landed upon his fists. He cried out.

“Cazzo!”

Then he tried to swing at me. I dodged it. Tomo and Leon ran toward me to break it up. The kids around me started screaming “Fight!” I had proven that I could hold my own. But I had lost my judgement then. I was just a sad kid who wanted friends. and was upset that I had moved to Italy. Once the fight broke up the game had ended. Tomo and Leon walked away without a word. My bespectacled nemesis dusted himself off and spat at the ground below him. I watched as they all left. No longer were there mirrors. I was left to look at my hands, my feet, and my surroundings.

*

Whatever this new book is or might be, I know that this one will be about me. Yes, it will require a great deal of ego in the beginning stages. It’ll be downright self-serving. But what I hope most from it is that it teaches me something. To choose to become the writer that I had always wanted to be. It is true that I’ll no longer be able to say sorry to that kid from years ago. But I hope that somewhere, somehow, he’s working on finding his sense of peace too.