Narrative Essay

I remember the good days. The days that most people envy. The days that they wish they could get back, relive. All people know those days. Some know only those days. Those that forget those days, can’t live without them. Those days are gone; a distant figure of the past. They have disappeared into the past, and can only be retrieved by memory. My “those days” have past, and I only seem to recall a few specific memories. One of those memories, one that did not occur in “those days”, did not occur in “these days” either. In the nebulous between “those days” and “these days” is where this specific memory occurred. The specific memory? My, excuse me, our transition into “these days”. “Our?”

I can remember the fun times. Most of the pleasurable memories of my youth, are memories of times I’d spent with my cousins. My cousins represented the innocence of my youth. We represented our innocence. A day didn’t go by when we were young where we didn’t pray that we would see each other soon, to play together, or have fun some other way. Then, one summer, our prayers were answered.

Our older cousin, Joe McCourt, attended Lafayette College, and played for their football team. As the main runningback, he had to be at every game, and to every game, everyone was invited. My family and I, and my cousins, aunts and uncles, went to almost all of Joe’s football games. However, one football game, my cousins and I will never forget.

The football game took place at Georgetown University in Washington D.C., in the middle of a sweltering August. The temperature reached about 90°, stifling hot. We packed our food in our coolers, our fold-up chairs and tables, condiments and napkins, bags of chips and pretzels, packages of hot dogs and hamburgers, and plenty of water, soda, beer. We pulled into the stadium and we went on the search for parking spaces.

Of all the parking lots we could have parked, we drove around the stadium until we found this lowly, dusty, desolate parking lot, behind a huge beige building. This lot was the designated lot for families of football players. The lot seemed small, just a dry dirt pile, like a desert. Lots of cars were parked her, because Georgetown University doesn’t have any suitable parking spaces. However, we pulled into a less crowded part of the parking lot.

Our portion of this large desert felt lonely, empty, and deserted. Around this dusty lot was the building’s wall that rose 20 ft high. Scattered around the parking lot were trees, possibly just large weeds and ivies, which were meant to provide the only source of oxygen in this arid place. Then, the one thing that all parking lots must have, this one was evenly coated with a lovely layer of trash, of all sorts, as well as a pile of cut stone for some reason. This was our parking lot, our temporary place of residence.

The game wasn’t going to start for another hour or two, so we had unpacked our bounty and ate a little. Then, when the game started, we all walked into the huge stadium, which was very close; another advantage of this parking lot. I can’t remember much of the game, I wasn’t very interested, so, before halftime, my brother and I, and a few of my younger cousins, Sean, Pat, and Tara, went to and stayed in the parking lot.

After leaving that anticlimactic game, the parking lot no longer seemed so desolate. It was quiet and peaceful, only broken by the echoes of the cheering stadium. The tall tree-like weeds provided a cooing flock of pigeons shelter. The plastic wrappers on the ground seemed to glimmer in the sun. Not only that, but in this parking lot, there was a plenty of food and drink. It was like our own private oasis; a quiet retreat; a place where we could have fun and just chill out. So we just ate and sat around and talked for a while.

When halftime came, the parking lot below ours swelled with people. Not so many people came to our parking lot, except for our families. The families were the two McSheas, the Langdons, and the McCourts. My brother Liam and I made up the “Y” generation of my family. My cousins Marty, Maureen, Trish, and Tara made up the other McSheas. My cousins Ryan and Sean made up the Langdons. And my cousins Molly and Pat made up the McCourts. As well as all the respected aunts and uncles.
We all gathered in our parking lot at halftime and ate and drank. Halftime came and went, and when it was over, all the parents walked back to the Stadium, and so did all the other tailgaters in the entire desert parking lot. The lot went back to being our private oasis.

All the cousins stayed, being too lazy to walk back to the stadium, and ate, drank, and played around. We all decided to have some fun, so my cousins suggested an idea.

“You guys wanna play football?” My cousin Marty asked while Ryan stood next to him with a large football.

“Yeah!” Pat shouted with much enthusiasm; more than what was called for.

“OK, sounds cool.” Cousin Sean said, in sympathetic agreement.
Everyone stood up, some eagerly, some obligatorily, like flies to a light. I sat still, drinking my precious water in the sandy lot, until my cousin Maureen approached me.

“Come on Ian, let’s play. What are you a girl?”

“Alright, fine.” I responded, trying to contain my excitement.
We all gathered around in a circle, (though I don’t think I could justly classify the shape we made as a circle) and began to divide teams. However, in the division process, we soon discovered that the quantity of boys outnumbered the quantity of girls, 6 to 4.

“There’s more boys than girls” Trish pointed out.

“Thanks captain obvious” Ryan stated sharply, however appropriately.

“OK, so one of the boys will just have to play on the girls team.” Molly suggested.

“Alright, who do you want?” Marty inquired.

“How ‘bout Ian?” Maureen proposed, “Since he already is a girl.” All of my cousins began to giggle, and though I was embarrassed and offended by her remark, I complied. With my tongue in cheek, I joined the girls team.

We started the game with everyone lined up, facing each other. With ball in hand, Ryan shouted “HUT!”, and the game began. A brown football flew through the air, with bodies running after to catch it. The hot sun baked our bodies, boiling our sweat and turning the ground into a bed of hot coals. When one’s sweat dripped onto the ground, you could hear the steam rise up from the dust. Dry dirt blowing in our faces from the sudden, skidding stops we made. Then, when one throw was made for me, I took the chance, however, I missed it. That miss was the match that lit the fire.

“IAN! HOW COULD YOU MISS?!” Maureen shouted in frustration. “You really must be a girl!”

This caused all my cousins to, once again, laugh and mock me. My masculinity had been shattered enough. I needed retribution. I ran over to the icy coolers, reached in and pulled out a freezing, cold water bottle. The droplets condensing on the outside of the bottle sparkled in the sun. They boiled as they slid off the bottle onto the sandy ground. As I ran toward Maureen, I unscrewed the lid, and I poured the frigid water onto her head and down her back. My act of retaliation had filled me with a kind of sadistic pleasure.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Maureen shrieked in shock, terror, and anger; a swirling torrent of emotions. She turned around, her eyes in a fiery rage. She took my water, and tried to splash the rest on me, however, my reaction of jumping to the side resulted in her splashing my cousins Trish and Tara. Trish shrieked in horror, while Tara just grabbed herself a water bottle, and splashed Maureen with even more water. Pat, Liam, and Sean then decided to join what they thought was “fun”. While everyone was off preparing their selves, Molly grabbed traumatized Trish and ran for Molly’s car to take shelter. Marty had also taken up arms, while Ryan rushed off for the stadium. All came out, bottles ready, and we all started splashing each other.

The cool water was a refreshing relief, but this wasn’t about fun. For some of us, it was about survival; for Maureen and I, it was about retribution. It was every man for himself, however the rogues tended to drift to either Maureen’s cause or mine. This desolate parking lot, our serine escape, had been turned into a battle field. We fought with these water bottles till we were ry. Seemed harmless fun, until water ran low. We were down to our last water bottle, and we had no idea who had it. I suspected Maureen had been fortunate enough to have obtained it, and I was right. Maureen did have the last bottle. We were defenseless ,and terrified.

Sean had come out of the blue to me, with a deductible treat, a can of soda. The bright blue Pepsi can shimmered a gleam of temptation. Sean opened the can, as soon as Maureen appeared to us. He unleashed the cans sticky contents onto Maureen. This innocent game of Splish Splash no longer seemed so innocent. Maureen was devastated to be splashed with a can of soda.

“Sean, what’s wrong with you?” She said, on the verge of crying. Sean looked at her, not sure of what he had done. She was livid. She went for a cooler and grabbed a soda can herself. In response to all this, everyone grabbed cans of soda.

Now it had gotten serious. Water was one thing, but soda was a whole other thing. We no longer splashed each other for fun; we did it out of anger. The sticky soda unnerved us. It was so uncomfortable to be covered with a syrupy liquid, it drove us insane. However, we had to defend ourselves; defeat was not an option. The sand, once wet with water, was now sticking to the soles of our shoes. This arid desert was slowly filling up with water. We were transforming it into a new giver of life.

Soon, we began to run out of soda, as we did with the water. This time however, we weren’t sure who had the last can. Tara had been working with Maureen, and Pat and Sean were helping me out, while somewhere among the sands were Liam and Marty, doing what they could to avoid our wrath. During a quick ceasefire, Marty had come up to me.

“Ian!” Marty shouted for my attention. “Listen, we need to stop before we start fighting.”

“Why, it’s not my fault, Maureen got me mad with all the stupid gir…” And then suddenly, Maureen and Tara ran from behind a car, armed with soda cans, and started splashing. Me and Marty ran to my Aunt Marian’s car, Where Trish and Molly had been hiding. Sean and Liam had been trying to convince Molly and Trish to let them in, and eventually they gave in. Marty and I had ran to their car just as Molly was closing the door.

Marty quickly ran to the driver’s side and jumped in. I had ran for the sliding door, which was now shut and Locked.

“MOLLY! LET ME IN! LET ME IN PLEASE!” I screamed in horror.

“NO! This is all your fault. You splashed Maureen and now it’s crazy.” The arguing continued until I could see a glimmer in their eyes, and I felt a presence. Then, all of the sudden, it hit me; a huge splash of Pepsi was pouring down my back. Maureen had got to me. I turned around, in rage, and screamed at her.

“I HATE YOU! WHY DID YOU DO THAT? WHY DID YOU SPLASH ME?” Then I turned around to the van, and screamed at Molly and Trish. “SEE WHAT YOU DID. YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME INTO THE CAR. NOW LOOK. AAAAAAAAAGH!”

When I turned back to Maureen, I saw everything. Pat had ran up behind Maureen with the forbidden ; the root of all that is evil. A large can of Yuengling. He unleashed its evil all on top of Maureen’s head. My jaw dropped in amazement. At that moment, everything changed. Maureen looked at me with a new face. She put her hands to her face, and cried.

“My mom’s going to kill me,” she sobbed, “you can smell the beer.”

You could. The Yuengling had a strong scent. It penetrated the nose, and in the middle of all the chaos, Aunt Trish came to the scene, horrified. Trash all over the ground, wasted drinks, and a daughter covered in alcohol.

“What the hell happened here?” She screamed. We all stood in silence. “GET IN THE VAN!”

We all gathered into Aunt Trish’s church van, I sat in the far back. Aunt Trish lectured about our wrongdoings. “…and your going o pick up EVERY bottle on that ground…” It was too much for us. We sat quietly, and listened. Her harsh ruling pierced through us, and we were aware of the consequences.

Finally, Aunt Trish finish her rant, left the car, and closed the door. We stared at each other for a brief minute, in silence. Then, we cried. We cried our eyes out. The car was filled with “I’m Sorries” and “Why did we do thats”. We felt so bad for what we had done, for the familial bond we had broken. This stuff never happened before. We always used to have such innocent fun. We had now seen the true side of our humanity, and it was frightening.

While everyone wiped the tears from their eyes, and the apologies had stopped, I turned around to look out the back window. I saw the destruction. The trail of bottles and cans that now lie on the cold, sticky, wet grown. The stench of alcohol floated heavily in the air. The sun baked the earth back to the arid desert it once was, and the last streams of water, soda, and alcohol met each other and fused, and trickled down the slope into the dirt parking lot. All the Earth returned to normal.

One thing, however, did not. That day had changed all our lives. That outburst of rage had shown us a darker side of ourselves, a newer side. At first what seemed a harmless little game turned into a serious fight. We had enraged each other, and had expressed our suppressed feelings long enough. We all shared a similar thought; “what now? What do we do after this?”

From that day on, our relationships had changed. We no longer valued our companionship as much as we did before the outburst. We were separating, as cousins often do as they age. We realized our differences, and couldn’t embrace each other the same. Our paths changed. We all moved on with our lives. Do I still see my cousins? Of course, but I’ll never feel that feeling that I got in my stomach whenever I used to see them. I’ve grown up. I have other friends who share similar things with me, and so do they. It may never be like our childhood again.

To end this moralistic story, I’ve come to my own conclusion. We’ve entered the beer of our lives. Intoxicating and no longer innocent, we’ve seen a different part of us that represents our separation, and, ultimately, our maturity. Our innocence almost lost. The “those days” almost lost.

However, we, just as all people should do, we fight for our innocence. We need our innocence, all people do. Innocence represents the only part of our lives that makes us believe. Makes us act and take risks, and makes us learn, the hard way. Don’t let yourself become drunk with too much maturity; sober up a little. Maturity isn’t always good. Yes, grow up, and learn from your mistakes, but never lose them Fight for that innocence you once had, and keep the maturity you’ve gained. “These days” are fine, but let’s never forget “those days” We all have only so much innocence, and it judges our life. Don’t give up your innocence so easily, no matter what type of innocence it is, because once its completely gone, you may never get it back.

"Sympathy", by Paul Lawrence Dunbar

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!

"Sympathy" Essay

Ian McShea
February 11, 2009
Why do we hate confinement? What is it that drives us to freedom? Naturally or unnaturally, people, humans, and all animals, hate confinement. Mobile creatures desire freedom. We seem to have a fear of confinement. Claustrophobia, the “abnormal fear of being in enclosed or narrow spaces”, is considered one of the most common fears. No one better summarizes this fear than famous poet Paul Lawrence Dunbar, in his poem, Sympathy. Dunbar makes references to historical concepts, uses metaphors to enhance the poems meaning, and has an explicit meaning between-the-lines.

I found Dunbar’s historical references in “Sympathy” very interesting. In Sympathy, Dunbar refers to America’s hurtful pastime of racism. In one of his lines, the poem reads, “I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars; for he must fly back to his perch and cling...” This quote portrays the hardships many blacks had to go through during the 1890s. They broke their backs just to get a little freedom. Hard to imagine how hard people fought for freedom, and how we take advantage of it.

However, I also loved the poet’s use of metaphors. In Sympathy, Dunbar, in the first stanza, shows us the view of the beautiful world outside the bird’s cage; the world the bird longs for. “…When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass…” Words like this represent the beauty and freedom that blacks tried so hard to get to. Blacks worked so hard, but never could achieve greatness; until they had to fight for it. Just the metaphor of a “caged bird” drives this idea of confinement, and lost opportunity. A cage represents that all is lost; that there is no hope left. That you can’t reach anything beyond the bars.

Fighting brings you to my last point; Dunbar’s deep “beneath-the-lines” story. Paul Laurence Dunbar makes sure to let the reader know that he, as well as many other blacks, prayed that one day they could succeed. In the final stanza of the poem, Dunbar says “…When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings…” He wants the world to know that, not just blacks, but all people, who yearn for freedom, are crying out to the world, pouring their hearts out, just so they can achieve the same opportunity as others. They’re calling for equality, and freedom; they’re screaming so loud, in hopes that their screams will reach God, and he will answer their prayers.

This poem toys with the mind. Emotion overflows the reader with beautiful metaphors, and pathetic feelings of despair. Consider it a call to action, or a cry for help, either way, it pours through the soul. Its metaphors, history, and deep insight are tantalizing. They arouse the reader, and fill your head with new ideas and emotions. I haven’t read a poem with such passion in a while, and I’m glad to have picked this poem for my essay. So the next time you feel trapped or confined, pleading for a taste of freedom, try to sympathize with the bird.