Going the Distance
Helen Corne
Going the Distance Life is full of hard knocks. I was raised in a broken down apartment, by my single mother. She tried her best to support my sister and me. There were five apartments in each complex. There must have been at least ten trashy buildings pushed together by government funding. Each apartment had up to ten people hiding away in it. There were enough people to create our own city. The walls were so thin that I could smell the fried foods, and hear the neighbors yelling at their kids from the next apartment. The apartments stunk of bug spray, and roaches crawled out from under the doors. My clothes were handed down from my older sister who had a problem of wetting herself. My mother washed the clothes in the sink. They were stained, old, and some had holes in them. What few friends I did have were other poor boys like me. We would often get picked on. I considered the rich kids to be bigger bullies than us hood rats. They acted like they were better than the rest of us, because they had the best of clothes and toys. The rich kids also got enjoyment out of picking on the ones that were poor, like me. It was really hard not to let the clean-cut bullies get the best of me. I kept to myself. Most of my time was spent staying inside. I would sit around watching anything that came on the three-channel television. Often, I would wonder why I had to live this way. Like maybe I did something wrong, and this was God’s way of punishing me. My cabin fever would set in mostly on hot sunny days when I could hear all of the other kids playing outside and having fun.
Most of my childhood was spent hidden in those roach-infested apartments. I remember sitting in my closet one night. It was dark, and I would wonder why life was so painful for me; it felt like hundreds of roaches were crawling on me. I would kill the ones I could by pinching them with my fingers. It kind of took my anger out. I was a bully to those little bugs.
Going the Distance Life is full of hard knocks. I was raised in a broken down apartment, by my single mother. She tried her best to support my sister and me. There were five apartments in each complex. There must have been at least ten trashy buildings pushed together by government funding. Each apartment had up to ten people hiding away in it. There were enough people to create our own city. The walls were so thin that I could smell the fried foods, and hear the neighbors yelling at their kids from the next apartment. The apartments stunk of bug spray, and roaches crawled out from under the doors. My clothes were handed down from my older sister who had a problem of wetting herself. My mother washed the clothes in the sink. They were stained, old, and some had holes in them. What few friends I did have were other poor boys like me. We would often get picked on. I considered the rich kids to be bigger bullies than us hood rats. They acted like they were better than the rest of us, because they had the best of clothes and toys. The rich kids also got enjoyment out of picking on the ones that were poor, like me. It was really hard not to let the clean-cut bullies get the best of me. I kept to myself. Most of my time was spent staying inside. I would sit around watching anything that came on the three-channel television. Often, I would wonder why I had to live this way. Like maybe I did something wrong, and this was God’s way of punishing me. My cabin fever would set in mostly on hot sunny days when I could hear all of the other kids playing outside and having fun.
Most of my childhood was spent hidden in those roach-infested apartments. I remember sitting in my closet one night. It was dark, and I would wonder why life was so painful for me; it felt like hundreds of roaches were crawling on me. I would kill the ones I could by pinching them with my fingers. It kind of took my anger out. I was a bully to those little bugs.