The Boy

Photo: A little boy stares at my camera. Samoa, 2009.

There was a time in my life when all things were fundamental, raw and rugged, yet rich in culture and succulent in flavor. I didn't have a care in the world. I was young. Guided by faith, nurtured by hope.

In school, I'd have nothing but a pencil in my pocket, a few sheets of folded scrap paper for notes and maybe a dollar or two for lunch. I'd sit in class, pay close attention to my teachers as they spoke in length about molecular theories and molar mass, square roots and integers. It meant nothing to me--and to this day, I still can't understand why I sat there so patiently, so intrigued, so amazed at how much information I couldn't understand. When the bell rang, I awoke from the spell--stood up and walked away feeling like I had just paid for a B-rated movie.

I did a lot of soul searching when I was younger. Walking home, I'd take the long way, find new streets I had never crossed, new fields I had never seen. I'd make friends with crossing guards, shake hands with kids I'd never meet again and maybe pet a dog or two. The world was a lot safer then. It allowed me to dream, to lose myself in thought, to see the world in a way I'll never see again.

There was a time in my life when my evenings consisted of having dinner with my family, watching the nightly news with my father and helping my mom prepare for tomorrows meal. She loved to cook. And as we enjoyed each others company, we'd talk about life, about the good old days when they were young--how they never had television, never had silverware or had to eat left-overs for days upon end. I'd listen carefully. Took notes in my mental psyche and realized just how lucky I was to be their child.

At night, I'd lay awake for hours before falling asleep. Listening to my parents chatter in the living room, I'd hear them talk about their fears, their hopes and their dreams. Sometimes, they spoke of me. They'd question each other about my future, what I wanted to become and how I was going to get there. I'm sure it's natural for parents to worry.

I worried, too.

And to this day I still worry. I still ponder about my future. Sometimes, I lose myself in fear, walk the fine-line between fact and fiction--as I try to define what's real and what is not. All I know is that I want to make my parents proud one day. I want to let them know that the sacrifices they made in raising me had a purpose.

But in retrospect, I am still the little boy with nothing but a pencil and scraps of paper in his pocket. I'm still the boy that takes the long way home--the boy that finds friendship in strangers--the boy looking for new destinations.

I'm still the boy that worries about what will become of him when he's all grown up.

I'm still the boy...