This is an essay I wrote for English III. The objective was to describe events in as much detail as possible using mental and emotional imagery.

"When a man's soul is motionless, so becomes his hand."--Fanteizha K. Lodoss

In a western society as Bellarmine was, is, the worth of a faithful Buddhist is diminished. Even his potential as a human is undervalued but not so much that he should be pitied more than the lowly wretches among which he walks. In such a politician factory no one's life is worth more than their tuition payment. At least, that is what I found out when I arrived at Bellarmine, late.

The day started out inauspiciously; my mom's high pitched nag rang through the hall to collect in my ear. As if trying to pretend that anyone could withstand such an assault, I tried to go back to sleep. But she would not be denied. After two more yells had traveled from the end of the hall, my strength had been depleted. I shudder to recall the sound of her voice; upon retrospection, I might compare it to the sound of a car horn. The first thing I saw was my desk, then the floor, then the door. Then I must have blanked out because the next thing I remember I was killing a cockroach in the kitchen. I quickly swept it into the garbage. I hate roaches; the first thing I usually say when I get home is "Damn roaches!" Although in those instances I am usually speaking figuratively.

I started toward the fridge but my feet stuck to the floor. I looked back and saw another roach, crushed and jumped. Did I mention I hate roaches? I ran to my room and decided to skip breakfast. I looked at the clock; it was 8. Considering the distance from my home to the school I was sure to be late. I began to rush every part of the getting ready process which, with my mom's constant nagging, was not easy. I tried to quiet her by telling her what she wanted to hear and I failed. She ended up going out to the car to wait for me. That made things easier, but not by much. When I stopped to notice the silence, the fear set in. The anxiety of being late yet again combined with the 'alone in the dark' feeling was too horrible. I decided to turn of the TV. The chaotic contradiction of action and perception was soothing.

As soon as my shoes were on, I jumped up with my bag and was out the door. The ride in the car was uneventful but for a "fender bender". Although this did not seem, to me, stressful, I did realize that I would be even later. My mother, however, did not take it so well. She began to complain about things I never knew happened; that is not to say that I would have been interested to know. My mom complains about things that she has no control over. She asked me, "Why do people [the guy who hit us] have to be so stupid?" "They don't." I answered, "You just think you're smarter." What my mom doesn't realize is that her car would have been hit sooner or later and that by grieving over it, she only hurts herself. She always used to tell me "You can control how you feel. You own your emotions." I, on the other hand, have learned that lesson well which is why I don't worry about being late. That is, perhaps, the cause of the incident which transpired that afternoon, if it can be called an afternoon.

Of course, the literal meaning of the word would permit nothing less. However, when I picture an afternoon, I see a sky orange in the west and dark yellow in the east, 5 or 6 clouds in it, enough for the sun to paint on, little kids practicing martial arts in the park while a gentle breeze rustles leaves and sways trees but its warm, warm like you feel when you've been under 2 blankets for an hour while there's a blizzard outside, not warm like a tropical island, warm like being with your family on an important day, not the family you got stuck with either, just the ones you like as well as your very best friends, the ones you'd kill for, or die for and your lover too, not the one who lied to you not the one who used you or the one who dumped you, but the one who would stay with you forever, or maybe the one you always knew you should have been with but never had the guts to talk to. It's the warmest feeling you ever had, the one you would commit mortal sin just to feel again. Ah, but I digress.

Alas, the real issue is the cruelty of ambition or perhaps merely its followers. Case in point, on the morning in question I arrived at school late. My mother dropped me off in front of the building in which the administration offices were located. Though not more than ten steps awaited me, they seemed enough to reach heaven. Rest assured that it seemed so because of the pain that awaited, not because I deserved to go to heaven. Although after this incident I could have become the first martyr for a long-awaited revolution against those adults who give no good reason for treating us like criminals. Needless to say, the punishment for being late was not as bad as for some other things like fighting but it had its own special charm. I was given a J.U.G. (this acronym has no official explanation but it was rumored that during the 20's, boys were forced to carry jugs of milk around the campus which was at that time over five miles in circumference as it was shared with Santa Clara University). After school had ended for the day, I was to report to the dean's office for assignment to one of the duties allowed for jugged students. He put me on trash detail and gave me the purple section on the map. This meant I had to pick up trash on the streets around the school for one hour meaning until 4 PM. Now as soon as the dean started giving out trash assignments, I knew I was doomed because, for some reason, I always had to pick up trash. That would usually be okay except that it was very cloudy that day and anyone could tell that it would rain, anyone but the dean with his inch-and-a-half thick glasses. When I heard the call, "Ozy, you've got purple," it wasn't so bad because I knew it was coming. It was just that the rain frightened me a bit; it was like the calm feeling you get waiting for a typhoon when it's too soon to panic and too late to get away. Still I went out, determined to serve my punishment. Even if it did rain, I had a jacket on; it wasn't a rain coat but I told myself it would do the job.

About ten minutes after I left the office, it began to drizzle. I was fine in my jacket. I walked up and down the streets visually combing the gutters because, incidentally, that's where most of the garbage is. Another ten minutes passed and the rain got harder. At one point, something hit me on the head and I saw hail. Luckily that didn't last for long. I remember wishing that I could drive in order to move some of those cars out of the way. The pounding noise on the sidewalk got louder and louder. It made me think of the time I rode the train with my cousin to San Mateo. The sound of the tracks was just as loud as the rain. My jacket finally started to soak through and I hadn't yet finished my task when my father pulls up in front of me and tells me to get in the car. However, like the samurai who chose death before dishonor, I told him I had to finish. "Finish what?" he asked. "My jug." "But it's raining!" "I know." I told him. He said he'd be waiting in the visitors parking lot.

It was another half an hour before I picked up the last piece of trash and it was the very last. I made sure to be thorough so that when they checked it would be clean. By that time, only my skin was still dry, most parts of it anyway. I splashed into the dean's office, showed him the full trash bag I'd had to lug around the neighborhood, and told him I was done. He didn't look up, just grunted and kept writing on what looked like income tax forms. He clearly showed no concern that I was soaking wet. I was disgusted so I left the trash bag in his office and went out to my dad's car. On the ride home, I had to take both my jacket and my shirt and cover myself with a towel.

When we got home, I rushed to the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower. I still got sick. The doctor told me I'd been exposed to pneumonic bacteria (pneumonia) and that for some reason as yet unknown it didn't affect me. What I got sick from was an ordinary cold, although I must say that while I had it the pain was quite extraordinary. I stayed home for almost a week. During that week, I had much time to think and I realized how near I had come to death. Since then I have held a deep resentment not for the dean but for the system of which he is a part. Is it worth the suffering we endure just to get to college? Is it fair to make a teenager do something that may kill him so that he'll learn not to be late? Is life so trivial that it should be disregarded like so much wet clothing? Or should we just relax and not worry about anything?