the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiii

“when I die, I wanna be a living legend.”
-2pac

Those are words to live by, or die by; honestly that man has got me in a state of utter confusion.

Slap bracelets, the running man dance along with Vanilla Ice, grunge, before Marky Mark was an actor, and the governor of California starred in the highest grossing movie of that year, before Jordan won a championship, ripped jeans and florescent colors, children adorning fanny packs and scrunchies, parachute pants made famous by MC Hammer, Del the Funkee Homospaian released his first album as a Tribe Called Quest released their second, it was either Me, Myself and I or engine, engine number nine on the New York transit line; I am back an era that laid the foundation of who I am now. The same year when the leader of our nation (Bush) obliterated Iraq; a lot has changed since then.

When a newly incarcerated individual enters prison, they are labeled a fish. I am not familiar with the rationale, but in my opinion it is possibly due to the fact that fish have gills. Entering elementary school, I was the new kid in town, transitioning from Alabama to Maryland. The adjustment was hard or maybe it was all the learning that was taken place; whatever it was, I found it difficult. Reading, writing, arithmetic, on top of all that nonsense I had to become socially accepted among my new peers. As always, I was the only Pakistani in the whole class. Being different is hard, especially when you smell like curry.

My own best friend is me. This is what losers say, when they in affect have no friends themselves. So, I am that fish, ignorant of the elementary ways of the social etiquettes in Maryland. In Alabama, I was the big shot; everyone wanted to be my friend. (They still do.) Therefore, making friends was new to me; it was a task that I did not want to accomplish. I feared not being accepted among my peers. Was I supposed to enter a new world full of solitude and emptiness? An abyss surrounded by peers who reject me? Or forever being alienated by those who smell better than me? I am a lonesome child unwanted like brown M&Ms. My own best friend is me; however, I am my own worst enemy.

Lessons being taught and lessons being learned, it was my first day of school in Maryland. I paid little attention to what was being taught; instead I was intrigued by the enormous size of the class. The teacher kept blabbing on and on, while I kept analyzing the class. I noticed the students were mainly Caucasian sprinkled with a few minorities here and there; which was much different than school in Alabama, where I was surrounded by an unending population of white people. The teacher, I think her name was Ms. Roberts, but who cares the story does not involve her, was lecturing about Mexico. I zoned out, not caring about her telemundo lesson plans. Later, she instructed the class to draw a Mexican environment.

One of my many amazing talents was the ability to make giant spit bubbles. I am not sure what that fact has anything to with anything. But another uncanny talent in my arsenal is the ability to draw the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without glancing at the image. Not to boast, but my artistic skills at my young age had a slight resemblance of a sane Salvador Dali. After the Ms. Roberts handed out the paper, I quickly began drawing. Lightening as my pencil hit the paper, quickly doodling my rendering of a Mexican environment. When the storm had cleared, my paper exhibited a grand portrayal of Michelangelo, from the ninja turtles, wearing a sombrero and eating a taco.

All the other students were in awe of my masterpiece, as they all praised my work. One kid, named Danny who had a strong similarity to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, asked me to draw the same image on his paper. Maybe my talent was a gift to make friends. I agreed to his wish and began drawing. I was not about to draw the same image, a masterpiece can never be duplicated, thus I drew Donatelo with MC Hammer pants. He was not nearly as impressed with my new artistic piece, so he insisted on switching papers. I was not about to part with my work of art, consequently I called him “fat.” He retaliated by calling me “skinny.” If those aren’t fighting words then I do not know what is.

Fast forward the rest of the class period to lunch, while I stood in line, Danny cut right in front of me giving me an evil stare. Was I supposed to be offended that a fat lard cut in front of me in a lunch line? But, whatever makes him happy. He then farted, and stunk up the entire line, the aroma of rotten eggs was too much for a class of elementary students. Chaos erupted. During the pandemonium, I lost my appetite, worse he blamed his stench on me. This was not the first impression I would have liked in front of my new peers.

During lunch I was now known as the lunch line farter. Echoes of laughter and teasing bellowed the large cafeteria; classmates would now acknowledge me with this new title. Kids are cruel; but so am I. Tensions between me and my new chubby friend had grown. I confronted my new enemy, approaching his table, asked him ever so politely if he ever stops eating. He took offense to my question, and told me to go back to my home land. I wish I could, honestly this hostile environment had given me nostalgia for Alabama.

Let the trash talking begin, all the kids crowded up. For some reason, children find joy in other people’s misfortune. This is bizarre phenomena that I cannot explain, either for lack of education or not caring. I perform well in crowds, especially under pressure.

“u look like a rescue ranger.” Danny the obese child yelled.

“ur an overweight Gummi Bear,” I responded as well as the crowd with a roar of laughter.

“Alf.” He retorted.

“Fat Albert.”

So far, I had the upper hand; poor child had no idea what he was getting into. His smile quickly turned into an unsmile. (Not a frown but not a smile, I do not think Mr. Webster put that word in his book of words. But, I do plan on sending him an e-mail, until then I reserve all rights for the usage of that word.) I always got in trouble for breaking things in my youth, even up until my adulthood. Breaking things is always fun; except for the fact of facing the consequences and repercussions. That day I broke the feelings of my new overweight and circular friend with embarrassment and shame all over his face. I could have stopped there, and let Danny wallow with humiliation, but I opted to make him cry.

“Mr. Belvedere.” I added to the injury. The children who served spectators to this unrehearsed mean spirited game of dozens could not control their laughter. I love pouring salt on an open wound, already knowing Danny is over sensitive about his weight.

There were many ways my foe could react to such an insult, but that would require quick wit and clevarity, none of which he possessed. And instead of crying, like I hoped, he got furious. The new lunch line farter kid stole the spot light from the over eating pudge. He then challenged me to duel, wanting to fight me and pound my face in with his stocky and flubbery arms. Little does he know that I have an older sister, and can take a great deal of damage. It was settled; we would meet at the playground during recess, and fight it out mano y mano. Yo hablo Espanol, muy bein.

Bring it on. The class was dismissed to recess, and I walked alone towards the playground. A huge crowd hurdled around Danny, like small moons orbiting a large planet. They escorted him to the jungle jim in an entourage fashion. Walking alone, I noticed I had this feeling tingling sensation in little tummy. Butterflies or school-made French fries, I am not sure what I ate. I also did not know how to fight such a large opponent. Quickness and stealth is what I relied on against this sumo-wrestler. I also doubt that I could talk my way out of this out of control incident.

Once we both arrived at the playground, we shared evil glances at each other. The children were screaming, almost animal like behavior as if they were characters come to life from Lord of the Flies. Danny’s body was now eclipsing the sun, as he stood thirsty for blood. The children were either taunting me or encouraging their portly classmate, “Danny the Killer” or something creative like “Dan the Man.” I planned on winning the hearts of my classmates with a swift and quick victory.

Without warning I ran full speed at the fat turd, only to bounce off like a rubber ball. The fart accuser stood his ground, and then ran towards me. His blubber flapping while he ran, his stomach bounced up and down in the air like a pogo stick. I stood helpless, screaming on the top of my lungs. I have never seen a fat boy run at me as fast as he did.

Black, as if was trapped in the night without lights while closing me eyes. I do not recall where I was, or what had happened, I could not move my body, paralyzed yet my mind awake in the darkness. Then, I slowly assembled the pieces of the puzzle; the plump child was sitting on top of my forty pound body. Ouch.

Thinking back, I have never been successful in duel against my sister. I do not recommend violence to end any dispute. My mind is quicker than any fist, my wit is sharper than any blade, my words are weapons and my weapons are words, delivering lethal blows and demolishing the esteem of my peers and foes alike. I have learned a valuable lesson that day. Who said that you don’t learn anything from school? Including that mulch leaves a nasty after taste. The ink of a scholar is holier than the blood of a martyr. Fighting does not always have to be physical. This was in essence my first fight, but was it to be my last?