I’m a Human Being, the Same as You

A Non-Chronological Self-Portrait

When my mom first told me that everyone would die, I cried for hours. I didn’t understand why it upset me. I hated going to school when I was younger. I loved it when I got older. I spent a hundred thousand dollars on my graduate school tuition. I think it was worth it. My first kiss was on an elementary school playground under a tree. Our teeth smacked. It wasn’t painful, but it was noticeable. When I was a child, a goose bit me because I threw fruit loops at it. I asked a man if he was Aladdin because he was wearing a turban. According to my mom, he smiled and said nothing. As a young man, I had to stop someone I love from hurting them self. Twice. I wish all mental illnesses could go to hell. I read books by women about women. I feel ashamed to be a man; men will never comprehend the pain they (we) have caused. My mom caught me and my brother smoking in the car when I was in college. I told her it was a cigarette. I told my friends in high school, I had sex, even though I hadn’t yet. I dated a girl who called me her ex-boyfriend’s name during an argument. My sister almost died once. When she had her accident, I cried enough tears to turn a pothole into a puddle. I relive and repress that day, at inconvenient times. I wonder why people favor one race over another. I prefer black people to white people, according to an online implicit association test. I don’t get what the obsession is over dogs. A few days ago, I grilled chicken sausage and bacon, over a fire I made with my brother. I got drinks with a friend I used to like, who got engaged the same weekend. I don’t know where I’m going in life. I ask myself whether there are better questions to contemplate. I don’t know why I write. But I need to type words. I miss kissing my partner’s lips when I’m not with her. I have stolen kisses; I’ve never been a homewrecker. I hate the sound of metal utensils rubbing against each other; it’s worse when people scrape their teeth against forks. I like rap music, the good and the bad kind. I hate it when people say, “I don’t get rap music.” I don’t get why people tell each other how to do things; I’m guilty of doing it too. I think my voice only matters to people when they see how it benefits themselves. I wonder if they see me. I studied abroad in London my senior year of college; I spent my last night there with a girl who had a beautiful smile. I fought with my best friend in front of the house I rented with him in college. It wasn’t an actual fight. I yelled. I swung. And he slammed me on the asphalt. We made up at the end of the night. I can be arrogant. It makes me vulnerable. I talk a lot. I wish I didn’t. Whenever I walk by a person on the street, and we make eye contact, I say hello. I don’t get why some people don’t say hello back. I’m a human being, the same as you. Acknowledge me. I once ate at a Brazilian steakhouse with my brother for three hours. I drink a lot of water because I read that it’s healthy. I take vitamins because my doctor says I should. I do a lot of things because they’re supposed to be good for me. I need to make decisions on my own more. I’m not sure what that means. I try to listen to people. It’s tiring. I’ve shot a herd of deer. On an arcade game. You know, Big Buck Hunter. I like the coffee shops in Amsterdam. The neon red lights and soft laughter at communal tables comfort me. I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time. I think most people don’t either. When people ask me for help, I answer the best I can based on my knowledge — which isn’t much. I self-deprecate to humble myself, not to fish for comments. I know I’m great. I like the book Green Eggs & Ham. I have a friend that I call, Sam I Am. I love romantic comedies. Hitch is my favorite one. If a new person I meet doesn’t like that movie, we can never become friends. My college roommates would walk by our living room and say things like, “Hitch? You’re seriously watching that again?” Yes, yes, I am. I once made a speech on a bus, where some people heckled me during the speech, and others praised me, when I finished it. I was terrified at first and then emboldened. I don’t know who I am most of the time. I write because my voice is ugly. I enjoy public speaking. I hope I get published in The Paris Review. I saved my brother from drowning. I found him hiding in a clothing rack at a department store. I don’t get why I have to repress my farts and why I get embarrassed when they’re loud. I don’t get people’s motivations, including my own. I want to speak the truth, not the watered-down version; I’m scared of the repercussions. I don’t think most people say what they mean. I dull my words, so people don’t hate me. When I give feedback, I remove the edges and retain the sharp point, so people focus on the core message. To sneak out of my parent’s house, I would put a pillow under my butt and slide down the stairs. It quieted the mice that squeaked beneath our floorboards. I over-rely on the things I know. I should spend more time understanding what I don’t know. When I’m on a stage in front of people with their undivided attention, I am fully present. It’s a powerful feeling; I’m not ashamed that I like it. I tell myself I do it because I have something to say. I am intelligent. I think people can learn things from me. I have learned from others. My education will never end. I trip over my words and thoughts. I’ve ridden a horse and a camel. I rode the horse in the Philippines and rode the camel in Dubai. I saw a guy hit his girlfriend in Thailand and did something about it. I hate it when you’re riding a bike and swallow a bug. I care about beautiful things. I care for people more. I think I’m decent looking. Sometimes, I feel ugly. I’m handsome. I talk to myself frequently. I look in the mirror and say things like, “Today is going to be a good day.” I have a digital recorder I used to talk into. I’d listen to the recording days later and wonder what I was thinking. I write about my experiences and sometimes share it with others. I have nothing to say and everything to do. I don’t record moments that should be a singular experience. I don’t care if anyone reads this, and I do. I wish I could reach more people with my words. People have told me, it’s not the number of people you affect, it’s the depth. I want both. I am driven, mostly towards things I don’t understand. I am funny to a few people. I am big and small. I try to be nonjudgmental; I often need to catch myself. I love nature; I don’t understand why it won’t speak back to me to in plain English. I am selfish. I am not courageous. I’ve gone to therapy. It helps. I don’t know why I haven’t gone back. I am happy I wrote this. This is the personal work that needs to be done. I can breathe deeply. And now, I will soar. I wonder where I’ll land next.

Inspired by When I Look at a Strawberry, I Think of a Tongue by Édouard Levé