~To my friends and family, that still do not know my

growing story~

Chapter 1
My father was born in Pulaski and my mother was born in Broadway. Yet they
come from very different backgrounds.
My father, Brad, was placed into a harsh family. A family filled with names that
we dare not speak, for fear that the memories would revive some feeling of anger or
pain. In which the memories should. The man of my fathers house was a cruel one, and
a prude even more so. That man also had an attitude as sharp as a switchblade, and he
was not hesitant to hurt someone with it.
There was much dispute between the two of them. It seems that even when he
would agree with my father, he would purposely argue against it. However, my
memories of him are very clouded. Many stories have been told to me though, and I
know all of them by heart.
When my father was a child he would always find something that would result in
a whipping from any designated adult. The problem my father had at that time was his
rebellious demeanor, as well as a neighborhood boy that he never got along with.
There were many arguments between the two of them, but they once had an
argument that stood out above all. I deem it a the turning point in my father's life.
It was a sunny day in Pulaski when my father was heading home from school. The
leaves crunched underneath his feet as he walked, but behind him he heard more
crunching. When he turned around he saw none other than his enemy. My father stared
into small green eyes and asked, what do you want?
The boy did not answer, but his body language portrayed the want for a heated
debate. The unspoken request was made before one could bat an eye. Profanities were
thrown at each other loosely until the boy said something quite peculiar.
I know something that you dont, he sneered.
My father muttered, what do you know?
The boy replied, youre parents arent your real parents. My mom said so! Youre
adopted!
My father flinched at the word, he then picked up a nearby rock and threw it at
the boy. The rock hit the boys face with a thud, and my father fled from the scene.
When my father returned home he questioned the individuals that he thought
were his parents. That is when they vaguely explained his matter of adoption to him.
When he became older he sought out his mother. He discovered her a few years
after I was born. Not long after my family and I travelled to Roanoke to meet her.
In a strange and miserably hot brick building we greeted and exchanged names.
My fathers biological mother turned out to be Patsy, a thirty-five year old lady with a
love for dogs and collecting angel figurines. We also learned that my father had a sister

named Christina. Many questions were asked and answered. However, the discussion of
my fathers biological father was very limited.
It was an awkward situation for my mother and I, but we tried to be as supportive
as possible. For being supportive was all that one could do to ease my father.
A few years later my father was called about the recent death of his father. The
sudden event led him to contact Patsy about the situation. Patsy then admitted the truth
about the reason my father was put up for adoption, along with other important details.
Turns out Patsy was the one that gave my father up for adoption, and his father
tried desperately to get him back. My fathers biological father was a nature loving man
that went by the name of Benny Dale Jones.
Bennys death led to the release of my fathers actual birth certificate. My fathers
name was revealed as Benny Dale Jones Jr.
My father holds this name as a badge of pride. In some way it also forms a bond
with the man he never met.
Christina moved to Florida with her girlfriend Sandy within the same year. After
that all contact with my fathers side of the family was lost. For we may never hear from
Patsy or Christina again.
It is a tragic affair. As if Shakespeare sat up from his grave and recited it as a
story of perpetual sadness.
My mother dealt with her own demons.
She has been married three times. The first man still remains a mystery to me.
For when I bring up the topic she dismisses it quickly. I assume that it was a marriage
with a short lifespan. Most of the time I find myself to have forgotten it.
The second man might as well be the devil. He was Satan himself, clothed in
human skin, with blue eyes that pierced the soul. I have only gazed into those eyes once,
and I would never again if I was given the opportunity to.
There was emotional abuse in that marriage. I cannot fathom as to what my
mother went through. Yet from that unstable marriage came my older half-sister Erin,
and that devil was mean to her as well.
My mother was strong after their divorce, and shortly after she met my father.
She remains strong to this day, and she is never hesitant to give my father a piece of her
mind. Such a thing that I admire in her.
My parents battled with hardships that I hope to never deal with, but only time
will tell of that.

Chapter 2
I have been raised in Broadway, Virginia all of my life. Such a small town, full of
people eroding their pennies with lottery scratchers at any given gas station. It also
seems that activities that are associated with the high school bring everyone together.
The weather is splendid. All of the seasons, with somewhat graceful transitions.
Fall and winter are always my favorite. When the frigid air fills my lungs I feel at peace.
The sunsets are truly something to behold. A vast array of colors that spread above the
mountains. Colors that change within an instant, but are missed after they paint
themselves in darkness.
The colors of the sunsets fluctuate, much like my opinion on my hometown.
They say home is where the heart is. My heart is not in Broadway, nor will it ever
be. I appreciate most of the scenery, but that does not make up for what I feel.
I dream of heading west, maybe to California. Though I believe the call of cold
weather would bring me back to the east coast.
Virginia is a state that holds most of my family, such a reason provokes me to
leave. I have a strong urge to go somewhere that does not contain the people I know.
A place to call my own, and leave the past behind me. My idea is that this
expedition would help me cross the threshold between child and adult.
Other than my ever continuous urge to leave Virginia, life here is good. However,
all of the teenagers would argue about the boredom that fills every crack in Broadway.
Job opportunities are very hard to come by. Any position imaginable is usually
filled. Entertainment is a scarce object as well, but gathering with friends to gossip help
keep the mind stimulated.
There are many houses and apartments on the market, but none of them were for
my family and I.
My family and I always had a struggle with our landlords. We used to live in a
house with atrocious wall and floor paper. The appearance did not bother me, but the
structure did. The basement would flood after every storm, causing the birth of
miniature rivers to run over the old concrete. Our landlords never tried to fix the matter
because they simply did not want to spend money on a repair.
Other problems were the same as well.
My father would call on the phone and ask, hey, can you guys come take a look
at this and see what can be done?
Yeah, well get to it, our landlord would reply.
Unsurprisingly the call was never returned. My family and I dealt with a flooding
basement and a disintegrating backyard shed for a total of fourteen years.

Moving into a new home was revelation for us. Yet I still do not appreciate
Broadway as much as I should. This town can annoy many people, and I will always be
one them.

Chapter 3
Everyone has a different experience and opinion of school. I was never one
of the popular kids, and being so I interlooped with any misfit clique that would accept
me. Other than that, my experience was pleasant until I reached fourth grade.
I gained a tad bit of weight towards the end of elementary school. I never thought
anything of the extra pounds until students started mentioning it.
The insults started in slivers, but they grew quickly from the increased amount of
students feeding them with more hatred.
I onced owned a blue cotton tie-dye sweatshirt that had the word Outerbanks
inscripted on it in blue stitching. I found it at a thrift store in my local neighborhood. I
loved it more than any other item of clothing in my closet. I wore that sweatshirt
habitually until my fellow students started a nickname for me.
It started in my fourth grade math class. Two students and I were discussing
what we thought each other resembled. Such a pointless topic, like most children will
have.
Skylar definitely looks like a lion, said Jessica, while gesturing to a golden
wheat haired girl.
Skylar replied, haha yeah, and you look like a wolf Jessica.
Jessicas watery gray eyes widened from the satisfaction of being compared to a
wolf.
I concurred, ya, youre totally a wolf Jessica.
The two girls then turned to me and questioned each other as to what I
resembled.
Skylar spoke, I think you look like a blueberry.
Jessica said, yeah, because youre round and you always wear that blue
sweatshirt.
Skylar nodded her head in agreement.
I spoke, I dont really like that.
The bell sounded with a high pitched ring. I went home and forgot about the
matter.
When I returned to school the next day other students started calling me
blueberry. The name calling lasted until the end of the school year.
Over that summer I convinced my parents to sell it in our yard sale Saturday.
The nickname died out, but only because I got rid of the sweatshirt. I had to give up an
object that I loved more than anything in the world, just because other kids were
bullying me.
The bullying did not end there of course. It carried on into middle school where
students said far worse things to me. I never understood how cruel people could be at

such a young age. Although I have learned to not care about the opinion that others
might have on my appearance, the nickname and all the other words people have called
me are still engraved in my mind.

Chapter 4
My grandmother was an exceptional woman. Full of life and a quick wit. She had
a great love for flowers and watching birds.
Since my parents always worked she practically raised my sister and I. She would
help us with homework and always made sure we were doing good in school.
Occasionally she would accidently take one of my assignments and lose it. Thus
resulting in complications with my schoolwork. I found it amusing though.
We would play board games together. Our favorites were checkers and Uncle
Wiggily. Her face would always light up when she got farther ahead of me in a game. I
would in turn joke with poor sportsmanship. Later on at night we would watch Wheel of
Fortune and Jeopardy.
When my report cards had good grades she would give me a dollar. Then she
would tape it to the fridge and tell me how proud she was.
Above all else she was an amazing cook. My grandfather grew all sorts of crops in
his garden, and she could always make something delicious out of them. Being such a
great cook, she contributed a lot to the meals at family gatherings.
The most famous dish among her creations were green beans. The beans were
grown by my grandfather and picked with care. On the day the beans were picked she
would prepare them for cooking. The pot on the stove would sizzle and the aroma of the
beans would fill the house once she added chunks of ham to the dish.
My personal favorite was her pumpkin pie. I looked forward to it every year. The
crust for the pie was bought, but the core of it was her own work.
I would rush to get off the schoolbus and barge through the front door to see if
she was cooking. On the stove there would be a round pan with tinfoil on the top to keep
the flies from it. To the right of the pan would be a little glass dish of pumpkin pie
without crust.
My grandmother always knew that I disliked the crust, so she would never
hesitate to make a smaller pie just for me.
As my grandmother got older the pumpkin pies became nothing but memories
left in the minds of my tastebuds. For she was not able to do such tedious work.
She was always honest about what she thought and sometimes preached her
opinion bluntly, but this made her strong. When asked if she liked how something
looked she would reply, well, I dont see nothing wrong with it. That famous line was
how one would know if she was fond of something.
I had a strong bond with her, and when she passed away a fraction of myself left
as well.

Chapter 5
There is annual tradition that my friends and I have. Every year we attend a
music festival called Vans Warped Tour. It consists of multiple genres and people.
Luckily Mollys mom appreciates most of the bands that play because she is the
one that drives us there every year. The concert is held in Virginia Beach, so we always
have to leave our hometown early in the morning in order to make it there on time.
Sammi and I will go to Mollys house and spend the night, then we make any last
minute preparations for the trip.
On the way to Virginia Beach we blare albums in the car and let them re-play
continuously. Sometimes we reach our destination too early, so we tend to kill some
time at the beach before going to Warped.
Each year has an aspect that is the same, but the year of 2014 was entirely
different.
Molly, Sammi, and I were waiting in line for the concert gates to open when three
men approached us. They appeared to be in their early twenties and seemed quite
talented as well.
A blonde guy with a guitar requested, can we serenade you?
Sammi and I replied, sure, yeah.
The blonde guy proceeded to play his guitar while the other two sang in harmony.
They were very good, and we praised them on their vocal skills. They told us their band
name and offered us a flyer. Just as this happened the gates opened and we quickly
walked through them.
Later on in the afternoon we stumbled upon a merch tent for a band called Beebs
and Her Moneymakers. I had only ever heard of one of their songs but I found them to
be quite marvellous. Sammi loved the band, and was filled with excitement when we met
the lead vocalist herself, Beebs.
Beebs called out, hi there, whats your name?
Sammi replied, hello, Im Sammi.
Molly and I greeted her as well and told her our names. Sammi then took a
picture with Beebs and started a conversation. The conversation led to an amazing
thing.
Beebs asked, how would you like to come on stage and dance in a hotdog
costume for our set?
Sammi very excitedly replied, yes, of course!
Your friends can come on stage and watch, Beebs said.
Another band member led us through a private room to a door that let out onto
the stage. The air was hot from the sun and it shined off of the stage floor.

Molly did not come with us because she was not feeling good, so she stayed in the
ampitheatre. The band member then told Sammi what she was supposed to do, and
introduced us to another guy that was to dance as a hot dog as well. His name was
Justin, and he had already arrived to Warped Tour with his own costume, so they
offered him the gig.
We waited while another band was finishing up on the left side of the stage.
Sammi and I talked about how exciting it was and in disbelief as to Molly not joining us.
During our conversation we noticed that the lead singer of a very popular band
called Echosmith was eyeing us sheepishly while she ate a salad. We smiled and figured
that the odd expression on her face was because we did not have VIP passes.
The time came, and Sammi and Justin danced on stage during the set. I was in
the back photographing every second of it.
When the set ended, Beebs got us some drinks that appeared to be Monster
Energy. She ten told us how to exit the stage perimeter and thanked us.
Sammi and I walked and opened our drinks. The cold rush of water filled our
mouths and we look at each other in confusion. The can was labeled Monster Tour
Water. Apparently cans that appear to be Monster are filled up with water to hydrate the
performers and promote the brand.
Sammi and I talked about in the car on the way home until we fell asleep. While
we slept we were still in awe as to all that had happened. It was a surprising but
exhilarating experience, and I believe that no other year will be able to compare.

Chapter 6
There is a question that has rested on the mind of humanity for centuries. The
famous words, what is the meaning of life?
This question plagued my brain frequently, and often at the worst of times. I had
constantly searched for an answer. I tend to obsess over such questions, and before I
know it my life is full on inquiries.
No matter how hard I looked, no matter what I asked, I could not find the
answer. It eluded me every time that I got close to catch it.
I would speak with my friends and they would discuss the issue with me.
However, their words were empty and their answers were fake.
For a few years I went answerless. The situation of it perplexed me so. How could
I not find the resolution?
Then one day I came to my conclusion. It was as if the universe was attracted by
my plaintive voice. Like the stars aligned and sent forward the knowledge that they had
kept secret for eternity.
The meaning of life is to live. A whole new concept for thinking was opened to
me. The realization of things that I was so blind to.
I developed the theory while I was at a gathering with my friends. I studied their
faces, and realized how they glowed with happiness. The way they put important and
negative thoughts in the back of their mind. Instead of questioning, they existed.
Then I knew.
The emotions: anger, sadness, happiness, and fear all define the word life. To
enjoy every microscopic part in life is living. To hate passionately is living. To cry a river
of tears is living. To be afraid of nothing is living.
Emotions and thoughts are the only way to know of life. For if the brain does not
wander, then it has no purpose. I inquired that my very own obsession over the topic
gave the answer to itself.
Humanity rests on the pedestal of work. The busyness that fills the mind is the
only way to remain sane. For if one has nothing to do, then why bother going on?
However, there is a thin line between staying busy and over working. For the
meaning of life is not to gain wealth or power, but merely to be.
Many individuals like myself suffer with anxiety. Anxious brains are programmed
to worry and question every insignificant object, rather than just exist. The reason why
such minds deal with constant torment is because of humanity.
Animals do not question. Dogs are filled with endorphins every single moment
they are awake. While humans try to take a fraction of something and twist it into a
bigger problem than what it is.

I believe that the only way to be at peace with life is to know how to hold on and
know when to let go. When peace enters the soul, the question of everything is
answered. Ones very existence is the meaning of life, and when they take their existence
and use it to help anothers, life is then fulfilled.
The answer to such a famous question is a mysterious one, but once the mind
opens, the ears will hear.