Hope Wins, page 4
My mom used this tactic for many situations in my life. When other kids wore raincoats on rainy days, I’d have a black trash bag with a hole cut out to slip my head through. But those kids had to wear the same boring coat each rainy day. I didn’t. I was special. I could throw mine out when I got to school, and when it was time to walk home, all I needed to do was visit the janitor’s closet and get another raincoat. Mine were brand-new every day. And with duct tape, I was able to name my raincoats. Sure, all the other kids laughed and teased me about it, but deep down, I knew they were really jealous, like my mom told me they would be. Plus every time it rained and I was walking home, the city bus would stop and give me a free ride. I bet no other kids in their raincoats got free bus rides.
And no matter where we lived, my family was always the only Native American family around. This was a very important thing to know when I was younger because even when we had nothing—no home, no food, no car, and no money—my mom would whisper into my ear that everything and everywhere my eyes could see was mine. All these trees, hills, fields, houses, and buildings around us were technically ours. Everywhere my feet touched was my home. This made me feel rich. Even though I was getting older and realizing she was just saying these things to me to make me feel better. To give me hope. And so I’d pretend to believe her. I did it to make her feel better. To give her hope.
What is hope? Hope is like your shadow. When you find yourself in a dark place, you think it’s gone. You think you’re hopeless. Alone. But the moment you see some light, even if it’s just a sliver, you realize hope is still there, right beside you, waiting for you to step forward so it can keep following you. Hope never leaves you. But sometimes hope doesn’t look like hope at all. Sometimes it looks like victory, sometimes it looks like defeat. Here’s a quick little story about how hope made me the person I am today.
One morning, when I was in seventh grade, I didn’t want to go to school. I was crying and begging my mom to let me stay home. I hated school. I never wanted to go back. I told her that my brother was good at everything. He played sports and was always the best player. He got into fistfights and always won. He was even the best looking—all the girls would follow him around like he was a tall, handsome movie star. But me? I was the worst at everything. I sucked at sports. I was short. I got bad grades. I didn’t win all my fights. There was something wrong with my brain, and everyone thought I was weird. Oh, and I had super-chubby cheeks. People my age were way smarter than me. I was always placed in the back of the class, even when I was in remedial classes. I guess you could say I was hopeless.
I wasn’t good at anything. And I was sad all the time and spent hours alone in my room, listening to music, drawing, and writing “pooretry” (that’s what I called poems about being poor). My mom saw I was down and figured out a way to “hope me up.” This is what she did. She told me that she spoke to my Native American ancestors in a dream and that they told her they could prove to me that I was not only good at something, but I was the absolute best at something. Me? The best at something? No way.
This may have worked on me when I was much younger, but in seventh grade, I didn’t buy it that her dreams channeled my Ojibwe-blood spirits and they told her this. (But also keep in mind that I was very sensitive, and to make my mom feel better, I decided to go along with it.)
“Prove it,” I told her.
She said it would be a one-week battle, but at the end of the week, I would know what I was the very best at. This is how she proved it.
DAY ONE. MONDAY. My mom took me to a nearby park and told all the kids that I was the fastest runner she’d ever seen and that I challenged them to race me. They took one look at me and agreed. From here to the slides and back. Ready, set, go. I ran as fast as I could. Faster than I would have ever thought possible. I imagined I was a cheetah . . . And guess what place I came in? Last. I said, “Let’s go again.” And we did. And again, I came in last. We continued this until they all agreed I was the slowest kid they’d ever seen, and they left the park. I told my mom that my ancestors were wrong. I lost every single race. But she reminded me it was going to take some time to reveal what I was the best at. It most certainly wasn’t running.
DAY TWO. TUESDAY. My mom took me to the basketball courts after school. She told the other kids that I was the best basketball player she’d ever seen and could beat everyone one-on-one. They took one look at me and accepted the challenge. And just like the day before, every single kid there beat me. I challenged them all to a rematch, but they’d seen enough. I told my mom that all she was doing was proving I was the worst at everything, but she insisted that the week wasn’t over. So, it wasn’t running or basketball. But maybe tomorrow would reveal my strength?
DAY THREE. WEDNESDAY. At school, there was a spelling bee. My mom insisted that I enter it. She knew my brain was faulty when it came to words, math, and just about everything else school related. I couldn’t even read a book because I would separate letters and vowels and make new words, so spelling for me was extra hard. But to make her feel better, I entered the spelling bee. Each student got their word. Some were right, some were wrong. And when it was my turn, they asked me to spell satellite.
My mom stood in the back of the class and gave me a thumbs-up. I imagined a satellite up in space. But what I saw was a cowboy riding a giant flashlight.
I spelled it. S-A-D-D-L-E L-I-G-H-T. It made sense. The cowboy was riding the flashlight like a horse. Saddle light. I was sure I’d spelled it correctly and would move on to the next round, but they said I was wrong. I called them ridiculous and explained why I was right. They didn’t know how to react to my logic, so they offered me another word. Catastrophe. I closed my eyes and imagined the word. I saw a cat. And the cat had a trophy in its hands. I smiled because like that cat, I was going to soon have a trophy. So, I spelled C-A-T H-A-S T-R-O-P-H-Y. Cat has trophy. And again, these bozos said I spelled it incorrectly. I argued again, but they ejected me from the spelling bee. Okay, so it wasn’t running, basketball, or spelling. But only half of the week was through. I still had the second half to find out what I was the best at.
DAY FOUR. THURSDAY. My mom knew our neighborhood had a few kids I didn’t get along with. They were the tough kids always getting in trouble with the cops. I was afraid of them because they were always fighting and breaking windows. She told me that this particular day of testing wasn’t going to be easy, and it might even be a bit painful. But I never cared much about getting hurt—I was clumsy and had gotten myself injured all my life—so I told her to bring it on.
When the sun set and the night crept in, she took me down the hill and pointed to the kids smoking cigarettes and blasting music in their yard. I wasn’t friends with any of them, but I knew who they were. Everyone knew. They jumped me and stole my skateboard the summer before. I told my mom I lost it, but she knew they had beaten me up because ever since then, I’d taken the long way home to avoid this area. I was particularly afraid of one of them: Chris Blake. He was the bully of the block. His street name was Casper. He was much taller than me and always walked around with no shirt on, because he had a six-pack. My mom approached them and said I wanted to challenge one of them to a fistfight, but the rules were that it had to be one-on-one. Winner kept my skateboard. My knees immediately began to shake. I was scared. I was hoping I’d be fighting the short, skinny kid. But just my luck, Casper was the one to accept.
My mom said I could quit at any time, even before the fight started, but I really disliked this guy and even though he was stronger, the thought of getting my skateboard back made me think a few bruises would be worth it. My brother beat me up a lot, so I wasn’t too afraid of getting hit. I accepted the fight.
He was the first to throw a punch. And it hit me in the face, but I didn’t register it. I was too busy telling myself to punch back. And I did. I hit him in the chin, and he stumbled and fell. He was stunned. Even I was stunned. He leaped up and tackled me, but my mom jumped in and broke up the fight before it went any further. I demanded a second round. I wanted to show this bully that I wasn’t scared of my own neighborhood anymore. Chris refused to return my skateboard, since the fight was interrupted. But after that day, he never looked in my direction again.
I didn’t win the fight. Nobody did. There’s no way I could say I was the best. So, it was not running. Not basketball. Not spelling. And not fighting. I was sure my ancestors were wrong. And now I had a bruise under my eye.
DAY FIVE. FRIDAY. Like I said earlier, I had really chubby cheeks growing up. I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet, and everyone in school knew I was a bit off in the normal department, so having a girlfriend was pretty much an impossibility. But my mom said that in today’s test I would ask out every girl I thought was pretty. That was a daunting task because I thought a lot of girls were pretty. But she convinced me that this test was given to me by the spirits of Ojibwe warriors and chiefs, who were the greatest human beings to ever live on Earth. So I agreed I’d try. If they are in my blood, that must mean I’m at least part great human being, right?
Well, this mission turned out to be much harder than fighting. I was terrified to talk to girls. But what’s the worst that could happen—they’d say no? I’d been told no my entire life. So, during recess I walked up to Jackie, who was the prettiest girl in school, and asked her to be my girlfriend. She said no. I expected that. Her best friend Shelby was nearly just as pretty, so I asked if she’d like to be my girlfriend instead, but she also said no.
During lunch I asked out Dedra, Anna, and Alexis. They all said no. Anita was the only one to say maybe, but by the time school was over, she decided no. And I’ll tell you what, the first few rejections hurt, but by the fifth, no, it didn’t really feel like anything. It was basically on par with “Can I borrow a pencil? No? Okay.” But asking a girl out wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. It was also obvious I wasn’t the best. Not at running, basketball, spelling, fighting, or picking up girls. I went home and told my mom how they all said no, but she assured me not to worry. After all, there was still the weekend to figure out what I was the best at.
DAY SIX. SATURDAY. No school. My mom woke me up and handed me a box. It was full of useless items like picture frames, old toys, cassette tapes, used CDs, and magazines. She said that in today’s test I’d go door-to-door in the neighborhood, trying to sell these items. How embarrassing (but that week had been very embarrassing already, so why stop now?). She told me that I should put in some of my toys as well. I refused, but she said not to worry because I didn’t need to sell them, I just needed to bring them along. And since this disastrous test was almost over, I agreed.
I walked outside and began knocking on doors. Obviously, no one wanted the stuff, so I ended up selling them for nickels and dimes, even pennies. I guess my neighbors took pity on me and gave me whatever change was in their couches and pockets. By the time all the sellable items were gone, I saw the neighborhood kids playing handball in the alley. Our neighborhood was poor. It was called the Slater Slums. All that was left in the box were my toys that were not for sale. But I didn’t need them anymore, and these kids didn’t really have toys, so before I went home, I gave my toys to them, for free. I even gave all the change away to homeless people on the street.
When I returned, I had only an empty box to show my mom. I told her that I was the worst salesman alive. I actually lost money while trying to make money. She said that the test had shown that I’m not the fastest runner, I’m not the best basketball player, I’m not a champion speller, I’m not the best fighter, I’m not the world’s greatest ladies’ man, and I’m not the best salesman—but the next day would reveal what I am truly the very best at.
The rest of that day, I felt different than I’d ever felt. I realized some of those kids I ran with and played basketball against went to my school. And now I had a reason to talk to them instead of keeping my head down and eating lunch alone. Maybe I’d play basketball with them again. I also realized that I really liked words. Even though I spelled them wrong, they were fun little puzzles to put together. I looked up satellite and catastrophe. I even asked my mom for a dictionary. And told her if she didn’t buy me one, I’d steal one to see if I was the world’s greatest thief. So, that day she bought me my very first dictionary.
I realized I was no longer afraid to walk my own neighborhood. Chris Blake was basically afraid of me now. He knew I could take a punch and throw my own. I realized that that week I had talked to more girls than I ever had before. And maybe next week, I was going to ask a few more out. I also realized that giving my toys to those kids was far more fun than keeping them in my room, not being played with. Those toys were going to be loved, even though I couldn’t sell a bottle of water to a man dying of thirst in a desert. I looked around my room and found more toys I could give away. I felt good . . . but I still had no idea what I was the best at. I guessed we’d find out the next day.
DAY SEVEN. SUNDAY. This time, I woke up my mom and asked her what my next test was. She said that she’d had another dream and one of the chief spirits was unable to watch my tests, so we had to do them all over again. I sighed and remembered everything I went through that week. All the losing. But to be honest, to find out what I was the best at, I’d happily do it all again. So, I looked my mom in the eyes and agreed.
That’s when she said I passed the test. She said she knew what I was the best at. Seeing if I’d do it all over again was the final test. “Do you want to know what you are the best at?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. And then she told me what it was. And the answer carried me through life and led me to where I am today.
And now I will tell you what I am the absolute best at. The truth is, I’ll never be the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, or the most attractive guy. I’m an author, but I’m not the best author. I’m a director, but I’m not the best director. I’m a son, a father, and a husband, but I’ll never be the best. But what I am the best at is this . . . Everyone gets knocked down. Everyone loses. Everyone. I don’t care who you are or where you’re from, rich or poor. In life, sooner or later, every single one of us will taste defeat. But I AM THE VERY BEST AT GETTING BACK UP. I lost every race and wanted more. I lost every game and wanted a rematch. I spelled the words wrong but wanted another word and made sure I got a dictionary for next time. I stood up to the bully. I was rejected by every girl, but the next week, I’d try again.
When it comes to getting knocked down and getting back up, I am the greatest. That is what my ancestor spirits told my mom. And they were right. So my challenge to whoever is reading this is to see if you are as good as I am at getting back up after being knocked down. Because if you never quit, you’ll never fail. I’ve been knocked down a million times in life. But I’ve gotten back up a million times. I hope you never stay down. I hope you always get back on your feet and try again. And again. And again.
Here is what I’ve learned: Hope is a mother teaching her son a lesson that will shape him for the rest of his life. Hope is giving a toy to a kid who doesn’t have any. Hope is giving change to someone who needs it. Hope is risking your life to help a family get safely off the freeway. Hope is standing up to the bully. Hope is picking up a kid dressed in black trash bags on a rainy day. Hope truly is everywhere if you look for it. Hope isn’t something you do for yourself. It’s what you do for others. To hope is to care. To care is to give. To give is to help. And to have hope for the future, we need to help one another right now. We are all in this together. H-O-P-E. I believe it stands for Helping. Other. People. Every day. Let’s spread hope. Let’s cover the entire planet in hope.
Speaking of hope, I hope that you read this and take me up on the challenge. Let’s find out if you got what it takes. Your test begins now. And you should easily pass. I’ve already given you the answer. All you got to do is when you feel like giving up, don’t. And when you get knocked down, get back up. And as often as you can, help someone. If you do these things, you will be well on your way to becoming the very best.
Love,
James Bird
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JAMES BIRD is a Native American author of The Brave and The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls. He’s also an award-winning filmmaker, but his greatest creation is his son, Wolf.
BONES
by J.C. Cervantes
Mr. Hawkins drove a van with stickers all over it.
Mostly Grateful Dead.
He wore a scowl that made the deep lines of his tanned face look
like dried mud.
He was the school mystery.
No one knew anything about him.
Was he married? Did he have kids? Where did he grow up?
Why didn’t he ever talk about himself?
He could hear the tiniest of whispers
across the classroom. He knew things,
things he shouldn’t have.
Some kids thought Mr. H was an alien with eyes
in the back of his head.
He was different.
He did things no other teachers did.
He took the class on fossil excavations,
taught us about the building blocks
of the universe,
showed us what the inside of a frog looked like.
He had a thing for bones.
Even the kind you couldn’t see,
