Graf #2

It started off like any other health class. We were shown how to take care of our bodies, brush our teeth, we learned about muscles, tendons, and bones and I was doing very well passing all my tests and quizzes. Well everything started off that way, and then we got to the “sexual education” portion of the class. The teacher made us watch all sorts of disturbing videos that in my opinion eighth graders should never watch. The teacher did not separate the boys from the girls, and did not censor anything for our sake. (I did however learn all the slang for the male and female anatomy, and from that point on they were staples in all of us eighth grade boys vocabulary) The teacher was not a bad teacher, was not mean or rude, always nice and never gave us lot of homework. The teacher never talked down to certain people because of the way they looked or because of what they wore. Then the day came for the class to learn how one puts a condom on a banana. The teacher demonstrated and then we all got a chance to try it. After everything was all said and done I could never look at that teacher the same again. But I saw the teacher at my baseball games, and soccer games. I saw the teacher after school and on the weekends, and almost everywhere I went. The awkwardness I felt made my face sweat and my hands shake like a jack hammer, I thought I would go insane, there was no escape. But I guess that’s what I should have expected because my health teacher was my best friends mom.

Graf #1

I work with my hands, something that was beat into me at a young age, by much bigger hands than mine. “If you want something, then you work for it.” my father always said that to me, usually right after I asked for something, like my first guitar, or a car, or twenty bucks. I now find myself with scarred hands, mostly now from a number of metal chips that just love to catch me off guard and bury themselves deep into my flesh, only stopping because a bone got in their way. So I wrap them up and pray the bleeding stops, so I can go back to work. You see I am not working for something anymore, I work for some ones. My two little girls and my wife depend on my working hands. My hands need to be there to protect them, and pick them up when they fall, but at the same time be gentle enough to wipe the tears away, not always easy for me. So I thank the much bigger hands that were there when I was young for showing me how to work with my big hands.