Finding My Way: the torn years

By Sheldon Porter

Sheldon Porter is an assertive Writing and Literature major who has captured the attention of administrators at his college. When Sheldon accepts an invitation from the administration to represent his college in a nationwide essay writing contest, he soon discovers that to have even a chance of winning, he'll have to confront memories, and a host of emotions that he thought he'd locked away—ironically, the same repressed memories that have driven him to excel.

Finding My Way: the torn years, is a memoir that reflects upon the rites of passage through which every teen must travel on his or her journey to adulthood. Sheldon's account will inspire teenagers experiencing the pain of not fitting in, peer pressure, bullying, and wrestling with societal expectations. Finding My Way also encourages adults who may feel that in the course of living, they missed their chance to explore their dreams and life potential.

Whirling through a weaving music-based theme that underscores his memory of the community in which he was raised, Sheldon's thoughtful account brings us with him through a nostalgic, candid, sad and sometimes humorous journey back to his childhood in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, New York.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheldon Porter
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476001852

Sheldon Porter

Sheldon was born and raised in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, New York. He grew up spending summers with his grandparents on their farm on the outskirts of Tarboro, North Carolina. He currently lives in Queens with his domestic partner, Kay and has two beautiful twin granddaughters.

Book preview

Finding My Way: the torn years

Sheldon Porter

Copyright 2012 by Sheldon Porter

Smashwords Edition

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Certain names have been changed. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - I could not blame the two English professors

Chapter 2 - In the late 1960’s

Chapter 3 - Crown Heights was a much different place

Chapter 4 - Bunny doll

Chapter 5 - Radio from my grandparents

Chapter 6 - Metallic taste of blood against my tongue

Chapter 7 - Visits to North Carolina

Chapter 8 - My grandma and granddad

Chapter 9 - Portraits of my teacher (on my classroom desk)

Chapter 10 - My brother sang like that new kid named Michael

Chapter 11 - Running Away

Chapter 12 - The fine art of cussin’ someone out

Chapter 13 - Caribbean community in the Flatbush

Chapter 14 - Church secrets

Chapter 15 - Jazz scat, but where's the rap?

Chapter 16 - What I should’ve, could’ve, and would’ve done

Chapter 17 - Billie Holliday still paints in our minds with her words.

Chapter 18 - Art Exhibit in the Breezeway

Chapter 19 - Professor Ramírez

Chapter 20 - Letter from the Honor Society

Chapter 21 - Seize the Day

Chapter 22 - Thanksgiving

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Afterword

Chapter 1

I could not blame the two English professors who sat in deep thought looking at me, no doubt contemplating how to phrase what it was they wanted to say. We were all tense, and the office, in which I sat, with the two of them positioned on either side of me, had taken on the suffocating feel of an interrogation room. They had just reviewed my fifth rewrite for what had started out as an enjoyable essay-writing scholarship contest. Professor Y and Professor Z had taken on the task of coaching and guiding me in my essay so that I could present what they felt would be the strongest and most engaging work in this highly competitive, nationwide competition.

Being a college student in my mid-forties didn’t do much to ease the pressure of being a pupil earnestly desiring to please his teachers and acquire their two thumbs up; this was true even with an academic assignment extending well beyond the classroom. I was honored to represent the Borough of Manhattan Community College (BMCC)—my college—but the project had now become an emotional tug-of-war. The professors felt (especially Professor Z) that they were pulling teeth to get what they wanted from me on paper, and I’ll admit it—they were.

Although both professors acknowledged that my drafts were technically well written, they were far from satisfied, and so they kept digging, looking deeper for something more. I thought to myself, as I smiled pleasantly, Dammit, I gave them eloquent, well thought out and engaging dialogue! What more do they want? Finally, Professor Z spoke bluntly, Sheldon…this is all nice; it shows that you had a lot of apprehension about going to college after experiences in early education, and it shows that you did challenge your fears. She continued, But, what we need to know is, what happened in those earlier years of school to make you so apprehensive about going back!

In reality, I knew what they wanted. I’m a Writing and Literature major, and with a history of independent songwriting under my belt from spending many years of trying to succeed in the music field as an independent recording artist. I knew how to use what I call word-play to tap dance around an unsavory subject; well—at least I thought I knew. I quickly found that these Professors weren’t having it—especially Professor Z. They wanted literary meat—not just the extra helping of pretty, flowery, poetically laid trimmings that I had used to fill the literary plate, for distraction.

They wanted me to be real.

The problem was that I had expected to be challenged academically for my writing skills, but delving into painful aspects of my childhood was more than I bargained for. After a stand-off, which I’m sure was in no way as long as it had seemed at the time, something inside me forced its way out through my mouth; I couldn’t stop it and all of the cool poise that I’d cloaked myself with went out the window—leaving me there emotionally naked. Their eyes widened in surprise as I spat out angrily and matter-of-factly, I wasn’t Black enough!

Actually, it wasn’t that I wasn’t Black enough—I felt as a youth I wasn’t anything enough—that I really didn’t fit in with any particular group of people, whether White or Black—at least during that crucial time in our development when self-esteem and the building blocks of identity are being laid to incrementally form the self-concept. This wasn’t just a Black issue though that was definitely a big part of the problem. Life was more complicated than that, and just as it is today, it reflects the complexities that come with being human.

As Professor Z, Professor Y and I sat there in silence, I realized from my own brazen outburst that I still had some subconscious open wounds that I thought had long healed and this is where I had been trying not to go in my essay. I mean, how do you condense such a complex aspect of your life into two pages—double spaced?

I wasn’t Black enough…Black enough…Black enough! Even when I went to work that evening, I kept hearing those words as they continued to echo back to me no matter how I tried to ignore them. I work at Rockefeller Center, which is an eighty year old landmark and part of New York history with many stories of those dead and gone, as well as new stories still being born. But like many corporate security jobs, it is often a final resting place for those who become too complacent about the possibilities in life or had just given up—as was my case when I first started working there.

Why does this bother you so much, Sheldon? I asked myself as I signed out for the day and headed to the subway. I realized that maybe what I feared were the old feelings of self-doubt—persistent residues which were once so deeply engrained that they felt like they were melded with the very substance of who I am.

We were nearing the close of 2009 and as I rode the train home, I stood overheated in my winter coat, but did nothing about it. I was still too distracted by the day’s events and my outburst to notice until it became unbearable. As I undid my coat, I noticed an ever-so-slight, almost house fly like buzzing from a man’s headphones as he sat sedately next to me on the F to Kew Gardens in Queens, New York.

I deciphered this faint merging of diffused vibration, rhythm and melody and realized that he was listening to an oldie—or what they call oldies-but-goodies. A song from the seventies, I thought, or maybe the sixties. I just couldn’t recall the name of the song. I was suddenly struck with the realization that for me—a man who once had such a romance with music—I hardly listened to it anymore. I almost stopped listening totally