Why Worry What Others Think


So when I was young I played basketball. I loved it. I can recall a time when I was first starting out. We would go sometime before the season started to get physicals. For some reason we were going all the way to Jackson at the time, though I’m not entirely sure why. All the kids would load up on big yellow and head north.

This particular time I can remember arriving back at the designated pick-up place, which was somewhere in Wesson, MS. I waived bye to my friends after disembarking off the bus and headed toward my family’s van. I can remember being happy that they had shown up on time, and I did not have to wait like some of the other kids did.

After opening the sliding door to the van, my little brother handed me a pair of shoes. They were not a name brand.

Being right around that age where these things seemingly mattered at school, you could guess that I was not happy. I am not really sure what I was expecting, we were not rich, but neither were we poor. Either way, I was a total jerk. I grabbed the shoes, sat in the van and begin to expound upon all the reasons why I hated these shoes. Ungrateful is the only word that comes to mind. I was not following any of the values I had been taught. I was just, “Being a Teenager”.

All during my rant about how I did not like the shoes, my dad did not say a word. My mother tried to tell me about how they were not that bad, but I was not hearing that. The only thing I really could think about is how kids would make fun of me when I wore them to school.

After I had finished expressing my dislike, my mother simply said she would see if she could take them back. Until this day, I am not entirely sure what came over me. Seeing those shoes somehow pushed me into acting far from my character.

When the dust settled and I started to relax, I looked down at my little brother’s feet. He had on the same shoes. At that moment my heart dropped. I began to feel a pain that made me instantly want to take back all the mean things I had said.

As if this was not bad enough, I glanced up front to my father’s feet, and he had on the same shoes. My heart sunk even lower. At that moment I instantly knew I should apologize. I silently thought to myself, “If it is good enough for my dad, then it is good enough for me.” But it was too late. The words had been uttered. My dismay had been vocalized. I sat in silence. Needless to day, that was a long ride home.

I see that moment as a pivotal one in my life. One that I still feel bad about until this day. It taught me not to care about what others think, when that person does not care about you. It taught me to be more thoughtful, and always be grateful. To be not only be grateful for what you get, but for who it comes from. Especially if it is coming from someone you love.

Deranged Disposition

From time to time I feel the need to write something semi-poetic. Read the results below.

Knowing right and doing right, is two sides of a coin.
Choices made with inner thoughts, from a heart that’s been scorned.

You knew the path but chose, to take the road that was worn.
You knew the math and rose, to make decisions you would morn.

Self-righteously proclaimed, then outwardly-maintained.
Truth is you’re inwardly-defamed, and secretly-sustained.

Obviously something is there, so sensitive and raw.
I realized it wasn’t me, but the many horrors that you saw.

As a child, or maybe just your mental composition.
Took a while to discover, your deranged disposition.

Arguably, lack of love, filled with fleeting adoration.
So when my love came along, you set a course for deportation.

Painted me as the problem, then put my love on a shelf.
If being frank is the goal, it was a reflection of yourself.

Your inner mind’s eye was wrong, credibility gone.
Can you verify the source, of the visions you were shown?

But I’m not here to judge, but I stand here accused,
Insurmountable frustration, from the lies you exude.