Happily Ever Free – Carolina Meza

Posted on May 20, 2012 by rawcandor

Carolina and I glanced at each other from across a conference table crowded with open laptops at a meeting filled with bloggers and programmers. While all eyes were focused on the speakers at the front of the room, sitting across from me, Carolina got my attention. She pointed to her laptop, indicating that she was reading Raw Candor. When the meeting ended we introduced ourselves. She’s a woman with many skills and talents, able to multi-task in her dizzyingly busy life. She shares part of her story on Raw. Jill Slaughter

5th Grade Carolina

When does the fairy tale start for a little girl? When she plays with her dolls? When she sees her first princess movie? When she reads about Prince Charming? I don’t know when it started for me, but as a little girl, I certainly wanted to have a fairy tale life and live happily ever after. But life had a different plan for me.

I found love several times in my life and each time I thought “He’s The One”. I don’t necessarily think that there is one soul mate per person. Life, with all of its twists and turns, seems to give us Mr. or Mrs. Right – at the moment that we need it. How we grow in that relationship is part of our life’s lessons.

Current Carolina

My first true love was a guy I was close friends with in college. We laughed and we shared tears, but mostly, we shared a true and deep love for one another. Then one day, out of the blue, he said it was over. He came from another country and another culture than mine and he wanted to return to his roots. I did not fit into that plan and so, it was best that we went our separate ways. I felt like I was going to die. Gasping for air, I remember hearing the song from Toni Braxton “Breathe Again” playing over and over again, as tears rolled off of my face and deep into my heart.

But once you recover from what you think is your worst hurt, you realize how strong you really are. After some time, I smiled again and I chose to see the good in people. Deep pain has a way of testing you. Once you pass that test, the next time it’s not so hard. Or so I thought.

Untitled

My next deep love started out as a magical fairy tale. His poems, his surprises and mostly his everyday thoughtfulness won my heart over. He knew me in a way that no one else had. He did what he could to make my inner most desires, aspirations and dreams come true. I shared and learned so much from him that he has left a “tattoo on my heart” forever. His greatest contribution in my life was his effort in helping me find my father. I did not grow up with my father and I had lost touch with him many years before. But as fate would have it, with a simple trip back home and a couple of phone calls from the white pages, I was able to see my dad once again.

That day changed my life forever. I wasn’t sure what to expect. But it turned out to be WAY better than I expected. After 20 years of not speaking, he welcomed me back into his life and did all he could to include me into his world. It was healing to see what we had in common and what we could learn from each other. Deep down, I had never lost the urge to share things with “daddy”.

On my father’s death bed, he shared the regrets of his life. He had done a lot of good but had also made A LOT of mistakes he was not proud of. Not having participated in my life was one regret that haunted him until the end. I watched how he slowly withered away hoping to find some redemption on the other side.

silver colored tissue container with Kleenex coming out of the top

Box of Tears

When in life you see someone close to you die, sometimes you can’t help but reflect on how you would want to die. I asked myself, if I would I have any regrets? One major regret seemed to loom over me with the thought about my present situation and where it would lead me. My boyfriend of five years, whom I loved deeply, did not want to get married nor have children. Could I live with this decision until my final days? One day, just like any other, I said NO. I DID want to have a wedding and I REALLY wanted to have children. I asked the man I loved the most so far, to leave and not to come back. Although it took much longer to let go and heal, that day was the last of our time together.

With the quest of happily ever after, I agreed to a blind date. A week after my 31st birthday, a young man, graciously greeted me with a yellow rose and welcomed me into his world. Quickly and without much thought, he whisked me off to get married and helped me to create my new reality. I would be his wife.

My wedding was truly memorable, magical and just what a princess dreams of and deserves. Yet little did I know, that in a few short years, my trust would be shattered by lies, deceit and cover ups. The man I said “I do” with, and had a child with, one day decided to start making many major financial and personal decisions without me. Once I discovered the first of many lies, the web of deceit seemed to grow organically on its own. Me, in the middle of it all, with my small boy, felt hopeless and entangled in a situation I did not see a way out.

Shattered

I had decided to leave a wonderful career to stay home to raise my son and share his first few years with him. But now, without an income of my own, I felt trapped by my husband’s lies and secrets. Having taken the vow for better or for worse, I thought this was part of a “worse” bump in the marriage. I then had to come to terms that what were several major incidents was really a character flaw etched deep into his soul. How could I change that? All I had control of was ME.

An angel came into my life and helped me to see how valuable I was and that I deserved better. If I accepted lies, it was as if I was saying to myself and especially my son, I AM a liar. With the tension and the heartache escalating, I realized after many attempts at counseling, continuing to try to save my marriage was not worth risking my health, my peace of mind or my son’s future.

I decided to start working again because I needed to be financially independent. With a great new job, which would be a spring board to my solo life, I was suddenly laid off, like half of America. Now what!!! Even though I was unemployed again, I couldn’t live this way anymore. I stated the words, “MY marriage is over”. I was stressed with thoughts that this decision would be tragic for my son yet it ended up being the biggest blessing in his life.

Carolina' s boy

My son’s world is now filled with peace instead of fighting and bitterness. I was at peace and he felt it. And now, his dad was slowly becoming a better father. He made the time and effort to spend true quality time with him, which he didn’t do much of before. I have worked very hard at fostering a good relationship for our son and we have crossed over into the friendly territory.

lights hanging from a ceiling with designed patterns on it.

The Light Is On

As I move on with my new life, I look back at the good times and the bad times and realize that if you are not with someone who is willing to love you, honor you, respect you and grow with you on this journey of life, in the end, despite how hard it may seem, it is always better to be happily ever free!

www.carolinameza.com

To write Raw see submission guidelines. Everybody has a story.

Come Back Jill

Posted on May 13, 2012 by rawcandor

the image of a cross and a heart in shadow

Uniform Love

Catholic girls in my neighborhood wore knee length plaid skirts in muted shades of gray and blue as part of their school uniforms. They wore white blouses and navy blazers with gold embroidered crests on the breast pocket. Dark colored knee socks and loafers with pennies in them were standard issue for these young girls who were reluctantly packaged for learning.

painting of a pastel colored pony by Diana Contreras

Pony Love - D. Contreras

They left their houses weekday mornings with shirts buttoned at the collar, and hair pulled back in ponytails. No makeup, and no accessories, but for the ubiquitous gold crosses on short chains which hung delicately around their necks. With socks pulled up, and skirt lengths appropriately modest, the girls gave the appearance of innocence. An inch or two of skin exposed at the intersection of skirt and sock was the only thing that kept these young ladies from being almost completely covered. Sometimes a portion of a tall girl’s thigh would be visible. With no regard for tailoring, fit was unimportant.

Even in the coldest weather girls wore skirts. Only boys were permitted to wear pants to school in the early 1960’s. Stockings were forbidden, and wearing tights was reminiscent of childhood for these girls teetering between schoolgirl and bad girl. They would have done anything to not seem adolescent. So instead of keeping warm they suffered red knee caps in winter.

I walked behind the clannish group of girls for ten or so blocks on my way to school. I observed them in lock step cadence which made their skirts all gently swish in the same direction. I was envious of their austere appearance. Uniforms seemed to be the great equalizer. These girls didn’t have to wonder what to wear, or if what they were wearing was fashionable. I hoped that whatever I had on would not put me in the line of fire by the girls in my school who routinely compared what everyone was wearing to what everyone else was wearing.

The route to school was so familiar that the girls talked without ever looking where they were going, and then as if someone pulled the cord on a bus signaling the driver to stop, they all turned and walked into a colorless five story building with an enormous cross on the facade. At the end of the day they left school looking just as neat and tidy as they had hours earlier when the doors had closed behind them. Nuns in black and white habits stood sentry at the doorways as their students began to leave, and the school day ended. The nanosecond these seemingly pure and chaste girls were out of sight of the sisters they became almost completely unrecognizable.

Hi Lo Log Goes To Objectified Woman

Afternoon dismissal signaled a transformation. Skirts were immediately rolled up at the waist, making the length significantly shorter. White pearlized buttons on the starched shirts were unbuttoned; socks were pushed down, or taken off, and shoved into purses and book bags, while pony tails were loosened. Naked lips were slathered with sticky fruit flavored lip-gloss. And stashed cigarettes were lit three on a match. They all smoked.

Sisters and Brothers

But in the morning the girls once again soldiered up, taking orders from the nuns who were cast as foreboding and scary. I overheard stories about rulers making contact with the tops of the girl’s hands, and punishments being doled out, but I never asked for details.

What's In A Name

Some of the nuns had masculine sounding first names; others answered to Sister Ignacious and Ursula Constance. Between the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon the girls were obedient. By 3:15, all bets were off.

The red light on the answering machine in my office was blinking. The voice was female, but husky and monotone. Sister Lucinda was speaking. She had a thick Italian accent. I speak Italian in the way that someone who learned a foreign language decades earlier speaks, but that didn’t help me to understand her. I’d never spoken to a nun. Upon hearing the sister’s voice I instantly thought of the stories my childhood acquaintances had told of their parochial school experiences. I returned the call immediately.

Wooden cross on the facade of a building

Wooden Symbol

She asked to meet me, rather told me when she was available for a meeting. I was unable to accommodate her request for the time she preferred, and wished that I would have been able to rearrange my schedule. She said she didn’t really like the phone and liked emails even less, insisting that the only way to get to know someone is to meet them. I was a little afraid of her.

Two days later, dressed in modest attire I arrived ten minutes early to meet the sister and waited stiff backed in her office for her arrival. I’d never been summoned to the principal’s office as a kid, but waiting for her, I imagined this is what a ten year old child might feel like in that situation.

The papers for my presentation were neatly compiled in a folder which I handed to the sister, and began to explain the project she had initially called me about. It took only a few minutes for her to tell me that it would not be right for her students at this time. She kept the information and we stood, indicating that the meeting was over. On my way into the building I noticed a ceramics studio and asked if she wouldn’t mind showing me around before I left.

That’s when I was introduced to a few of the other sisters and the lay staff. The studio had a small section of hand-crafted items for sale. Amongst the statues of angels and assorted bric-a-brac was a small plaque which said “you are in my prayers.” My youngest daughter will be leaving for college in the fall and I wanted to buy this for her to put in her dorm room as a physical reminder that she wasn’t really going to be alone in her unfamiliar surroundings.

Laughing Zazu

The little piece had a sticker on the front, $4. I had no cash, and told the sister why I wanted to buy it, thinking I would come back to get it for Zazu. Sister Lucinda took it off the shelf and handed it to another nun, asking her to wrap if for me. “I want to give it to you.” The girls I grew up with were wrong about nuns.

We said goodbye, and agreed that I would visit again next year to talk about the same project I had come to discuss that day. I walked out the door and was more than two car lengths away when I heard the sister say “Come back Jill.” She hadn’t called me by name even once. Not on her initial phone message or during the meeting. There is no “J” in Italian; ergo Jill is neither a familiar or popular name. But this ninety-two year old nun had heard every single word I said. Of course I turned and came back, wondering why she beckoned me to return.

The sister is small in stature. I was wearing heals, which elevated me at least four or five inches above her. She opened her arms and drew me to her. She hugged me, tight, and long, and hard. Softly saying “I will pray for you to be happy in your heart and for you to have a wonderful life.” I hadn’t told the sister anything about the indelible sadness I live with, but she knew. I walked away with tears in my eyes. I walked away knowing Sister Lucinda loves me.

Jill holding invitation for the exhibition The Sincerity Project

Sincerely Devoted

I could mail invitations to her for the exhibition we discussed, but knowing how she feels about the phone and emails I can only hazard a guess that she doesn’t much care for mail. I’m going to hand deliver some to her, and make a donation to the gift shop in cash. I mailed the plaque to my daughter in Los Angeles.

The Sincerity Project

A Sincere Invitation

Raw Candor Event Schedule

Jill will be reading Raw live at Sailboat Bend on May 19 and June 9 http://www.facebook.com/events/263772817041266/

Jill will be speaking on May 25th at Nova Southeastern University – Inspiration University Conference. http://www.inspiration-university.com/2012/04/25/iu-league-meeting-rsvp/

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If you would like to write Raw please see submission guidelines on homepage. Everybody has a story.

Work by Diana Contreras http://www.facebook.com/pages/Diana-Contreras-Art/146501198702523

Scary Story – Steve Williams

Posted on May 6, 2012 by rawcandor

I launched Raw Candor to tell the story of my family. The traumatic loss and separation my three daughters and I suffered when I lost a custody battle was something we kept secret. After more than ten years I was ready to tell my story, and didn’t want my girls to be ashamed to tell theirs. The reaction Raw Candor received prompted me to invite others to write their stories. Steve Williams is one of the courageous guest writers. I’m honored to have him write for Raw Candor. | Jill Slaughter

I grew up in suburban Jacksonville, a place endowed with a rich history and anchored by Southern roots. My parents are still married to this day. I lived with them and our family dog in a nice house. Both sets of my grandparents were living, too. I had a typical, enviable family and childhood.

Girl of My Dreams

The reigning culture queen of my most impressionable younger years was Charlie’s #1 Angel: Farrah Fawcett. Every boy with working eyes had the iconic poster of Farrah tacked on his bedroom wall. You know, the one with her in a red one-piece swimsuit, posing in front of a Mexican blanket, gazing at me with that smile! And those eyes! With her perfect, voluptuous…hair? My devotion to Farrah was just a little bit different from my testosterone-loaded classmates.

Not in Florida

Around age 10, I went to visit my grandparents in Indiana. Before I went, I made sure my suitcase was packed with my clothes, books and all the incidentals a 10 year-old boy would need. Of course that included everything that was a part of my 1970s hair regimen: blow dryer, rounded hairbrush, gel and Aqua Net. I arrived wearing my cropped sleeve black t-shirt that was lettered in silver that read: FANTASTIC across my chest, tucked into my cheesecloth britches, leather belt and Kenney’s G.A.S.S. shoes. Oh, yeah…look out Indiana!

My first order of business was to get my bedroom all set up by unpacking my clothes, arranging all my new hair supplies atop the dresser and taking a long, hot shower. I re-dressed and began tending to my coiffure. I gelled, curled, combed, blew and spritzed my hair into a feathery dream that would have been worthy of Farrah’s adoring smile. Just as I was putting the finish on my masterpiece, my grandmother walked into the room and completely flipped. She tossed every bit of my salon accouterment in the waste bin, all the while yelling at me about how boys are and aren’t supposed be. She found my attention to my wardrobe and hair detail to fall into the latter category. I was how I wasn’t supposed to be as a fine, young Southern man in training.

Needless to say, but I can: I was horrified. On the inside knew that I was something askew, but I had always done a bang-up job of pleasing my teachers, being a dutiful friend and making my parents proud. I was a good, Southern boy, with stellar manners, who always did the right thing. I hadn’t even been out of Jacksonville for 24 hours and that woman had sniffed me out and then called me on it. Even though I felt “different”, I didn’t know that it showed on the outside. I didn’t know that feeling was a symptom that I was a defect. I felt such shame.

Two men with their arms around each other.

Born This Way

But let’s be honest. It wasn’t just my liking the Farrah poster because of her barely tamed mane, and the way that her pose was styled, that showed deviation from other boys. I didn’t like playing sports or watching them, I didn’t enjoy getting dirty, engaging in smack talk or starting fist fights behind the gym after school. But, Lord knows that I tried to assimilate and push down my interests and impulses so I could blend in more. I got teased at school for being gay despite my effort. I didn’t even know what gay was, but I knew it wasn’t good. It was like when you tell a kid, “Hey, your epidermis is showing.” They squirm and protest because they don’t know what you’re talking about, but they’re pretty sure you’re right and don’t want the embarrassment. I didn’t take art class in high school because it was “gay”. Drawing was for weaklings and sissies. The angry voice of disapproval in the back of my head was my grandmother’s: “Don’t do that. That’s NOT what boys do. This isn’t for you.” Again, I suppressed.

When we would study events involving Native Americans, slavery, women’s rights or civil rights, I always had such empathy for their plights. Even though as a white, educated man I am technically at the top of the social food chain, I felt such a kinship with these people who were tied to circumstances that were beyond any control. Being born the wrong gender, to the wrong parents or in the wrong place sealed their fates and they were systematically punished for it. For me, everywhere I turned felt like being on the outside, looking in. I was a part of things in the most generic sense. I did everything to comply with my grandmother’s voice. I sucked at sports, but I would passively watch. I kept my drawing to doodle pads. Eventually I shaved my head…to hell with trying to figure out man hair; eliminate it. I dated girls, and even got married. I am now twice divorced, actually. I didn’t really fit in with wives either.

Turns out that my grandmother’s voice was all wrong. That voice gave me really bad advice. It took me years to silence that internal chatter. In college I had the support of my friends to take my first art class. To anyone else, it was just satisfying an elective hours credit, for me it was a life-ring. It was also the beginning of living a duplicitous life. On one side I was expressive, honest and relieved. And on the other side? I was desperately talking myself into joyfully living in a nice house with my wife, our daughter and a dog in suburban Jacksonville. Sound familiar? I was caught in an emotional undertow.

If you’ve ever been swimming in the ocean and gotten caught in a rip tide, you know that it is exhausting. Just when your head is above water and you thing you’re going to be okay, you get sucked back under and pounded again. If you keep struggling to go straight back to the shore, you will drown. The only way to get out is to just keep swimming parallel to the shore until you are released. And that’s where I am today…I finally accepted that I was fighting against something that was killing me inside. It’s been a long swim through murky waters filled with lots of bites and stings.But here I am, alive and headed back to shore.

Steve Williams wearing black framed glasses and a crown

Finally Free

http://stevewilliamsstudio.com/

Raw Candor Event Schedule

Jill will be reading Raw live at Sailboat Bend on May 19 and June 9 http://www.facebook.com/events/263772817041266/

Jill will be speaking on May 25th at Nova Southeastern University – Inspiration University Conference. http://www.inspiration-university.com/2012/04/25/iu-league-meeting-rsvp/

Subscribe to Raw Candor to receive notification of new posts.

Mother Daughter Squared

Posted on April 29, 2012 by rawcandor

My beautiful mother and me

The battle cry of my mother was “put on some lipstick.” I shut the front door behind me as her voice faded, and went out bare faced, looking exactly the way I wanted to. My mother would never think of leaving the house without makeup on. She echoed the cosmetic habits of her own mother, having been raised to believe that wearing lipstick signaled that one was ready to leave the house, to face the world as it were.

Still Spinning

The mid-sixties revolutionized the way many women and girls saw themselves. Sartorial constraints were loosened, if not abandoned. Conventional definitions of beauty were cast aside, enabling women to see themselves as beautiful, with or without make-up. I had no interest in lipstick, mascara or blush, not because I was trying to break free from convention, simply because I was trying to break free from my mother. Trying to gain independence and learn how to be in the world without her help. I couldn’t have cared less about what she thought of my appearance, or for that matter what she thought or felt about anything I did.

Jill sitting on some leaves wearing a scarf on her head and a knit shawl

Didn't Care

Jill's middle daughter at age 4 sitting on her lap

Black and White and Blonde

Jill's daughter M.Dixie dressed up as a bride wearing a black long-haired wig

Just a Costume

Jill sitting on red carpeted stairs in her bridal gown

What Might Have Been

When my life began to fray at the seams socializing with other mothers at my children’s schools made me feel as if I was the girl sitting alone in the cafeteria eating lunch by myself. I sat across the street from my daughters pre-school in my Suburban, crying hoping not to wake my baby Zazu sleeping in her rear facing car seat in the back. Dixie’s pre-school morning session wouldn’t end for about another fifteen minutes, and J.Lucy had started kindergarten. I wouldn’t pick her up until later in the day.

Jill very pregnant with third child Zazu

Almost Zazu

I watched as mothers, nannies, and some fathers that worked from home began to arrive for pick up. The endless gossip about my divorce made me wish I was invisible, and somehow after months of being “left out of the loop” it seemed as if people didn’t see me at all. My baby’s diaper bag contained an arsenal of products, ever ready for any type of emergency. At some point I had tossed a lipstick into one of the many compartments. Feeling my way around pacifiers, diapers and baggies full of Goldfish and Cheerios I found the sleek black tube and pulled it out from the bottom of the bag. I pulled down the rearview mirror, adjusted it to see my reflection, and slowly applied the deep reddish color to my tear stained lips.

Jill with arms folded wearing dark red lipstick with a very high up-do

Dark Crimson Jill

Somewhere in the deepest part of my memory my mother’s suggestion to “put on some lipstick” rocketed to my prefrontal cortex. My dewy crimson lips became the focus of attention, and just like that, the mothers that seemed to think divorce was contagious were now asking me what color my lipstick was, instead of pitifully asking me how I was. My mother turned out to be right after all, lipstick made me ready to face the world.

Jill wearing dark red lipstick and gray sweater, holding a bottle of wine

Mom Was Right

M.Dixie celebrating her 8th birthday eating cake with a birthday candle in the shape of an 8

8 with Cake

J.Lucy wearing headband and peace sign shirt, age 9

A Peaceful J.Lucy

Zazu sitting on a chair with a ponytail wrapped in a scarf

Big Eyes, Small Faced Zazu

At a time when mothers need connection to their daughters, daughters strive for independence. Leaving mothers wondering how to gain trust and solidify the precious mother-daughter bond, when freedom from this same person is the only thing a curious young girl wants. This emotional tug of war is par for the course during adolescence, but the formative years my daughters and I would have spent negotiating the balance between intimacy and disinterest is happening now because I lost a custody battle when my children were 8,10 and 12. My daughters went to live with my ex-husband, and my girls and I never lived together again.They are now 18, 20 and 22. We have been re-united for several years.

Always Close

My oldest daughter J.Lucy and I are very close. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, and while we don’t see each other often, we speak frequently. During one of our many conversations we discussed some pivotal plans for her future. I listened and asked if she would like to know what I thought. Boldly, and without hesitation, she said no. I told her anyway.

Later that same week J. Lucy called, and said something like “Mom, I didn’t want to listen to what you had to say, and I didn’t listen, but somehow I found myself telling someone exactly what you had told me.” She questioned how that could have possibly happened. Wanting to know how was it that she could do or say something I suggested, when she was so insistent on doing anything but that.

M.Dixie touching Jill's face when she was 8

Mommy

Duke our dog, Jill and her daughters all petting him

We love Duke

Nobody really knows how mothers and daughters come to cement their relationship, ultimately allowing the balance of forgiveness and love to be the stronghold. But if they’re lucky, it happens. My oldest daughter is courageous and determined. She isn’t fearful of saying what she thinks, and is generous enough to listen to what others have to say. Her attributes are too numerous to list. J.Lucy will graduate from college in June. She is ready to face the world, lipstick or no lipstick.

Jill's oldest daughter J.Lucy wearing lipstick and a striped tank top

Ready

My phone rang again recently. No hi mom, instead J.Lucy said “I’m so glad you’re my Mom,” and the conversation continued from there. My own mother remained steadfast in believing that the turbulence of adolescence was just a phase we both had to endure. She loved me even when a seemingly innocuous suggestion she made was enough for me to alienate her. I thought instead that she was telling me what to do because she didn’t trust my judgment. She tried so hard not to take anything I said to her personally.

Jill and her mom arm in arm, her mom wearing a striped shirt

Lipstick Love

Jill bent over laughing, wearing all black with a blond haired friend

Just Before My First Pregnancy

Jill standing in front of a door painted with a black and white graphic flower design

J.Lucy's Mom

All my daughters with their arms around each other shown from the back

Three as One

I have struggled to have that same conviction, and not take anything personally that comes with the territory of young girls becoming women. J.Lucy and I have plodded through the muck to get to that other side. I have two other daughters to make this journey with, and am certain we will get there, it just may take a while.

Jill wearing a striped shirt with her three young daughters all in baby carriages

Three Under Five

Mother-daughter relationships.

http://life.familyeducation.com/parenting/teen/42917.html

I will be reading Raw Live on May 19 and June 9 at Sailboat Bend Artist Lofts

http://www.facebook.com/events/263772817041266/

Forever Lasting – Evo Love

Posted on April 22, 2012 by rawcandor

Evo Love – An appropriate last name. A perfect last name. If you are in Evo’s heart, you are in her heart forever. Jill Slaughter

Pretty in PInk

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was asked to senior prom. The guy I went with was a Rock and Roll dude. He played in bands, was smart & nerdy. He could name every song the band Rush had ever done, every album the Rolling Stones had ever made. He wasn’t the most popular guy or even good looking, but I didn’t care, he was cool so I went with him.

The night of the prom was Traditional… Corsage, Limo, Dinner, Dance and home by 11. Which at my age were all pretty big deals. That night on the way to dinner, I met this girl Caroline. We spoke for a few minutes in the limo, sat across each other at dinner, and then I lost sight of her when all the couples split up towards the end of the night. School went on and I would see her in passing in a hallway and we would wave or say hi. But we never became close friends.

the hands of two guys carrying a beer keg

High School Party-time

A couple of months went by and there was a flyer going around school about a party in the woods. Everyone from school was going. I ended up going with all my close friends. There was a keg there and we were all drinking beer and playing beer games, having a great time. Then it began to rain. We all made a plan to go to the closest persons house & continue partying there. So we all hopped into different cars. I ended up in a car with my surfer friends and two girlfriends of mine. One in which, owned the house we were going to.

All I can remember that night was looking over at my friend and seeing her make out with her crush and me looking back in front of me and seeing the rain and the head lights of the car light up a dark dirt road. I also remember sitting on school books and falling asleep to the sound of the rain. When I woke up, I woke up leaning forward, with both my hands on the top of the front seat, and seeing fire coming out of the hood of the car. The windshield was totally shattered and I could see a fire truck and hear a helicopter, then everything blackened out again. It felt like a dream. I woke up again, this time, I was outside of the car walking, it was like I woke up while I was standing and I could see some of my friends who were in the car with me.

Innocent Drive

The guy who was making out with my girlfriend had blood all over his clothes and his hands in his pockets and when the wind blew, half his scalp blew up with it. I tried to speak and I couldn’t. I was in shock and totally catatonic. There were red and white lights, flashing all around, two fire trucks, firemen and police officers and medics walking all over and around us.

That night the roads were wet and the car we were in lost control and hit on oncoming car. In that car, there were three people, two women and one man. The woman who was driving was pregnant and lost the baby due to the steering wheel breaking and stabbing her in the belly. The girl who was the passenger was killed on impact and her body flew out of the windshield four feet away from the car. Her name was Caroline. It was the girl I had met at Prom Dinner in the limo. She was on her way to a midnight show at the local planetarium to see PINK FLOYD OFF THE WALL, she had done the art work for the banner to the event.

Caroline was an artist who had just graduated and was just excepted to SCAGG, an art college in Georgia. This devastated me and changed my life forever. I couldn’t believe I had just had dinner with this girl and now she was dead, all her dreams were gone. I thought of her family and her mom and everything that would come along with it. I quit drinking and partying. I wanted to go to the funeral and was advised not to. We were all still in school, when the school found out, they all gave us a week off.

When we got back to school. All of us were labeled murderers. In our high school, classes were mixed. You had seniors in classes with sophomores and juniors. Every class we went to, her friends were so devastated they would jump out of their seats and start accusing us of killing her. One by one, everyone in my car dropped out of high school. We couldn’t take it anymore, especially me. Even though I wasn’t driving, I felt like we did murder her and the unborn child due to our recklessness.

Just An Ordinary High School

I’ve never stopped thinking about Caroline. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and her family. ( her mom was so devastated by carolines death, it affected her marriage, her husband divorced her.) 15 years later I ended up back in Daytona to visit family and friends and I went on a motorcycle ride with a old school friend and we ended up at this house and all of Carolines friends were there. They started talking to me and I started crying. I asked for their forgiveness. I told them the details of that night and how it affected me and how devastated I was and had been. I hugged her friends and said I was so sorry for their loss. They told me about Carolines mom and said she went crazy when her daughter died. She would cook dinner for her every night and talk to her at the dinner table, even though she was no longer alive.

Evo Love in studio

This is something that has forever, stained my life….

Evo Love -http://evoloveunlimited.com/evo_love_unlimited.html

Mothers Against Drunk Driving - http://www.madd.org/

I will be reading Raw live at Sailboat Bend Artists Lofts on May 19 and June 9 http://www.facebook.com/events/263772817041266/

Raw Candor

Always candid. Always truthful. Sometimes funny.

Happily Ever Free – Carolina Meza

Come Back Jill

Scary Story – Steve Williams

Mother Daughter Squared

Forever Lasting – Evo Love

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