Angela's Creative Nonfiction Blog

Furnishing a Heart

I do my best writing at three in the morning when nobody is around me, nothing interests me on television, nobody is awake in my house to bother me and all I hear are the sounds of the wind blowing against the trees outside my window. I am usually alone, sitting at my desk, staring blankly at my walls.

The Walls Were Gray

Like a volcanic eruption, my eyes exploded with hot fiery tears. The boiling magma of my insecurities began to rise across the surface of my smile. How do you prevent inevitable disasters?

You can't. It's fight of flight. In order ride these turbulent flights of slumber, I needed my seat belt. I held on to my bottle of sleeping pills each night and believed that they could rescue me from my pain. Drained with grief, I feared my own sleep because I couldn't even escape him in my dreams.

It was at sixteen that I learned a person can cry so much that they can feel physical pain in their chest. It was then I learned that giving someone the best of you could be the worst thing you could ever do.

These walls use to be gray. When I was seventeen years old, I experienced my first heartbreak. It took me about two years to get over this guy; we’ll call him “Jim”. I spent many days and nights crying in my room. I think I cried myself to sleep for a few months.




Watermelons Taste Better

So this was college? I didn’t have to go to class if I didn’t want to. I chose my schedule, I could come in late during the lecture of about 100 people and nobody would say anything. It was the type of freedom I longed for as a teen.

After graduating high school, I told myself that I needed a fresh new start. I was in a new school and started to experience more and more independence. I thought it would be a great idea to get rid of my old self by changing my wardrobe, dying my hair different colors each month, working out at the gym and meeting new friends.

Bright and bold. There was no doubt about it. I changed so much that first year of college. I went to parties, cut class and stayed out until 3 in the morning. I worried my parents’ sick, but at least I wasn’t depressed in my room crying each night.

My grandmother and grandfather helped me paint my walls pink and green that year. I kept it that way for about two years until I met my next boyfriend “Craig”.

Mellow Yellow

He was so different from my ex. Craig was about 6’3 and over 200lbs. He was a huge guy compared to Jim. Jim was 5’7, maybe 130lbs .Craig lived on his own in Pennsylvania and was a mechanic going to school for automotive technology. Craig was very quiet, soft spoken and slow to anger. He was what many people would call a “gentle giant”. He respected me and cared about me so much that he drove 400 miles every other weekend to see me. I remember one time, he surprised me a few times and told me he was on his way home from work, and instead he was outside my house waiting for me with a life sized teddy bear. Jim on the other hand was this loud, outspoken Biology major who made me feel stupid every time I looked at him. I basically threw myself at Jim all those years in high school, I realize now it wasn’t love that I had with Jim instead it was an obsession.

After I dated Craig for a year, he helped me paint my walls. It took him a while to paint over the pink and green but after a while, they were yellow- illuminating my room with a bright warm glow.

It was with Craig that I began to turn away from the partying scene. With Craig we stayed home, spent time with the family, had long day trips and ate at restaurants. Craig was an introvert. I did most of the talking. He often smiled at me and did the most talking when it came to conversations about cars. After all he was a great mechanic who was able to transform his automatic car into stick shift. He took care of me and I loved him. The only thing missing was a deep connection. He was too quiet, I felt like I was missing something, conversation and laughter. For the last six months of our relationship, I can’t recall a time where he smiled with me. He always felt as if he wasn’t good enough for me, and in a sense I felt he wasn’t because I kept trying to change the person he was. I wanted him to be more outgoing, I wanted him to reach for my hand first, I wanted him to be more affectionate, I wanted him to quit drinking and smoking, I wanted him to talk more. I wanted him to smile, but his dad was dying and our relationship deteriorated, everything remained a routine and after two and a half years, as much as we wanted things to work out, we simply broke up.

A few months later I met “James”, he was a guest member at my church. He performed at a concert and was the drummer. I honestly didn’t notice him on stage , I was awestruck by the lead singer. After the concert, I was able to meet the band members and we didn’t actually talk until meeting each other a month later at another concert. James had this handsome smile. He laughed easily and had a great sense of humor. He was outgoing and playing with the children when I met him for the second time. He was a breath of fresh air, mysterious and so different from Craig because James knew how to start a conversation and James laughed easily. James was shorter, 5”11 and about 175 lbs, he was a Christian man who played with a Christian Band at his church. He brought variety into my life. He was spontaneous, and a hopeless romantic. He took me to a Pier in Queens one night to watch the city lights and eat dessert near the Hudson River as we watched the ducks swim in the water. Then on Valentine’s day, when I was sick with a fever and he brought me sushi and drew me a poster of characters and images of a dream that I once mentioned to him. I couldn’t make it to the reservations he made at a restaurant, and when I finally recovered, he took me to a candle light dinner at the restaurant we were supposed to go to. He made me smile; he gave me those stupid “butterflies in my tummy”. He was the type of man I could see myself with and so I hung up his poster on my yellow walls.

The Walls of My Heart

I never realized just how important my bedroom walls are to me. I still kept them yellow because I was remember the hard work and the great times I had with Craig as we painted the walls together. He holds a special place in my life. Though we stopped talking to each other, I still think about him once in a while and wonder how he’s doing. He played such an important role in my life for two and a half years and although the walls were yellow, I felt that they were missing something. Like my relationship with Craig, something was missing. The mellow yellow walls left me feeling empty. So I decorated the walls with pictures and drawings. I’ve moved on to James and James and I enjoy each other’s company. I actually feel like we complement each other in so many ways. He gives me a reason to stare at my walls; they’re colorful and filled with different images of characters in different places. All I have left are memories of my past relationships and I can honestly say I’ve learned. Life was starting to change and I was fine.

Posted in: on Wednesday, November 19, 2008 at at 2:12 PM 0 comments  

Here is a link I found that may help you guys find Creative Nonfiction Journals

http://www.pw.org/literary_magazines/nonfiction?apage=*

Posted in: on at at 11:29 AM 0 comments  

For my next essay I plan on writing about my walls. When I look at my walls I see that they are painted yellow and they also have drawings on them. My exboyfriend of two and a half years once helped me paint my walls yellow. Actually, he did all the painting of my walls.

Now I have huge drawings on my wall, there’s a life size drawing shaded with black marker, and it’s of a man and woman dancing. There’s also another drawing near my window of a man leaning towards a sleeping woman. He has a rose in his hand and he is masked like zorro.


I also have pictures all over my wall and drawings on paper.
All of the drawings were created by my current boyfriend. All the photos on my wall are mostly of my family, friends and boyfriend.


I guess my walls symbolizes how I’ve moved on yet can’t escape some of my memories of my ex. Everytime I look at my walls, I see my boyfriend’s beautiful drawings, yet they are drawn on top of the plain yellow wooden walls t that my ex boyfriend painted. I could have repainted my walls, but part of me did not want to let go of my ex boyfriend’s hard work.

We don’t talk anymore. Part of me still wants to be friends with him. But all I have left of him now are my yellow walls.

Posted in: on Monday, November 17, 2008 at at 11:15 AM 4 comments  

Angela Castillo Creative Non Fiction Eng 3017 Dr. Chandler Essay #
Cooking with Lola
A lock of hair, in an album, inside box, underneath a pile of clutter is where she left many tears.
I was about sixteen years old when I discovered the album. It was late in the evening and I remember the attic light flickered on and off for a few seconds. I was rummaging through boxes as my eyes struggled to focus with the dim lighting. In one box, underneath stacks of papers, I uncovered an old album. It was dusty and discolored. The edges of the album were slightly bent upwards as if it was shoved into the bottom of the box. I knew I shouldn’t be digging through my grandmother’s belongings, but I felt she needed to clear out some of the clutter in the room. She was a pack rat. My beloved grandmother, who I call “Lola”, had a habit of holding on to everything. My mother once told me that my Lola began holding on to things after her son died.
A Lock of Hair
I slowly opened the album in fear of what old photos I may find. After seeing locks of hair, next to a picture of a young man in a casket, I felt my goose bumps on my arms raise. For the first time, I saw pictures of my mother as a teenager and my grandmother as a young woman. It felt like I was in an episode of the twilight zone. Who was this young man in a casket? Why was he wearing all white? Why did he have a necklace made of White Jasmine (Sampagita) Flowers? Why did my grandmother have his hair placed inside the album? I gathered my senses and came to the realization that I was staring at the pictures from my uncle’s funeral. He died at the age of fourteen in June 26, 1976. My grandmother cut his hair and kept it for all these years. Maybe it was her way of coping with her loss. Maybe it was her way of still holding on to him.
Hidden in the Album
I put the album away and ran down the attic stairs into the kitchen where I saw my grandmother.
“Lola, how did he die?” I asked her.
“Angel, he forgot to breathe,” she replied.
She always gave me that answer. But how could someone just forget how to breathe? It was not until I turned eighteen that my grandmother told me the real answer.
It was after prom weekend, when my grandmother and I were cooking in the kitchen. I started to ask her questions about her past. I cut up the vegetables in order to prepare the mix for the empanada.
“Lola, can you tell me more about Tito Mon?” I asked her.
Her eyes watered with tears but never dripped. She put down the rolling pin and sat next to me. She told me that her only son, out of four children, was only fourteen years old and attended school far from my Lola’s original hometown. Lola told me that her family lived in San Pablo, Philippines. From San Pablo to my Lola’s house, a person would have to travel by airplane for over an hour.
“Angel, he was beautiful. He was charming and popular” she said.
“Tell me more, Lola. What was he wearing the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Bright purple pants”, she said with a smile.
She explained to me that he was wearing these bright purple pants the morning he left for school. In his school the kids were supposed to be dressed in uniform. The day he died, he was dressed casually and inappropriately for school.
“His teacher asked him why he didn’t wear a uniform” explained Lola.
In a Box
I looked at her with a confused smile and allowed her to continue with her story. She believed that my uncle knew he was going to die. He always wore his uniform. It was just part of his routine. But the very day he wore his casual clothes, he had a brain aneurysm .Before he passed away he told his teacher that the next time she sees him; he’ll be dressed in all white. The teacher looked at him and just nodded her head. She didn’t realize that the next time she’d seem him would be at his funeral, where he was dressed in all white.
I asked Lola to tell me where she was when she found out about his death. With her rolling pin in her hand, she began to knead dough and as she told me her experience.
“ My youngest daughter, ran up to me and told me something happened to Mon. She told me that he was in the hospital and the teachers at school rushed him there immediately,” she explained.
A Pile of Clutter
Lola said that that her trip to the hospital was torturous. She sat there in traffic, waiting in the hot bus for an hour. Sweat mixed with tears, dripped down her face as she clenched on to her dress. She wiped her sweaty palms all over her dress. She did not know what happened to her son. She didn’t know why he was there. He was healthy, active and outspoken. He only complained of occasional headaches and toothaches. She prayed that maybe he fell and hurt himself slightly.
Upon arriving at the hospital, she saw Mon’s friends standing in front of the hospital morgue. She knew in her heart that something was wrong. The hospital was bright, well lit and clean. It was an unwelcoming and uncomfortable environment. She felt a sharp pain in her chest and her heart started to beat faster than it already was. She couldn’t breathe as she recognized her son’s friends. The young boys were standing in front of the morgue with tears in their eyes. She saw her son, with a handkerchief tied around his head and his eyes were closed. The handkerchief wrapped underneath his chin and tied on the top of his crown. This was in order to keep his jaws from dropping and his mouth from opening. At the sight of her dead son, my grandmother collapsed.
It was only at the wake that my grandmother realized her son knew he was going to die. Friends , teachers and classmates said that my uncle was saying his goodbyes. He passed away on a Wednesday. Weeks before his death, his friends were planning a party for Friday, June 28, 1976. He kept telling his friends that he would not be able to attend the party. He went from room to room, telling his friends that he would return to San Pablo. They wondered why he said he would return to San Pablo, when he only goes there for the holidays. They shrugged it off and thought he just wanted to visit family. Little did they know he would return to San Pablo on June 28, 1976 for his own funeral.
One classmate told Lola that a month before Tito Mon passed away; he tied a handkerchief around his head in order to show his classmate how he would look if ever he died. His friend told him not to tie a handkerchief in that manner for it was inappropriate and doctors do that when a person dies. My Lola was in shock and explained to the boy, that her son did have a handkerchief tied around his head in the same manner, when she saw him at the morgue.
Lola was also surprised to find out about a conversation that Tito Mon had with his grandmother. About a month before he passed away, he was sitting near a beach with his grandmother. He turned to her and asked her a question about his fate.
“Grandma, do you think I’ll die young?” he asked.
“Mon, you are healthy and will live to be old. Look at me, I’m old and blind and still alive. I have every reason to want to die. I am losing my senses and feeling weak. Why would you even question such a thing?” she replied.
“Grandma, I’m just saying. When I die, I would like to wear a necklace made out of Jasmine flowers.” He told her.
She nodded her head and changed the topic. That was the last time his grandma spoke to him. She never told Lola about the incident until his funeral. It was as if Tito Mon knew in his heart that he would pass away soon.
For three days, hundreds of people that my Lola didn’t know arrived at wake to say goodbye to Tito Mon. They were from all different backgrounds. Some were rich and dressed in fine clothing. Some were poor and had holes in their shoes. Poor street children came up to my grandmother and said Tito Mon used to share his food with them because they were hungry. Vendors from the local fish market even came up to my uncle’s casket and hugged his body as they wept and cried out loud. My grandmother did not know these people but she realized that she was blessed to have a son who touched so many lives.
She Left Many Tears
I watched my grandmother as she finished kneading her dough and continued with her story. Her eyes were watery as she recalled painful memories of losing her only son. She told me that he knew he was going to die. She said she believed that God was talking to him. Maybe God was allowing him to say his farewells to friends and family in order to prepare them for his death.
Coming from a Christian background, Lola believes that God blessed her with a beautiful son. She also believes that she will see him again in heaven. She knows in her heart that he is waiting there for her. I too believe that God somehow told my uncle he was going to pass away. I think God was preparing Tito Mon’s loved ones, by giving those signs through Tito Mon’s strange behavior.
I turned to my Lola, who had tears in her eyes. I helped her put the ground beef and vegetables into the dough. We then wrapped up the empanadas and fried it into the boiling oil.

Posted in: on Sunday, November 16, 2008 at at 6:52 PM 0 comments  

When I think of places that are important to me, I think of Newark Airport. I’ve been there so many times. The atmosphere leaves me with feelings of excitement and sadness. The suitcases lined up at the doors, the taxis and limos waiting for passengers. Families waiting for loved ones, people crying saying goodbye to each other, tears, joy, fear, hope, anxiety, are all found at the airport.

It’s the place where I’ve shed many tears. I remember holding on to my aunt and hugging her tightly as I said farewell to her. I didn’t know when the next time would be that I would see her. I was about twelve years old. She was and still is my only aunt in America. She is my father’s only sibling in this country. She lived in Chicago at the time. I guess Newark Airport

I have many memories there….I don’t know where to start.
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Union Highschool- highschool says it all. So many memories...growing up...depression, coming of age
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Mc Laughlin Funeral Home- I went there last summer because of my exboyfriend's father passed away.
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Bethany Assemblies of God Church, St. Paul's Lutheran church & Calvary Church of the Deaf = these three buildings are where my former congregation used to hold their church services..I spent every weekend there for many years...

Posted in: on Saturday, November 8, 2008 at at 10:01 AM 1 comments  

It was like I was time traveling. I felt as if I entered the twilight zone. I was not prepared for this. It was only supposed to be Spring cleaning.

I was cleaning my room one night, rummaging through my closet and I stumbled upon this old red suitcase. Slowly I drag it out of my closet and blow off all the dust. I unzip the suitcase and am shocked to see a cardboard box filled with black and white photos.

“How long as this been in my closet?” I whisper to myself.
I sat their breathless, with a handful of photos, peering through them as if I too was traveling back in time. My mind was a cocktail of confusion fused with excitement and spiked with fear. My mind was filled with nervousness and caution as I viewed these photos for the first time in my life. (Careful not to rip the fragile tearing tips.)

These were pictures of my family over fifty years ago. These were pictures of my grandmother and grandfather when they were only twenty years old. I couldn’t believe how gorgeous my grandmother was. She had a slender figure with curves in the right places. She had the beehive hairdo, the and those black framed cat eye glasses. She wore a tight mini dress, and had bell bottoms and a hippie looking yellow shirt on in another picture. In another black and white photo, I saw my grandfather? Was it my grandfather? It must have been my grandfather. He was lying on his belly at the beach, facing the camera as if he was a model. (My goodness my grandparents were a gorgeous couple.)I was taken back for a moment. I wondered what kind of life they lived. I know it’s crazy now, my grandmother lives with me and my grandfather lives in his farm in the Philippines. Technically they are married, but I for years they’ve lived in different countries.

As I flipped through the pages of the old album, I stop and smile at a picture of my grandmother’s sister and her husband. My auntie Ellen, God knows I miss her. She must have been twenty years old in the photo. Her and her husband, may have just been dating in the picture. There are no children in the picture. No signs of children at all. As I stare at their picture, I think about how I miss the family so much.

My Auntie Ellen,-he was my grandmother’s sister. She died from cancer when I was still in middle school. I didn’t see her very often, she lived in Michigan with her husband and family. She had this contagious laughter and amazing sense of humor. The last time I saw her, I was at my Uncle Roland’s funeral. He was died in a car accident. I remember standing in the cemetery during my uncle’s funeral crying, crying in the snow.

Posted in: on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at at 11:08 AM 4 comments  

Three Poles of a Thistle by Naoimi Shihab What are the three sections about and how do they fit together? Are the contrasting? Cumulative?
The teacher said that she had the devil inside her. In the very beginning of the essay, we realize that she is much smarter than the other kids in her class because she prefers Charlotte’s web instead of Dick and Jane. She also seems to have a lower income than everyone else. She’s eating dried apricots instead of bacon. She definitely feels different. She seems to be a private person.
Around the fourth paragraph , she describes the situation instead of just telling flat out how she felt.
What is this writing about? It means coming into oneself through pain. What does a poke of a thistle do?
• A life changing point, slightly painful
• It’s small yet sharp and sticks to you- made an impression. Momentous event
MEANINGS OF THE THREE SECTIONS
1. Guilt, she felt like it was her fault. If she didn’t get a stomach ache, the crash wouldn’t have happened. It connects the guilt to the pain. “BE GOOD AND YOU WILL BE LONESOME” basically sums it up. Here we have the narrator with knowledge that the over people do not have. When she read this, she finally felt as if she had some knowledge that other people didn’t have. It’s also more about shame.
2. Cultural difference. She doesn’t have the experience to connect to the language. It was also because of her innocence. In the three stories she told us it’s all about the same thing written in different ways. She doesn’t make the connection.
3.

Posted in: on Monday, November 3, 2008 at at 12:22 PM 0 comments