My failure is me dying

As a child I knew I was poor. I knew I lived in the same sort of building as the family on "Good Times", I knew the roaches were not part of a normal existence, I knew the little plastic baggies and syringes were not to be touched; basically I knew my life was nothing like those I saw on tv. However, I never thought I was impoverished, on the brink of homelessness and the possibility of undernourishment. I ate food, I wore clean clothes, I had a place to sleep at night.

Recently I did a day of servitude at a food pantry in East Harlem, where instead of serving prepared meals to the homeless, I prepared packages of discarded and sometimes expired food for those people who weren't homeless, but poor enough to take a hand-out of such caliber. That's when it struck me, that I was these people. I recall standing outside a building on the corner of Lake and Washington in Pasadena, waiting in line to receive the handouts du jour, whereas now I'm all about the soup du jour.

The creed I live by is 'I'm not going back". While seemingly materialistic in its roots since its creation derived from the nightmares of waking up once again in those projects, on that food line, at the food stamps office, its also steeped in my emotional history. I'm not going back to being mistreated, cheated, lied to, or neglected. I used to think I didn't have goals, but I realized they weren't goals as much as they were survival tactics. I've never had the option of not meeting my goals, for in my life failure is akin to dying.

I can't die, I have yet to fix all the wrongs of my childhood. I have yet to fill my room with things that make me smile, fill my stomach with things that delight my palate, have my heart filled by a love requited.

So the next time you ask yourself why Phoenix is so intense, ask yourself how you would be if you felt failure was your death.