tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65874905397631962402012-01-31T02:31:13.414-08:00FROM THE ASHES, THIS PHOENIX SHALL RISE AGAIN...Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.comBlogger81100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-69729471698152076952008-02-14T16:17:00.000-08:002008-02-14T16:18:54.065-08:00

Oumy and my mother were neighbors and classmates and since they grew up together and probably shared a lot of time with each other, they quickly became best friends. My mother was reserved and very shy while Oumy was everything but and for some unexplainable reason, the friendship between such different people wistood the test of time and distance. My aunt-by-friendship had no children. She never

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-60285387195245848882008-01-31T13:27:00.000-08:002008-01-31T13:35:20.521-08:00

We lived on opposite ends of the same block and quite frankly, I don’t even remember the first time I met her. But if there is one thing I know for sure, it’s the fact that I will never forget her.We’d always say hi to each other every time we met outside; but that’s where it stopped. I was young and quite shy; she was older and so much cooler than me. She had a reputation for getting around and

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-8107078590817352522008-01-22T10:31:00.000-08:002008-01-26T13:42:43.635-08:00

I believe that hidden deep within every class clown, every attention seeking jerk is an extremely wounded child desperately looking for approval, for love. A child who tries to conceal his insecurities, even his shortcomings by entertaining his so called friends and followers at the expense of those deemed not cool or pretty enough.From a very young age, I knew what it felt like to be bullied,

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-34032678431408942712008-01-14T17:04:00.000-08:002008-01-14T18:43:53.357-08:00

By the time my aunt intervened and moved us out of the house, I had blossomed into a hunchback nursing, awkward pre-teen on her way to Dakar’s own 90210 High School. My height and bony figure made me standout like a sore thumb amongst my friends and other 7th graders. Years of fighting off bullies, after school to get my name back from giraffe and skeletor had all but drained my self-esteem and

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-50408420267374201272008-01-13T08:53:00.001-08:002008-01-13T09:02:53.309-08:00

By the time I returned to Dakar, my mother had moved into a brand new house, on a better development and I was enrolled at a nearby private school. Although my uncles still lived with us, I felt safe because my mother and aunt kept an eagle eye on him. But as usual, we swallowed hurt emotions, swept raw wounds under invisible rugs and pretended that nothing ever happened. We were one big happy

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-41132366610022913662008-01-11T13:05:00.000-08:002008-01-11T22:35:46.466-08:00

I stood outside our front door, my grandmother by my side and watched as my mother, aunt, sister, cousin and all of their belongings sped away in a moving van. I felt my heart ache, my throat tighten, my eyes sting. I wanted to cry; but there were no tears. I wanted to run after them, but my feet wouldn’t carry me. We silently stood there and stared until the van made a right turn and disappeared

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-292804644405850132008-01-09T12:16:00.001-08:002008-01-09T13:40:18.186-08:00

My grandfather was the glue that held my family together. With his death, his firstborn son, Omar was to take his place as the head of the family. Instead, he seemed to quickly unravel. My uncle was an intelligent and kind man when he wasn’t high and wrecking havoc around the house. A High School dropout, he didn’t work nor did he feel the need to. Most of his days were spent, roaming around town

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6587490539763196240.post-62964376708919758792008-01-03T16:19:00.000-08:002008-01-09T11:58:58.432-08:00

One of my earliest childhood memories is embedded with the smell of wet cats, the kind of fear that shields you from paralyzing pain and the horror of finding out that you are covered with blood. I must have been about four years old. I slept under a broken window, on a small mattress, laid on the linoleum floor of my mom’s small bedroom, in my oldest aunt’s house. It was an ordinary night and as

Sayuri Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09511559625798270615noreply@blogger.com3