Chris Nho

Part I.
I find it difficult to profess that I am Christian in a non-Christian environment. This fear comes from experience. My religion is based off of faith, which means it is goes beyond my understanding. So explaining who I am, to someone who expects a logical answer gets both of us frustrated. This cycle has therefore made me weary of coming to the familiar confrontation. First, I must come to a true realization that it is possible to love everyone. Then, ask myself, why am I incapable of it? People annoy me, the answer can be as simple as that. However, the few moments were I step back and observe myself, I find that I am no greater nor less than the person I dislike. Why is it then, do I justly denounce him or her? My religion does not promote intolerance towards other religions and beliefs, and I try to mirror that tenet. But a contradiction appears when I so strongly believe in my own religion, that other religions become wrong. Discussions turn quickly into arguments as my stance reduces to, “I don’t know.” But it is ok to not know, which may shock many, but it is ok.

Part II.
Outside of the circle, lies the greatest desire to go in. Everyone is a critic, analyzing the moves of the bboy inside, waiting to see something new or unique. One bold step, which has to be taken while somewhat crazy, enters you into a new dimension. At first, all eyes are on you. Self consciousness brings you to a rigid dance; but then you break free. Whether it is because of the beat or some unknown trigger, all movements become fluid. Everything previously rehearsed is forgotten and the body moves as if it does not belong to its beholder. Finally, the end of the set comes, the period of the dance. Everyone knows that you are now going to walk back, outside of the circle, back into reality. Self consciousness will creep up, judge your performance, and leave you wanting for more. To prove yourself worthy, do better than you know you did. But those who have watched do not carry these anxieties; they are just like you, too preoccupied with their first step into the circle.

Part III.
I was born October 29, 1990, the last of two children.
My older brother, and only sibling, was born on May 19, 1986. In the time between him and I, my mother had two miscarriages, making me a lucky child. There was a four year difference between us, making him a respectable figure, simply because he was older. By watching embarrassing baby videos, it is obvious my brother loved me. I was his favorite toy, an interactive one that would laugh at his jokes no matter how cheesy they could be. As time passed and I developed, we both laughed and cried at the same things. He was my role model, but my best friend as well. It was not only until he went off to college that I realized the true relationship we shared. There were only a few treasured moments where we discussed things other than the latest cartoon or things of that matter. Now that we don’t speak on a regular basis, it has been revealed to me that my greatest desire is to understand my brother, and have him understand me.
The best way to make friends is to laugh with them. No matter what it’s about; laughing at the same joke can be the same as laughing at the same insult. These relationships are real, but they are weak. Most of my friendships are this type of relationships. We enjoy each others presence because we always have fun when we are together. But when, I wonder, will we get past that and become brothers? Enough joking around, let’s sit down and talk about what we really want to say. The problem is, we have trapped ourselves to this relationship. We expect something out of our friends and anything else will shock us. I am afraid I have fallen into the same cycle with my brother, we laugh and love each other, but do not understand.
Prayer is one of the important things in my life. A chance to meditate on life, speak to God, and listen to him. The greatest thing about prayer, however, is that you can pray for one another. Give your heart to another person, even though it may be momentary, and have them hear what you want for them. Sad to say, I cannot recall a moment where my brother and I have truly prayed for one another. Never have we professed our greatest secrets and sins freely without expecting judgment from one another. What might seem as a lack of love is not. We are afraid; what might the other think? What might the other say? We both expect the answer, “Nothing.” And know that we would supply it if the opportunity arose, but we still both lie in fear. So we will continue to play, laugh, and have fun with one another because that is who we are, but I know that we will one day fill what is missing.

Part IV.
My father, since my birth, has spoiled me. It is apparent, his want to see me never truly struggle. This has kept me in generally stable environments, never having to fear solitude or helplessness. However, he lives a life opposite to what it may seem. Everyday, my dad wakes up at 5:00 A.M., leaves the house at 5:30, and arrives at the store by 6:00. There are usually a few customers waiting for their daily muffin outside. He stays there until 7:30, yes, P.M. The stern figure you have painted is false, however, because when he arrives at home at sharply 8:00 P.M. the first thing he does is hug his family. My father seems reckless in how he treats himself; being his own slave driver and slave. But, as I talk to my dad more and more, it becomes clear that his sensible side exists; it is just has been calloused over with changing experiences. One such story is about his sister. She had been cheated on by her husband and now lives a solitary life. My dad told me he would never be able to forgive that man. This gave me a glimpse into my real dad, the one that shared the same feelings I did. He was not some invulnerable statue, immune to pain. He was a loving father, wanting to give his son the things he was not lucky enough to have.

Part V.
Living in an apartment complex has its greatest perk in the fact that your best friends practically live with you. This made my childhood a constant playground. Second stories were castle towers and Ziploc bags quickly turned into water bombs. The most memorable game I played was “cap gun wars”. Every time the ice cream man stopped by, my brother would buy cap guns and caps (because I was not old enough to). These plastic handguns with vibrant orange barrels had to be loaded with red dots. What seemed like a harmless toy soon turned to a deadly weapon, however, when I realized pulling the trigger would make a loud “CRACK!”. A troop of elementary schoolers, ranging from second to fifth grade met in the middle of the cul-de-sac. We each distributed ammunition and weapons. Then, divided into teams and hid. The sight to a stranger must have looked like a training ground for child soldiers. Soon, the suspense that crept up on me was as if these guns fired bullets. We would hide in bushes, behind pillars, underneath cars, anywhere that would keep us safe. Looking back, I’ll never know how we determined if someone hit or missed his target, but back then it didn’t matter. We were kids with guns, shooting each other and having fun.