His Sneakers, My Dreams 21 years later & Still Nothing Has Changed but the Cost

I first wrote this article in 1990 while I was an intern reporter in high school. It has been featured in the books Things Get Hectic and The Struggle To Be Strong as well as YCteen Magazine formerly known as New Youth Connections.


I am republishing it here on a blog I have not updated in awhile as I felt compelled to share an incident that has never left my mind or heart after all these years. It was because of this article http://www.nj.com/news/index.ssf/2011/12/release_of_air_jordans_sneaker.html

It has me curious, as what are the creator and superstar namesake of whom these sneakers are named for thinking about what happened. I wonder too, are they going to respond? It's the least that they could do just do it for Sam.



His Sneakers, My Dreams

By Suzanne Joblonski

My Criminal Justice class last spring was really boring. I was always tired because it was my last class of the day. When the teacher talked about the difference between first and second degree murder, I would drift into dreamland.

I would imagine what my future might be like, think of another idea for a story or poem, or of what my boyfriend and I would be doing that weekend.

Sometimes, I would stare at the sneakers of the guy who sat next to me. He had two pairs-one black, one white. Ballys, I think. I always wondered where he'd been in them, the kinds of places he went.

I'll call him Sam. He was the first person I spoke to on the first day of class. When class was over, I noticed he had forgotten his umbrella underneath his chair and I told him. He thanked me and smiled.

I Only Spoke To Him Once

That was the only time I ever really spoke to Sam, even though I sat next to him five days a week. I also remember he and another girl in class were always annoying one another, and the teacher used to joke that they'd end up getting married.

At the beginning of the term, the teacher asked us to talk about ourselves and our future plans. Most of us had some kind of long-term plan. One girl wanted to be a lawyer, another a social worker, and one of the guys wanted to be a cop. Right after graduation, Sam said he was going to go into the military. After that he wanted to become a corrections officer.

Last May (I remember it as if it were five minutes ago), I was sitting in my auto shop class. The teacher looked really upset and somebody asked him what was the matter. He told us that one of his students had been shot and killed over the weekend. He mentioned the name, which sounded familiar to me. Wasn't that the guy who sat next to me in my Criminal Justice class? The only way I could be sure was to see if he was sitting in his usual seat that afternoon. He was always there and always on time.

His Seat Was Empty

When I went to class, the seat was empty and everyone had tears in their eyes. My teacher broke the news to us: Sam was the student killed over the weekend.

It was over something stupid-I think he stepped on someone's sneakers and they got into an argument. He was killed just two weeks after we learned about the different charges for murder.

I don't usually cry a lot, but this time I did. I cried because he was a teenager and I was a teenager. My tears were for the loss of one of our own. It was as bad as if he were a member of my own family.

I am really scared that this won't be the last time this will happen to someone I know. It's been happening every day to my peers around the city. Teenagers are losing friends over stupid things-dirty looks, clothes, jealousy, and revenge.

I have one message for Sam's killers and for teenagers around New York City. Even if it looks hopeless, we are our world's future. Maybe if you plan ahead, you too can have something to look forward to. I know Sam did and so do I.

copyright Youth Communication-New York Center, Inc.
http://www.ycteenmag.org

ANANSE NTONTAN

"spider's web"

symbol of wisdom, creativity and the complexities of life

An adjective I use to describe myself is creative. When I was younger, I began writing poetry that was spurred months after my seventh grade English teacher introduced on this genre. I clearly remember the topic: love. At that time the only love I knew was my love for the New York Mets. Needless to say, I did not hand in that assignment but before the end of the term, I did write a poem entitled Love Is Like. I showed it to Miss Kalt who remarked how impressed she was particularly with the line:

Love is like a sidewalk

Some treasure it, others walk all over it.

Through the years, I continued writing poetry as I was inspired by what my eyes witnessed and heart felt. There were poems that were dedicated to the homeless who accompanied me on train rides, about a catcher for Major League Baseball, experiences of being a mother of a baby who is now 15 years old as well as remembrance to my other son (who did not live past three and a half months) wondering what his firsts would be, and finally a plea for someone to help her escape a life of repeated rapes by the man she called her husband. It was my hope that one day, these poems would be discovered after I physically left this universe and they would be published. They weren't at least for now.

However, I did have writings published while I was in high school. I had participated and interned for New Youth Connections, a paper written for and by youth. It was here, I emerged from the shyness that semi-paralyzed me as a youngster in Canarsie. I had the chance to travel independently around the five boroughs of New York, ask questions of people that I probably would have never had the guts to do so before, and cultivate my interests in curiosity and research. The result were nine published articles, including one that appeared in two books.

When I got married and became a mother, the writing waned. There was probably much on my mind that I could write about but I was more concerned with survival. I became the sole bread winner at the suggestion but more like the force of a husband who would not work and provide for his family. There were so many excuses of why he wouldn't, which I later learned is just a part of his character. He grew up in a family dependent on public assistance. Something, I was determined not to let happen for my own children. They deserved better and opportunities but also needed to know "nothing is free in life."

Something, I learned early and never had a chance to practice growing up much less married. The years of 19-28 were oppressive in so many ways. I lost my identity at a time where it should have been cultivated. I could not finish college when he observed I was thriving and educated on ways of living--without the abuse. In other words, without him. The hardest was not being allowed to be the mother I envisioned my role as one would be. Eventually, I was given a diagnosis of depression and post traumatic stress disorder--it's effects still linger today. If there isn't some kind of chaos, I am bored out of my mind. However, I am getting better and learning how to manage these symptoms now that I have much more peace in my life.

This new found peace and freedom has been a blessing for this restless soul. I am tapping into my creative side again. Not only am I writing more, but turning ordinary objects into art that decorate my apartment. For instance, I turned my butterfly earrings collection are now hanging above a window sill garden I created, prepare at least two meals a week that I make up as I go along, and manipulating the many photos I have taken into collages, bookmarks, and wall art.

Freedom allows one to do many things they wish and yearn to do. Some remain anonymous, while others become famous. I think I am somewhere in the middle. I do wish for my legacy to live forever but that may be hard to achieve as there are so many people of greatness in this world and sure many more to follow.