progress

a portfolio of the teenage years

A.J. Aldana
Shannon Pufahl
English 9CE: Creative Expression
Fall 2017
Table of Contents
Table of Contents ................................................................................................................. 2
Off to Work .......................................................................................................................... 3
To the girl who words can’t even begin to describe ............................................................ 6
Cherish This View ................................................................................................................ 7

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Off to Work
“I’m off to work again!” yells my father, knowingly waking me up. He starts his
work day at 6:55 in the morning. As I open my eyes to the warm light of the hallway, I
reluctantly throw my comforter, that is bunched around my waist, to my feet, exposing
my legs to the crisp morning air. As per usual, I also start to pick up on the city’s murmurs:
the ringing of the store bell below our apartment, the clinking of the cash register’s
drawer, the honks of impatient commuters and the like. I look at the clock that reads
“7:05” and like clockwork:
“I’d like a dozen bagels please.”
That’s my cue to head down to the store before I run off to school. As much as my parents
want me to cut down on the amount of hours I work, I can’t help but to try to help out as
often as possible. I walk downstairs into the shop, haphazardly tying my apron to get to
my shift that starts at 7:15. As I am fumbling through the apron pocket trying to find my
nametag, Janet Crenshaw, the woman who lives in the apartment next to the store walks
up to the counter.
“Hey Bryce, how are you and your old man doing?” she asks me. She looks around
the empty store, and lowers her voice, “I heard the argument last night… It sounded pretty
intense. I don’t want to speculate but did I hear something break last night? Are you
alright? Is your dear mother hanging in there?”
“Yes, Mrs. Crenshaw, we’re doing just fine. It was the same old drill; dad is stressed
about money… But this time, he was frustrated with me because I refused to go to the
early morning AP classes instead of deciding to stop working in the store.” My dad is a
prude when it comes to school and money. This is a constant in most of our arguments.
Janet may be the only person in this world that knows both sides of my dad. Janet was
not speculating – during last night’s argument my dad broke one of the shelves off of my
bookshelf – one of the last remaining things in my room. It wasn’t the first, and I can
guarantee you won’t be the last, time that my dad’s anger has expressed itself by breaking
things.
“Okay, well I’m going to grab a few things, and I’ll come back to check out.”
“Got it!” I say with my customer service smile.
The students call him “Mr. Baukus” while his co-workers know him as Jack, the oh-so-
esteemed principal at the elementary school down the street. What he ought to be known
as Jack ass. What a coincidence that the local superstar is incredible to everyone else but
his own family. Little does everyone know that “Mr. Baukus” doesn’t ride his bike to
school for environmental conservation, but because his car is an old, beat-up 1997 Toyota
Corolla. His professional wardrobe? That fine black wool suit is worn at the expense of
his family’s TV. I’ve tried to understand why he does it, why he acts so differently in public
than he does with us. To come home to the two people, you are supposed to love the most,
your son and your wife, should be a highlight of your day and a blessing in your life. Yet,
my dad acts like we are a regrettable decision. Day after day I tell myself there are only
two explanations of his behavior… The endless ping of emails from relentless parents and
teachers who are stretched thin could explain things. But I think it’s my mom.
It has been exactly seven months and twenty-two days since she has been sick. The doctor
finally diagnosed her with stage II breast cancer – luckily it is early enough to be treated
by either a partial mastectomy or very low levels of radiation and chemotherapy. I don’t
know the severity of the cost of the medical bills, but I do know the gravity of the situation
is getting out of hand. The only reason I know is because I grab the mail every day on my

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way home. Last June, when this all started, the bills came every three weeks. Within the
past two months, the letters have been coming every week – on a bad week I’ve seen bills
from “Mount Sinai Medical Center” stamped “URGENT” every three days. In those first
few months, my dad took care of the bills, making sure my mom was always taken care
of. She’s been in the hospital for these past seven months and much to my chagrin, the
window of visiting hours directly overlaps with when I have school. So I haven’t seen her
much during her illness, which might be a lucky thing? I remember her in at the peak of
her pre-cancer health – she is a beautiful 5’6” dirty blonde with a smile that lit up every
room. She is the most kind, selfless person in the world. My dad truly lucked out with a
woman like my mom.
“Bryyyyyce… Bryce! I need to check out!” groans Janet.
I immediately snap out of my introspection. “Sorry Mrs. Crenshaw. I totally dazed off for
a little bit. Let me ring you up!”
I ring up her items: a chocolate bar, a half–gallon of milk, some hand lotion, and a lighter.
Nothing out the ordinary. “Thanks Mrs. Crenshaw, see you later!”
The next 45-minutes fly by. I grab my backpack from the corner of the room and exchange
it with my apron. On my way to school an amalgam of thoughts rush into my head. It all
dawns on me. We moved into my dad’s friend’s apartment above the store he owns in the
middle of the city. We have sold all of our furniture: our couch, our TV, our chairs. I
haven’t seen my mom in 7 months. And to top things off, earlier this month I found such
an odd assortment of things under his bed: any piece of our belongings that he broke
during in arguments, a singular sandal and – the thing that made my heart drop – a stash
of empty liquor bottles under his bed amongst other things. Never has my life felt more
like a movie.
I walk up to the door of my school with tears in my eyes. The hours pass by far too slowly.
Each subject dragged on into eternity – Calculus, American History, Spanish, Biology,
English, and Photography. The sound of the final bell replayed in my head as I ran all the
way to the school where my dad worked. I walked up to his office, garnering all of my
courage and patience and start to prepare the question, “What is really happening Dad?”
I grasp the handle of the door, my palms sweating worse than if it was the middle of a
summer’s day in the Sahara Desert. I force the door open to find my dad sitting at his
desk.
“Hey son,” he sighs and gets up from his chair. Much to my surprise, his chair was
anything but. This chair belongs to the dumpster – it’s a hole-ridden padded chair from
the 80’s with its seat and chair portions fashioned out of all of the things I found under
that damn bed. I stared at the chair for a few more moments, my gaze shifting at every
small aspect of it as if I was under some sort of chair. With each second, every disparate
piece of that chair forced a projection of that memory through my brain. As I shift my gaze
from the chair to my dad, my visions get caught by the piece of wood that Janet asked
about.
“Wha- what… wait…” I mutter, shocked from what I’m seeing, “What are you sitting on?”
My dad’s figure shifted. The strong, unwavering masculine man I knew my father to be
disintegrated in front of me. Instead I began to see the rounded shoulders and bowed
head of an individual who wanted to admit to their faults. His body language is the
embodiment of atonement.
“I made this chair from the things I have destroyed. If I was going to make you live without
the luxuries of life at home and dually be the cause of your and your mom’s misery, I

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wasn’t going to indulge myself here at work. I would endure every physical consequence
of my actions if that means I get to maintain a connection to you and your mom.” I can
feel my head getting lighter and my stomach dropping immediately. I look my dad in the
eyes and am barely able to whisper, “I’m sorry…” I throw myself into what feels like the
embrace of a century.

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To the girl who words can’t even begin to describe
She is like every cliché love song
Unwilling to admit the beauty she cannot see
She is basking under a tree in the sun dappled light
An ethereal warmness that is unparalleled

She is oh so worthy of every word of affirmation

And every occupied thought that fills my mind
She is the epitome of a perfectly crafted Instagram feed
Every like, comment or share can’t begin to describe her

Her hair flows like honey kissed chocolate

Each strand descending into a pool below
Her chin sitting in a collection of cascading colors

As she sits and flips open her notebook

Her hand glides across the paper
Leaving lines slicker than the trails left by figure skaters
And thoughts more impressive than any of their tricks

Each perfectly worn plate revealed only by

The jokes and memories of others
And the beauty of the world around her
This beautiful curve fits her face perfectly

Her body is a coiled up spring

Small and full of tension
But when she releases her potential energy
She bounces across a room, energizing everyone around her

A black widow catches her thoughts in its web

Forcing her into a fit of uncertainty and doubt
Her vulnerability manifests itself into strength

To the girl who words can’t even begin to describe

There is no metaphor, no simile, no set of words to string together
That can even begin to explain how beautiful you are

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Cherish This View
THE GLASSY WATER was a daily occurrence for three months. Most things revolved
around Fallen Leaf Lake for the entire duration of 78 days. Malibu Ski Boats whirred in
their daily rounds, pulling guests of various skill levels. Stand up paddle board yoga
fulfilled the balanced – of both mind and body. Swimmers allowed the water to engulf
them, as they broke the surface and sent ripples in all directions. Rowers were titillated
by the serenity that a peaceful night granted the Lake. In the morning, it was as if the
homeowners across the lake were my next door neighbors and at night, following a
Dinner, the Lake was put to sleep by the chants of the staphers, In the Lake! In the Lake!
In the Lake! and a final splash of all twelve young adults. The Lake was a constant
throughout the summer, unchanging and whole.
The Lake was also a first for me. It represented a summer that I chose to be selfish,
to choose something that fulfilled my interests for the sake of my own interests rather
than what the world wanted for me. It was the first time in two years that I turned down
a pre-professional STEM internship at national engineering firm to work at a summer
camp in the middle of Lake Tahoe, California. I chose a life of a 3- and 4-year old
counselor, or as I knew them The Munchkins, for an entire three months. This chance,
this risk, is one that I will never regret.
I hopped right into it, taking risks and experiencing new things every day. The only
work experience I had before this forced me to don a solid colored polo and either a grey
or tan pair of khakis. I consequently also left my Frosh year at Stanford University,
ultimately and vehemently wrecked. I mean this in the most literal sense. My Frosh
experience at Stanford included the highest highs and the lowest lows. I experienced the
traditional, “Wow! Stanford is an incredible place and everyone here is involved, happy,
and thriving” fall quarter, but winter quarter was anything but. I experienced a
conglomeration of mental health problems ranging from general anxiety to, what I now
realize was, depression – I genuinely wanted to transfer away from the place that I worked
so hard to get to. Spring quarter got better, as the weather got warmer and the people
around me reclaimed that fresh Frosh vibrancy.
The Lake provided an opportunity to restart. I reclaimed the pieces of my identity
that make me who I know myself to be. During kids programming I became the caring,
protective person that simultaneously functioned as a living jungle gym. With kids
hanging on my shoulders or around my legs, it might seem paradoxical, but I felt free. I
regained a confidence that was ripped away from the integrity of my being. Stanford took
every ounce of my belief in myself that it could, and yet at this Camp around the Lake, I
slowly stole it back. Dinner shifts allowed me to literally put back on the shell of
extroversion that had molted off of my body – some meal shifts made me the Operation
Man while others I was a Cheerleader, or even the occasional Harley Quinn. I found
comfort in putting on a show for the people around me, I found comfort in myself.

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A rock slipped below my foot as the guy behind me, Thomas, tripped over a root. We
gained over 3,000 feet of elevation, guided only by the light of the moon. It was 3:30 a.m.
when we started this trek, originally in a group of 19 that soon thereafter became a group
of 5. Kaylee led Thomas, Cody, Erika and I up to the top of Mount Tallac, the vantage
point overlooking the entirety of South Lake Tahoe, including our hidden paradise of
Fallen Leaf Lake. At 9,738 feet, perspective is your reality. Things that weren’t small
before you left on your hike become inexplicably unimportant.
The rest of the group of staphers followed shortly after our summit of the peak. The
love was tangible. In a huddle for warmth, the pinky-orange toned faces featuring grossly
large smiles became explicably apparent. The vibrancy of everyone’s jackets were
highlighted by the energy that we brought to this hike. Comparatively speaking, Fallen
Leaf Lake is but a speckle on the landscape in contrast to the behemoth that is Lake Tahoe.
In a warm silence, I shed a few tears reflecting on what the Lake had given me at this point
in the summer. The first full moon (of which we hiked under) happened about halfway
through the summer. This was the first time during the summer, that I realized how each
50-hour work week, each 1-hour shift, each minute spent in the company of another
person was whirring by. I reflected on how I found myself indulging in a lot of firsts at
Camp. Among these firsts included: backpacking hikes, waterskiing, hand making ravioli,
going to a summer camp, living where I was working, watching ostriches and camels race,
sailing, stand up paddle boarding, working in the food industry, working retail among so
many other incredible things. But above all else, it taught me the importance of doing
what you love.
The week of the hike was pivotal to my growth at Camp. It was the week that I
learned how to waterski. Again, the Lake was my gateway to growth. I quite literally found
myself in the lake – not just in the reflection sense of finding myself in the lake, and not
in the physical presence of being in the lake, but in a metaphorical sense. My progression
of waterskiing is a metaphor for the growth within my summer. I started off afraid, tainted
by a lack of confidence in my abilities. A driving force in my changes was a, now hopeful-
life-long friend Cody. He coached me to be his Brotégé (like a protégé but for a cool
younger guy friend). Almost immediately after showing me the ropes of two skis, he threw
me into the realm of slaloming, which came shortly after the hike up Mount Tallac. I found
my comfort. I found my solace. Skiing was a way to have controlled freedom. I grooved
with the force of the water, feeling the fleeting nature of life, while wholeheartedly
experiencing every god damned second behind the boat. Fallen Leaf Lake became my
support. It became my place of admiration, of growth and of comfort.
This place is a place that I am able to call home. This might sound cliché but truly,
this little place on Fallen Leaf Lake in South Lake Tahoe became a slice of freedom for me.
But if that’s not convincing enough, when I was reflecting on this summer, I re-read
through a few journal entries that I wrote – one, in particular, makes me genuinely
emotional. My body naturally woke me up the Friday of week 4, at about 6:00 a.m. I went
down to one of my favorite spots at Camp, the ski dock, where I encountered a woman

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wearing her black bathing suit, who was yelling at her daughter, “Okay, I’m about to do
it. Make sure it’s recording.” She jumped into the lake and during this endeavor, I let out
a small giggle to myself. This caught her attention, which led to an introduction. She
explains that she brought her mom to camp the past few years, but she tragically lost her
in 2017. This week at camp was complex. She said that while she had really good friends
at camp, this year was particularly tough and that on her final day at camp,
a lake jump was the thing she needed to be renewed and refreshed –
it was what she needed to have closure. And to top off the story,
she was wearing her mother’s bathing suit on the
plunge. I can’t think of a more perfect
descriptor for this interaction
than wholly and truly
magical.

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