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samanthatrim-blog · 8 years ago

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Hockeytown

As we walked along the Detroit River, the excitement and energy of the crowd grew with every step. Seas of red and white fill the sidewalks. Passing cars honk their horns in excitement at the congregation of fans lining the streets, waiting to enter the building. Our gradual ascent up the sloped stairs leads to the arena’s entrance. Finally reaching the entrance, we were greeted by the lobby’s mural: “Welcome to Joe Louis Arena!”

Eleven banners hang from its ceiling in honor of the eleven Stanley Cups awarded to the teams of 1936, 1937, 1943, 1950, 1952, 1954, 1955, 1997, 1998, 2002, and 2008. Named after the Detroit native heavyweight boxer Joe Louis, “the Joe” has been the home of this legacy since 1979. For the last season, this rink will host the pride of Michigan -- the Detroit Red Wings. At the end of the 2016-2017 season, the doors will close for the last time, and the loyal fans of self-proclaimed “Hockeytown” will begin to congregate at Little Caesars Arena, erected in downtown Detroit.

From the end of September to the beginning of June, hockey fans across Canada and the United States gather in large arenas in support of teams belonging to the National Hockey league. From hats and jerseys to flags and face paint, hockey fans are known for their elated passion and crazed enthusiasm. Sports writers and players both agree that one of the most respected and moving experiences is attending a hockey game in Joe Louis Arena.

This was my first NHL game, here at the Joe. Every sports bar in Detroit was at full capacity; Hockeytown was preparing for the big game. Well dressed businessmen wore bright red hats; kids were swallowed in large white jerseys; men and women on street corners wore old Wings t-shirts. In a city plagued by despair and misfortune, hockey becomes the bridge that brings us all together -- one team, one voice, one goal.

The halls of Joe Louis are lined with banners and flags, all sporting the “winged wheel” in the center. Guarding the entrance is a bronze statue of the world-proclaimed “Mr. Hockey,” Gordie Howe. A Red Wing alumni and member of the Hockey Hall of Fame, Mr. Howe spent 25 seasons with Detroit. He still makes special appearances to this day. Around the bend from him is another large figure, that of four-time Stanley Cup champion Ted Lindsay. With the whole team’s history on display, these men evoke a feeling of reverence upon the entrance of this colloseum.

The warm smell of beer and french fries sharply contrasts with the breeze of cool air coming from the ice. Lines for jerseys and shirts wraps through the halls. As the pre-game warm ups begin, eager fans flood around the glass to see their heroes prepare for battle. In this game, it will be against the Minnesota Wild. Kids press against the boards in hopes for a puck to flip over its edge. Justin Abdelkader, a native of Muskegon, Michigan, and graduate of Michigan State University, is a crowd favorite. Many young hockey players proudly wear his jersey, hoping to play in an arena like this one day.

Just before puck drop, the whole crowd stands in honor of the Canadian and American National Anthems. All nationalities, all ethnicities, those from all beliefs and backgrounds, stand and sing “O Canada” just before “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The players and coaches, coming from all over the world, also stand in reverence.

After the first faceoff, the 1st period begins. Each game has three periods, and each period contains twenty minutes. During the playing time, fans cheer and shout for open ice hits and hard shots towards the net. Players fight for the puck and protect their teammates. Once the puck slides past Minnesota Wild goalie Niklas Bäckström, the crowd leaps to their feet and the goal sirens light up. The sounds of cheers are muffled by the goal horns and “Hey, Hey, Hockeytown” that plays over the speakers. Electric energy flows through the aisles and fills the hallways. The sounds of the goal horns can be heard rippling across the Detroit river. Every sports bar and restaurant bursts with excitement for the home team.

During the intermissions, the players go back to the locker rooms, and the zamboni resurfaces the ice. Most of the crowd will rest their voices and restock on refreshments. In hopes for luck, I purchased a Darren Helm t-shirt during the first intermission and immediately changed in the restroom. As the stands begins to refill, so does its energy, and the Joe is ready for another 20 minutes of hockey.

Midway into the 2nd period, then-assistant captain Henrik Zetterberg makes a pass across the ice to Darren Helm. With a quick slap shot, the puck passes Bäckström for a second time, putting the Wings in the lead. The stands exploded with applause, and I quickly lost my voice from sheer thrill.

That night, the Red Wings defeated the Wild, with Darren Helm having the winning goal. As we walked back to our car, strangers joined in on our elated banter. Masses of people walked to parking garages together as if we were friends, and maybe we were all friends. Some sang ‘The Hockey Song,” sung by Canadian folk singer Stompin’ Tom Connors, and others compared their favorite players. The young hockey players compared their own hockey teams and proudly boasted of the player they model their own playing style after. Joined together under one common cause, we were all just hockey fans.

After this year, the Joe will no longer host hockey games such as this. The much sought after Stanley Cup will never be lifted under its rafters again. Even once the doors close and the winged wheel is moved to another arena, the Red Wings history will still bring together the fighting city of Detroit. The sounds of goal horns will still echo across the Detroit River, and the banners will continue to accumulate in the new Little Caesars Arena, sitting in the midst of downtown Detroit, Michigan.

#hockey #detroit #redwings #stanleycup #arena #goals #helm #canada #detroitriver #michigan

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samanthatrim-blog · 8 years ago

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He Always Knew

Screams echo through the concrete halls, startling all that were once sleeping. Nothing can be seen but blackness, broken with faint shadows that so bravely came in to visit. A woman roams the halls, checking in on its occupants. Many of the girls call her The Walker, since she lurks around the dimmed pathways. We are called The Screamers, but it’s obvious right now as to why. I cautiously walk to my door, unable to leave due to the locked doors that hold me inside. This place reeks of oppression. Upon looking down the hall, I see the farthest girl being dragged from her place. Everyone who surrounds me seems to be absolutely insane. We all sit in cages, never being allowed to see the light of day. We are observed and recorded, as if we’re exotic animals on display. All of The Keepers surrounding us wear strictly white or blue. They tell us that they’re here to help us, but I know better.

No one will tell me why I am here.

I am not one of them.

I am not a Screamer.

The Keepers know why I was sent here, but none will tell me why.

Every day, a man named Devin comes to my cage and speaks to me about how I am doing. Of all The Keepers, we were the only two on a first name basis. He tries to cover his true intentions, but I know better. He believes that I’m one of them. All of the girls around me scream in terror over things they cannot see. We are kept in darkness to avoid the screamers having breakdowns, but I long to live in the light. Devin tells me that my twelfth year of living is coming up, but what does that mean to me, another mark on the wall? So far, I am in year seven of being in this...whatever it is. They all tell me that I was sent to a special place for healing. Something is being hidden from me, but my mind -- and body -- remain in the dark. I still listen to Devin, although his overly sympathetic questions bore me to death. I’ve always wondered where he goes when he and the other Keepers leave us. The Walker stays all night to watch over us, but everyone else always leaves. A world outside of this hell seems impossible now that I’ve been here so long.

I try to tell them to let me leave.

I try to make them understand.

I am not a Screamer.

I am not one of them.

The Keepers walk into my cage with a rolling box. They all tell me that nothing is wrong, but I know better. As one of the Keepers tells me to lie down, another reaches for a sharp pointed object that lays on top of the cart. I scream in absolute terror. They try to reassure me that this is to help me stay healthy. My time has come to be tested and experimented on like all of these psychopaths that surround me. One Keeper calls for Devin, knowing that I trust him and only him in this asylum. While all of the other Keepers have chosen to stay away from me, Devin has come to visit me every single day since my eighth year. They tell me that he was assigned to me. No one believes me, except for Devin. He tries to help me understand myself, and not my situation. Therefore, I trust him and only him. Devin calmly walks into the room, and tells me to think of my happy place. We do this exercise frequently when my frustration builds up. I try to explain to him that they have the wrong person. Only the Screamers deserve this treatment. He tells me to relax, but I plead for his rescue. One of the Keepers jabs the weapons into my arm, and I panic. The strong one holds me down to keep from escaping, but I continue to scream for Devin. Oddly, I lose consciousness a few seconds after.

I am woken by a sound that I cannot recognize. It chirps quite consistently, but the source of it must be hidden. A piercing light shines into my eyes and hinders my sight. I adjust and examine my surroundings. Small chairs sit across from each other at an equally small table. The bed I lay on is clothed in white linens. Of all the odd things in this room, the most exotic thing I find is a picture. It sits on the wall, covered in glass. Large waves of green and small purple specks cover the ground, while large brown pillars come from the ground. Many of these seem to reflect a memory, but I cannot think of why. My eyes became fixated on the rolling fields of green, and a pressure arose within my chest. I had this feeling frequently. I was told that it is anxiety, but nothing seemed to be present to spark fear. Suddenly, a small creature bursts through the air, landing on one of the pillars outside. Frequent dreams of mine have contained portals similar to this, but the moving picture seems too real to be true. Devin calmly walks into the room, breaking my train of thought. While I trust him, these bizarre events have me on edge. He tells me that this picture is a window, showing me the outside world. Apparently I had a psychotic breakdown and was put in this room to be helped in a different way. No bars holding me in, and no darkness to consume me.

Devin listened to me.

The Keepers finally believe me.

I am not a Screamer.

I am not made for the darkness.

Devin and I sit at the two adjacent chairs and eat a well needed breakfast. He explains to me all that I see outside this window. He seems to know that I have lost some sort of memory, a key piece to this puzzle. His big words and sly attitude may fool some, but I know better. I become lost in the illuminated world outside. As the leaves blow in the wind, I begin to think back to before I came to this dungeon. My thoughts come full circle back to Devin, who is also gazing out of the large window. One question continues to lurk through my mind: how and why does he know so much about me? All of The Keepers seem to be intelligent -- minus their ability to listen to me -- but he is smarter than them all, especially when it comes to communicating how I feel. I decide to ask him why this is, and he gave me a haunting answer: “I know a lot more about you than you’ll ever know.” After answering me, he stood and left without another word. I sat in pure shock.

Devin knows about my past.

I can finally get answers.

I am not a Screamer.

And Devin knows.

I stayed awake all night pondering this new found source. The shimmer of the moon and stars sent a calming glow through my whole room. Sitting at the window, flashbacks began to flood my mind. This room and I had once been acquainted before, but the memory stays very vague -- a star-filled night, followed by a memory and psychotic breakdown, which lead to my exile of eternal darkness. All faces are blurred but one: Devin’s. My mind raced at the speed of light, challenging my entire view of The Keepers, Devin, and myself. If I had been in this room before and was taken to a secluded room, why was I brought back? While thousands of theories came to mind at once, I couldn’t stop thinking about the stars and how I’d seen them before. We’ve all seen stars, but this time felt different. The exact heaviness of mind that once engulfed my mind and body was present before in this exact situation, and I knew damn well that this was no coincidence. They tried to tell me the next morning that the stress made me anxious. They tried to tell me that Devin knew so much about me from being my social worker for four years, but I know better.

I had been there before.

I wasn’t crazy.

I wasn’t a Screamer.

I wasn’t just seeing things.

I woke up the next night feeling as if I needed to run to the ends of the earth. Immense terror overtook my whole body for an unknown reason. My chest tightened into knots while my knees gave under the pressure of trauma. Screams bellowed from my lungs as I feared what was to come, although nothing was there. Suddenly it appeared…

A memory.

I woke to the burning sensation of smoke filling my lungs. The walls of my small pink room had been painted with flames. Screams were coming from the stairs as I pushed my way towards the door. The horror within my home could not be compared to the gruesome scene that was witness just after running from the immense heat. My mother wailing -- in the hands of a man that she was just recently seeing -- for forgiveness and mercy while he strangled her with his bare hands. I yelled at the top of my lungs for him to let her go, but all that could be heard was gunshot. My mother got a bullet to the head, while mine was a shot to the heart. Turning, he kicked and beat my body into the ground I laid on. Awareness took its time while deciding whether to stay with me or to leave me behind. As I begged it to depart from me and take the pain with it, my gaze fell to the grass next to my eyes and the stars in the distance. My consciousness finally had mercy and left me alone. Just as it was saying goodbye, arms appeared as I was lifted off the cold and cruel dirt.

This was my answer.

Devin hurriedly came into my room and arms lifted my body from the cold and cruel floor. He placed my body on the bed that I had just recently fled from. Emotions poured from my eyes and heart as my mouth recited to him the memory that I had received. The stars, the grass, and the light that was so harshly taken away from me finally had a meaning. Shockingly, he sat with no emotion. An arm came around my shoulders and comforted much more than expected. Never in my four years with Devin did I worry of him leaving me, but now he knew all there was to know. The fear of myself even began to overtake me as I sat with my eyes in the pure white sheets. My thoughts began to flow from my mouth as a stream of emotion. Calmly, arms appeared and lifted my body from the cold and cruel bed. A small tattoo peeked from beneath his blue sleeves, bearing my name.

I knew these arms.

I knew these as rescue.

I am not a Screamer.

And Devin knew.

He had always known.

#dark #light #life

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samanthatrim-blog · 8 years ago

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My Dream Girl

I’m not quite my dream girl, but I’ve never been happier.

When you’re a young girl, there are a thousand different ways to be insecure about your body. Whether it’s your boob size, pant size, the clarity of your skin, your hair type, or just simply not feeling pretty enough, we have all found ways to lose confidence in our own skin. In the moment that we begin to care about our appearance, we start the consistent comparison of ourself to others. The fantasy of, “If I only looked like her,” or, “If only I had her [blank] then I would feel good about myself.” While we know it’s wrong (we tell all of our friends that they are beautiful just as they are), there is this feeling that we can never accept ourselves for the beautiful human beings that we are born to be. I’ve been there, in fact I’m still there in some ways, but my perspective of my body has changed drastically throughout high school.

Upon first entering the building on the first day of highschool, a hurricane of panicking emotions takes over your every judgement, terrified that someone may think less of you for being a petrified little freshman. In reality, every upperclassman in the building is far more concerned with finding a pencil and staying awake - in no way do they care how you styled your hair on the first day. But, as freshmen, the biggest intimidation of your entire life lies in a hall full of half-asleep teenagers with their hair in messy buns, legitimately wondering if their clothes even match: the Seniors. Practically everything that a senior girl does could be worshipped, and every freshie wants to follow in her footsteps. No matter how tangled her hair is or how wrinkled her clothes may be, there will always be something overly desirable about her persona, making one think that this could be the missing piece in their puzzle of self confidence.

Painfully, I was the stereotypical, overly-anxious, try-hard freshmen that obsessed over which outfit to wear the following day. To me, it was never good enough. I had a long list of excuses for my mom when we would clothes shop, ranging from, “These pants don’t fit well,” to, “This shirt just isn’t comfortable.” To be fair, the shirt wouldn’t be comfortable, but that was not the shirt’s fault, as much as I wanted to blame it. Truth be told, the shirt would not be comfortable because I was not comfortable with the body in the shirt. My whole life, I had always thought that, if I just lost a few more pounds, I would be happy with my body. If I could just come down to a size 2, there would never be a reason in the world for me to be insecure with my body. If I could be a size 2 and a D cup, I would finally feel this surge of confidence that so many of the senior girls seemed to have, wearing whatever they wanted without a care in the world and looking flawless. In my freshman and sophomore years, I was infatuated with this idea of being the most perfect senior: size 2, D cup, with perfect beach waves. The thought of being exactly who I wanted to be dictated my wardrobe, my friends, and unfortunately, my diet. All I began to want was to be this person, not fully appreciating the individual that I already was. My only hope was junior year, so I wished with all of my heart to finally be transformed into my dream girl.

If I would have known that my wish would come true, I wouldn’t have ever wished it.

During the beginning of my junior year, I began to have issues with chronic fatigue and migraines. By Thanksgiving, that fatigue had taken over most of the use of my legs. By Christmas, it had taken over my ability to leave my house. Immersed with sickness, my diet began to consist of the average bowl of rice...every two to three days. Nausea had caused anything alien in my body to be immediately extracted, taking away any sort of nutrients I would be receiving from the occasional meal. Nutritional IVs became my savior, as I barely ate anything for two whole months. Never leaving my home (or my pajamas), my world was narrowed from Southwest Michigan to the first floor of my small lake cottage. Three months and hundreds of dollars worth of treatments later, I was thirty pounds lighter than when the school year had started.

Once I could venture out into the world again, I found that all of my clothes were noticeably large on me. In an attempt to have something to wear for my senior pictures, I went shopping for new jeans. In complete shock, I dropped the clothes to the floor. Thirty pounds lighter had brought me down quite a bit: I was a size 2.

When the average individual tells a female that they’re looking very thin, they usually mean it in the kindest way possible. Most women strive to look thin, thinking that it is the true key to acceptance of their bodies. I thought I wanted to be thin, until I saw what thin looked like. Thin is not a thigh gap and curvy hips; thin is having all of your pants constantly sliding off because you no longer have that big butt to hold them up. Thin is not a tiny waist and large boobs; thin is not truly knowing that you have ribs below and above your boobs until you can see them when you wear a bikini. Once I took off those size 2 jeans, I was mortified by the corpse-like figure staring back at me in the mirror. For me, thin meant weak. For me, thin meant sick. Disgusted with myself, I began wearing oversized clothing - half out of necessity due to my closet not catching up to the weight loss, half out of shame for the scrawny image I had become.

On my first day of senior year, I walked into the high school sporting an oversized flannel and my size 2 jeans. Sitting at the senior lunch table, a few of us girls were reminiscing on being little freshies on our first day of highschool. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a group of freshman girls gazing our way. I used to be that freshman gawking over the Seniors. I used to slouch in those uneven round seats, yearning for my chance to be seen as distinguished - revered, even. Strains and tribulations of life had forced me to grow - and in some ways, shrink. In the eyes of a starstruck freshman, nervously hysterical on her first day of school, I saw that I had become my dream girl. Wearing size 2 pants, having my hair a wavy mess, and miraculously still sporting a D cup, I had become the person that Freshman Sam had wished for me to be. I had become everything I’d dreamed of being as that 14-year-old girl, and I still hated my body just as much as I did three years prior. All I could do is wonder what possessed me to be so engrossed with the idea of an unrealistic body, let alone believe that it would bring me the joy that I had been searching for.

Audrey Hepburn once stated, “Happy girls are the prettiest,” and she was right. Through all of my fantasizing about the perfect human being that I needed to me, I never thought to stop and wonder why I was enamored with the idea of being like these girls that I had been idolizing for so long. At the end of it all, I didn’t just want their clear skin and toned body: I wanted their confidence, their carelessness, and (most importantly) I wanted to be as comfortable in my own skin as they were. It wasn’t their uncanny ability to look stunning in sweatpants and an oversized sweater that made me want to be like them, it was the way they didn’t care whether I approved of their doing so or not. I wanted to be delicately bold and gently fearless, facing the world straight on. In my own downfall, I recognized this all too late, after wishing away the already beautiful figure that I was to begin with.

Today, I cannot tell you that I am perfectly content with the skin I am in. I can’t truthfully tell you that there aren’t days that I feel insecure, or that rude comments don’t sincerely hurt my feelings. But, I am working on my view of my own body - not in comparison to anyone else. I know now that I will never be truly pleased with who I am as an individual if I continue to compare myself to the physical appearance of others. I am the senior that I always wished to be: a size 2, D cup, with messy beach waves. Thirty pounds less, I have transformed into a completely different person than I was first walking into the doors of that high school.

#confidence #dreamgirl #love #selflove #narrative #happiness

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