Prologue
I suppose that before I tell my story, there should be some explanation. One of the largest concerns in writing a life, an ideology is the fear of plagiarism. The statement above is probably plagiarism in itself, taken from some book or quote in which the contents are familiar but the label is worn. There is the constant problem with finding something unique and its very difficult because the human mind functions in very similar patterns to each other. The idea of society is based on the idea of a uniform set of moral values. These morals are driven in quite early and the reasons why are very simply answered through the consequences of a higher being or the consequences of authority made from flesh and blood.
Most of the ideas on thought or human behavior has already been touched upon by some famous philosopher hundreds of years ago and often when we come upon it through our later studies there is the familiar feeling of: darn, I guess I really wasn't as revolutionary or crazy as I first thought. The feeling is somewhat comforting since there is a desire most of the time to fit into the social mold. There also however, is a feeling of disappointment in the discovery that you are not as much an individual as you would like to think. Perhaps the only unique story today is our own.
But what makes one's life extraordinary? Do you have to be famous? Perhaps you have to be rich? Do you have to live in an impoverished area? Do you have to be part of an oppressed minority? Is it possible for the average Joe to become not so average? Is it possible for Joe to write an autobiography? Perhaps the more important question is: would anyone read it? The truth is that we all like to believe we lead somewhat special lives. We all go to school or work or vacation. The truth is that the lives of average are average. The conversations on politics, gossip, movies, games, etc. are universal. It is the little details that count. It's the little things and the presentation.
The reason for writing my own autobiography is quite simple. This is self-examination. The only real way to sort out something as complicated as life is to perhaps record it. This house cleaning of myself has been long overdue, as previous attempts have often ended in exasperation. So what motivates me now? Well there is a ten page paper due at the end of the year; might as well write about something I think I know very well.
So how do you start an autobiography? I suppose that it has already started with the prologue portion of why. Perhaps it is best to start chronologically. Unfortunately memories are unstable and some are fuzzy... literally. So perhaps it is best if I told my story through flash back. I apologize in advance for any errors or prejudices created. "What is truth but the product of our imagination" - Einstein; I remember that quote.
Heart
Most of us look through photo albums of childhood at some point about ten years after the childhood period. There is a general acceptance of life and existence at this point and it is pure curiosity in which we look upon ourselves before we became older. The funny thing is I can never seem to recall those precious moments taken. I don't recall the small tricycle with the large and out-of-proportion red wheel. I don't recall owning a hat with a red fuzz ball at the end either. I do remember dreaming of wearing an orange life vest that was far too large for me; riding in a ship of some kind with a yellow tent material covering a metal skeleton. I remember that in that dream I saw my grandmother and my parents. I remember feeling seasick and running out of the orange canopy and into the salty sea breeze. Apparently it never happened. We couldn't yet afford to take vacations when I was six, the age I am convinced I was in that dream.
I also have a more fuzzy memory that "actually" happened. I simply remember a playground with tires stacked in the many pyramids, a very tall balance beam, and bright red monkey bars. I also remember a girl with blond curly hair and bright blue eyes. Apparently, she was my first "girl friend" to the other children though I don't think any of us at that time understood all the implications of love. Even today love is a mystery to me. I liked to tell tales of me being slightly older and the big brother of this girl. When I looked back I often attributed to my "tactics" of protection to Batman, though I probably wasn't thinking about heroes or role models back then either. Perhaps becoming friends with someone who seemed lonely and a slight outcast like myself was only human and natural. I never did find what happened to her because I can't for the life of me remember her name.
