The middle school years are when, I find, kids start to become independent. They go out on their own, strive to better themselves, and have an impact with their words and actions. When I was thirteen, I might have had too much of these middle school ambitions. Those days were not easy. My father and I had recently moved to a new country and were struggling. Some of our issues with each other and others more personal. Our two person family moved into a house on a sloping hill. Beside us stood a large tropical forest. Nearby -maybe a miles walk- a large old house was had been torn apart. Many of it's materials reused for construction elsewhere. Scrap metal, wood, and nails littered the site. Seeing this kindled my quest for independence;
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I didn't speak the language and had difficulty finding a group with whom I felt settled. Because of this, I felt and acted nothing like myself. I needed to be in a place where I could be and, more importantly, enjoy myself. Everyday when class let out, I walked home, emptied my bag and filled it with a water bottle, a notebook of what my building plans of the day were, a hammer, and a saw. My father never asked where I was going or what I was doing. To be fair, I didn't see much of him those days. Upon having an after school snack, I'd venture to the house (though it was more of a deconstruction site, the house was a skeleton) and gather the materials I required and run away before anyone saw me. From there I would set off on the skinny trail, find my site, and get to work. The roof was scrap metal and banana leaves. It caved in five times before finally I got it to stay in place. The walls were also scrap metal, nailed into place with little skill. Inside, slanted shelves lined the walls. There was a floor made of scrap metal covered in canvas in turn covered in wood. The hut had space for whatever I might bring, a sleeping bag, and a ceiling tall enough just for one small thirteen-year-old. For a door there was a simple canvas sheet. This was my place, it was by no means attractive structurally, but it was mine. I made it; that's what
I didn't speak the language and had difficulty finding a group with whom I felt settled. Because of this, I felt and acted nothing like myself. I needed to be in a place where I could be and, more importantly, enjoy myself. Everyday when class let out, I walked home, emptied my bag and filled it with a water bottle, a notebook of what my building plans of the day were, a hammer, and a saw. My father never asked where I was going or what I was doing. To be fair, I didn't see much of him those days. Upon having an after school snack, I'd venture to the house (though it was more of a deconstruction site, the house was a skeleton) and gather the materials I required and run away before anyone saw me. From there I would set off on the skinny trail, find my site, and get to work. The roof was scrap metal and banana leaves. It caved in five times before finally I got it to stay in place. The walls were also scrap metal, nailed into place with little skill. Inside, slanted shelves lined the walls. There was a floor made of scrap metal covered in canvas in turn covered in wood. The hut had space for whatever I might bring, a sleeping bag, and a ceiling tall enough just for one small thirteen-year-old. For a door there was a simple canvas sheet. This was my place, it was by no means attractive structurally, but it was mine. I made it; that's what