Mark Beale
English 105

    “I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me. But it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once... and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst.” Lester Burnham, played by Kevin Spacey, spoke these words at the end of American Beauty shortly after getting shot in the head. Lester Burnham is right. Most of the time we humans walk around this world without noticing the amazing beauty and wonder that greets us every day of our lives. We are blind to this world and the beauty it holds. We need help to see the beauty of the world and the beauty that is humanity. The monotonous days of our lives have shaped us more than any tragedy, joy, or catastrophe.
    I woke up at the usual time of 6:30 am. I rapidly dressed myself to conform to the dress code of a colored shirt, black today, and my cargo pants, khaki colored. I threw on my skater shoes that are perpetually untied and loose enough for easy slip on and off. All of this is done in a half comatose state as my own mix of Mozart, The Beatles, Hootie and the Blowfish, and DJ Irene plays on my stereo. I leave my room before the next song begins, which is Alice Deejay’s “Better Off Alone.” I head to the bathroom and turn the facet to hot. The heat stings like little needles as I touch it with my fingers. My hands are filled with the steaming liquid. I dash it in my face to wake myself up and for a quick wash. I fill my fevered hands with more and saturate my hair. I grab a brush and in two swipes shape my hair to the usual way. I grab my toothbrush. Paste is swiped on and I rapidly scrub my teeth. The strong mint taste fills my mouth. I spit the excess paste and rinse. The brush is replaced in it’s tray and the toothpaste is capped and thrown in the drawer. The bathroom becomes dim as I head straight for my room, pick up my bag, run down the stairs, grab my lunch, and say goodbye to my mother.  I fumble with my lunch, the car keys, and my backpack as I open the door of my eight seated, dodge, white van. The backpack finds a resting place in the valley between the driver and passenger seat. The lunch is placed in it’s usual spot so as not to fall or slide all over the enormous van when a turn is made or an immediate halt is required.
    After thirty minutes of driving, with a quick stop to pick up a friend, I arrive at the old, Spanish missionary styled school. Sleep is slowly regaining me. I run up the saliva covered stairs that is infamous at this all male school. I buy a small cup of Pepsi. I  have a love for the partially watered down taste of a Pepsi that has been sitting in a cup for about ten minutes in the all ready inferno of Phoenix. It is a learned love. The Pepsi hit’s the spot and I head down to the meet up with the rest of the fantastic five plus one. I greet the four as Dan, one of the six, and I take a seat. The large waterfall makes the area a little cooler. The loud gurgle of the water allows us to speak with being interrupted.
    The bell rings. Students pour out of the subterranean library and head up the stairs to class. We check our watches and head off to class. The slow trudge to class is sweaty and stifling. I can’t help but feel like a cow being herded to one barn or another. Curse words and jokes that are too raunchy to tell Andrew Dice Clay flow like wind throughout the crowd. This is an all male school. This is our right. Arguments for socialism and communism and capitalism are nearly shouted as over intelligent students quarrel a way to a utopia they would rather argue about than work towards.
    Within five minutes the campus that was at a deafening din is now silent as a cemetery. A plethora of teachers that are eccentric, brilliant, boring, kind, childish, friends, and enemies teach us about life through history, English, Latin, photography, government, chemistry, and calculus. I am taught the history of Abraham Lincoln and the derivative of any function, but it is not uncommon to hear and learn about each teachers beliefs and the life they live. The good teachers open themselves and the world around me through the writings of Shakespeare, or the forefathers of America, or the scientists of the world. I discover Pascal’s triangle in Algebra and his philosophical sayings. Then I hear Pascal again shout from beyond the grave in Physics with his theories on water pressure and his theological writings.
    The day ends and I head home. Exhausted, but happy I hurl my bag from me like a rag infected with smallpox. I head to the TV room, and sit down to become a drone for a few hours. The night comes and I head out to my pool to read by candlelight. But something tugs at my heart. I put the book down and look up. The heavens open up as little marshmallows flutter by. My heart almost bursts as I see the wind pass over the pool. As beauty fills my heart, love fills my eyes and memory. The usual day of life I just lived was ignored. The beauty of waking up, of turning on a light, of arguing philosophy with a physics teacher, or love with a math teacher. The most beautiful thing that I see is not the clouds or the stars or new technology or any landscape or sunset. The most beautiful thing is humanity. Our ability to love and think and create and express boggles my mind. My own ability to see beauty is astonishing and breath taking. My eyes are thrown open and I see the beautiful gift I have been given, and I sit back in the dry, warm night I can feel nothing but gratitude for my small, insignificant life. How much more beautiful and amazing is He who created me?