Nothing.

Nothingness. It’s hard to grasp that concept. What exactly is nothingness? If you’re thinking of nothing, aren’t you thinking of something (nothing)? Whatever.


Professor Richards has assigned us to go home and do nothing for 15 minutes, then write about it. In my attempt to do so and experience this idea of nothingness, I began to realize just how much I was in need of a chance to stop, breathe and reflect on my week. And a hell of a week it had been.
After looking back on it all, I realized that I had just wasted 5 of my 15 minutes recollecting my thoughts. I reminded myself that the task was to think of nothing, not of everything, and so I started my 15 minutes all over again.

I continued to lie on my comfy queen-sized bed with my dog Max and his slobbery chew toy, intending to take only 15 minutes trying really, really hard to commit to this activity. You’d think that an assignment that requires a student to do nothing would probably be the easiest in his or her college career. Wrong. Definitely wrong. I took a deep breath.
Which reminded me of my first year of college, when I took a psychology class with a nutty professor that surely had a great time in the 60s, if you know what I mean. Every morning, he’d bring out his meditation bells from his backpack and as soon as he’d ring them, we were to close our eyes for five minutes and focus on breathing. I never really got it at first. I’d just close my eyes and occasionally peek to see if everyone else was doing it. One time I accidentally wandered off into a dream and woke up when my classmate moved his chair. Embarrassing. By the end of the semester, I had it down-packed. I began practicing the art of mediation at home, usually before going to sleep. Still do it today.

Anyway, I rested motionlessy, staring at my old-school popcorn ceiling that needed a good dusting ASAP. But what occurred in my mind was far from “nothing” and I felt uneasy doing, well, nothing about it.

The easel to the right of my bed was just sitting there, staring at me, perhaps even screaming at me. I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in weeks. I had forgotten what the scent of acrylic paint smelled like. And as I stared back, I mentally told myself that I’d not only write the thoughts my mind produced during this assignment, but I’d paint them as well.

I stood, searched my cabinets for paint and brushes, and began mixing colors to make new ones that reflected my mood. I set my iPod to play songs from my "as a kite" playlist (it's the one I put on when I feel artsy.) This was my therapy.

I felt mentally exhausted and overwhelmed. On top of everything, I had kept all my emotions hidden, like I often do as a result of my uncontrollable stubbornness and pride. This was why I had picked up the hobby of painting in the first place. I needed a way to express my feelings without saying them to the world. Today was one of those days. Really, all I wanted to do was let it all out – my frustrations, my anger, my worries, my sadness, and my hope for a better week that starts tomorrow.

I had no plan of what to paint, and most times I don’t. I just play with colors and once I make my first stroke on canvas, I just continue until something comes about. And I never sketch, either, ’cause like it say’s on my wall, ”Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius” – Marilyn Monroe.

My “15 minutes of nothingness” became 45 minutes of pondering, analyzing, and putting it all onto a canvas. And this was what it all came to:

Billy Bowers

In September 2009, I enrolled in a class called Multi-Ethnic Reporting. For the time of the class, our only assignment was to pick a "listening post," a place completely out of our element that we'd go to once every two weeks, and report about. Here is what I wrote about my unforgettable experience:

Let me begin by explaining that I have no sense of direction.
I've lived in Miami for almost my entire life, and I've yet to learn how to get to the beach without MapQuest. I much less know how to get to Overtown without precise directions. I had been in the area once, but only because I got lost one Saturday night as I left a bar.
I was driving home alone once during the wee hours of the morning and found myself surrounded by black men in bikes who stared at me, a 5'1 petite Hispanic girl who drives a car with a big pink peace sign hanging from the rear view mirror.
I'd heard about the things that happened in neighborhoods like this.Though I had no clue where I was driving to, I fastened my seat belt, pressed the "lock" button on my door at least 15 times, and sped through the neighborhood.
So, when we were assigned by Prof. Reisner to go to a place completely out of our comfort zone for our listening post project, the first place that came to mind was Overtown, the poor, urban community I was terrified of. I chose to visit the Culmer Overtown Library. Libraries aren't known to be dangerous places, so it would be a good start.

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Journal Entry 1

Friday afternoon, after leaving work, I drive north heading toward Overtown, MapQuest directions in hand. As I steer, I look at myself in the mirror, wondering if I should remove some makeup or if the bright shirt that I'm wearing makes me stand out more than I want to. I reach for the pink peace sign hanging from my rear view mirror and take it down. I remove my earrings and rings. No one would want to mug me if I had nothing to take, right? I continue to drive.
Inevitably, I get lost. I land somewhere in a bad area of downtown, I think. Around me, a lot of homeless people are walking around. They are not just black, but of all ethnicities, and they look nothing like me. In their oversized clothes, they look ... dangerous.
I count the seconds through a red light. Through my mirror, I see a homeless man approaching my car to beg for money. I lock my doors, put up my window, blast the radio, and pretend I never saw him. Why should I give him money? He'll probably use it for drugs anyway, I think. Besides, there are plenty of fast food restaurants that offer jobs; plenty of stores or gas stations that hire people like that. So I let this homeless man walk by, just like I do all of them. I feel no sorrow.
Before the light turns green, I am already thinking about my actions. I think about the generalization that I've just made. This is the first time I've thought about this. Prof. Reisner once said that he gave money to homeless people whenever he had a chance. I remember thinking how stupid he was for doing so. Regardless, this is my opportunity to go far beyond my comfort zone.
I make a right into a small, deserted road and honk. I open my window ever so slightly just to fit my small hand through to wave at the homeless man. He runs toward my car and comes to my door. My heartbeat begins to accelerate.
"Are you hungy? Is there anything I can get you for lunch?" I ask nervously, not knowing what answer to expect.

All he asks for is a meal from McDonald's: a double quarter pounder with cheese, no onions or pickles please (beggars can be choosers). He tells me that there is a McDonald's two blocks down the street, to my left. I ask him to meet me there, but he says that the managers don't allow him inside th store. I look around.
All I want is to have lunch with this man where there are plenty of people, in a busy area, where he couldn't, er, kill me. So I tell him to meet me in the parking lot of McDonald's, in front of an intersection where anyone in their cars would be able to see the possible murder of Zaimarie De Guzman.
I order his meal and an ice cream for myself. As I sit on the sidewalk and wait, I wonder if I should have 911 already dialed on my phone. I think about any possible weapons I have in my car, like an umbrella or something sharp, maybe a wrench my dad might have left in my trunk.There are people walking by. Some stare, others mind their own business. I take a deep breath so to calm my nerves and hope all goes well.
When the man comes up to me, the first thing I notice is the smell. He is wearing a polo shirt that was once red but has faded into a dark pink. His jeans are torn and dirty. He has long, white hair that matched his beard. He smiles at me with teeth that seem to be deteriorating.
"God bless you," is the first thing he says.
I explain to him that I am a journalism student and I want to write about someone different and interesting.
"Do you have a tape recorder?" He asks me with a smile. "You're going to need one because I have a hell of a story to tell you."
His name is Billy Bowers, or so he says. I'm not sure if I should believe him. I wonder if he has any mental disorders. I figure that if someone has been living on the street for a long time (and Billy looks like he's lived this lifestyle for quite a while) it must take a toll on ones mind.
He tells me that he is 55 years old, born on July 6 ,1954. He has been married and divorced three times.
"Do you have any kids?" I ask

"Three that I know of. If I don't know 'em, they're not mine," he jokes.

We laugh together. His laugh is a sincere one. Mine is a nervous one.

"How long have you been homeless for?" I ask and instantly realize that I've called him homeless. I wonder if he'll take offense to it. He is homeless, but is there another way to put it? At least I didn't call him a bum.

"I've been homeless here in Miami for 15 years, but homeless for about 18," he says.
He explains that he used to live in Leominster, Massachusetts until he fled when he was charged with extortion.
"I think I've been arrested about 100 times," he said. "I'm no angel. I'll admit I've done a lot of bad stuff, but when they charged me with extortion they were wrong and I wasn't gonna go to jail for something I didn't do," he said and paused for a while.
He tells me he once owned a business, and though I try to interrupt him to ask him what kind of business, he speaks over me and continues with his story.

He suddenly changes the subject.
"Do you believe in God?" he asks me. I hesitate, and then tell him that yes, I do.
He asks me what religion I follow. In a second, a million thoughts come to mind. I wonder if I might offend his faith. I hope that he believes in God just enough to like me no matter what religion I say I follow.

"I was born into a Catholic family," I tell him, choosing my words carefully.
He then tells me that God has made him go through many unfortunate times, but he's lucky to be alive today.
"I wrote a short biography once, you know. I never finished it, though."
And then, with that, he asks me to visit him again on Monday or Tuesday, same spot. He says that I should bring a tape recorder next time instead of recording him with my phone. He tells me he wants to start his story from the beginning.
"Do you promise you'll be here?" I ask him.
He laughs. "I got no other place to be at. I'm always here."
I shake his hand and tell him it was a pleasure to meet him. I tell him I will buy him lunch again on Wednesday.
"Nice to meet you Billy," I say
"Nice to meet you, Zai," he replies.