The First Step

     Ever since the late 80s when I came into this world, I had lived a moral life following the rules and behaviors shown to me by my parents. However, it was in the first grade when something had manifested inside me. I had no idea it would end up influencing many decisions in my life, thus shaping the person I turned out to be—a natural rebel. 

     Most of the time, I had followed the rules set by my parents because they’d made sense to me. Just before my curiosity would kill the cat, it had driven me to continuously ask, Why? My parents possessed all the compassion and patience in the world back then. They’d explain why we had each rule and why we, or only I, must follow it. But just because they explained it, didn’t mean I was going to abide by it. It was only after sitting down to think about it and seeing it from all sides when circle would get the square. If it made sense to me then I believed in it and followed it without anymore questions asked. 

      This wasn’t something I was conscious of doing at the time. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, right? But my parents should’ve known about it. They could’ve at least warned my first grade teacher about it. 

      When my family moved to the town I would grow up, I was just starting the first grade. Since I didn’t know anybody, I kept to myself for the most part. Like I still do today, I spent most of the time in my head. At that age, there was no such thing as social status, financial awareness, racism, or fashion trends. There was nothing to take over the place in my brain that help my immense imagination. I had discovered my creativity at an early age. 

     Drawing was my favorite. There wasn’t much of the day when I didn’t have a pencil, crayon, or marker in my hand. Much of it resulted from the anxiety I’d experienced from being a new kid in a new town. The insidious waves of anxiety would wash over me and cause my hands to twitch or shake. Always having something in my hand would calm everything down. 

     On top of that, school was never challenging enough for me, either. During class, I’d pass the time drawing. And my favorite thing to draw on: my desk. 

      I never used pen or marker on the brown tabletop of the desk I’d sat in everyday. Only pencil. So, it’s not as if pencil was hard to clean up. But my first grade teacher had had enough of it. 

     “For the last time, J, no more writing on your desk! And that goes for everybody.”

     She’d set the new rule. Not just for me, but for the entire class. Now, nobody could draw on their desk. Why did she do this to me? I raised my hand. 

     My teacher must’ve seen something fly up in her peripheral vision. She saw my hand standing tall and motionless, then shifted her brown-eyed gaze down to mine. She should’ve known what was coming by my piercing eyes that were also brown, but much more darker. 

     “Yes?” She paused, then had the audacity to ask, “Am I getting my apology?”

     The balls on this bitch. Had it been post-Columbine, or better, post-Sandy Hook Elementary, she would’ve been choking on those words. 

     Without blinking, I come out with the first time—that I remember—I rebel by questioning authority: “No, I wanna know why?”

      “Why what, dear?” she asked, while passing out papers. 

      Had she already forgotten the nonsensical rule she’d bound me with? Or, was she doing this to get arise out of me and send me home with a referral?

      “Why can’t I draw on my desk?”

      She stopped in place and turned around to face me. Her bulging eyes looked like they were trying to escape. “Excuse me… ?”

      This is likely where my future pet peeve of repeating myself had stemmed from. With more emphasis, I asked again, “Why can’t I draw on my desk?”

       “Because I said so. I am you teacher and—”

       I cut her off. “That’s not a reason. Just tell me why?”

       Now, I was in for it… 

       This went on and on, until ultimately my parents were called. They explained to my teacher about my need for there to be a legitimate reason behind each rule, otherwise I will not obey it. And I never have… 

     Authoritative figures convey a sense of superiority that we all assume is based on knowledge and experience and access in information we don’t have, and therefore, we must learn from them. However, being blindly obedient and complying with an authority figure solely because they have, appear to have, or think they have authority makes zero sense if we ignore the morality and face value of what we are being instructed to follow. 

     Don’t believe me? 

     Think about Nazi Germany. They were just obeying orders, right? Shit, they even thought what they were doing was for the greater good of humanity. There’s the duality—good and evil—that we’re stuck with in our “physicaldimension, but that’s for another blog.

      I’m not saying we should stop respecting and listening to authority figures. But if you are in a position where an authority figure asks you to do something that you feel is wrong or doesn’t appear to make sense, Speak Up! Ask Questions. Stand Up for Yourself! 

      In this day and age, we are moving into a new dimension, a new frequency, where it is going to be the new Earth, and it’s going to be extremely beautiful. Everything will be total love. However, we are not going to get there, unless we start questioning what we are being told. Don’t ever listen to the media. And question what you’ve been told by parents, teachers, law officers, corporations, governments, and all institutions.