Choices

Choices
I had not known my father very well. With his knowledge of my mother's impromptu pregnancy, he constructed an unbreakable distance from my mother and the newborn, me. Ever since I inhaled oxygen for the first time, he wasn't around. And possibly the most painful feeling imaginable is being kept a secret for portions of one's life, which is nearly unimaginable for most. To the surprise of most, his absence became status quo for me. I neither held robust contempt towards him nor was I filled with euphoria from the mere thought of him. However, the few times that I did speak to him, my father taught me vital lessons about morality and happiness; and even though I wouldn't consider him an expert on neither subjects, I would intently listen. This was just the choice I made.
Many of my friends were also fatherless. Now, I don't mean that their biological fathers weren't in the family portrait in front of the kitchen stove; I mean that they were not exposed to any kind of father figure: No one to teach them right from wrong and because of this, and only because of this, they felt apoplectic towards their biological father. This was just the choice they made.
Growing up in the ghettos of Boston couldn't have been more clichand we can, thus, dismiss all the exasperating details of my "rough" childhood. As a child, however, I was exposed, just as most colored children are, to different kinds of drug addicts and violent criminals making the worst choices: killing for small, insignificant altercations and constantly changing one's consciousness to have, what can only be characterized as, a good time. Many may infer that all this negative influence may have negatively influenced me, but, truth is, from observing this, I became educated on the wrong way to live. Although I still can't say what the true meaning of life is--as I'm sure most can't--I can dismiss law breaking as a possibility.
As I became older and older I began to notice my closest friends falling into lower and lower consciousness. They began to engage in reprehensible activities like drinking and smoking, some even began to hone their treachery skills. Time passed and the pandemic continued to spread, soon enough all my friends began to engage in these acts. However, who am I to say that these acts are morally wrong or take their freedom of choice, granted from the federal government, away from them? This was just the choice they made; but little did they know, their choice was greatly influenced by their exposure to this hopelessness, which we call home, the ghetto.
Conversely, my endangered friends wouldn't stray far from engaging is philosophical, religious discourse with me. They would perpetually recite the word of Christ, most commonly, but also, Mohammad, Buddha, and more, trying to sway me to become a devote follower of any of these doctrines, but I would just politely decline. My reluctance to budge would often lead to the most appalling scenes. Ironically, my most violent friends would be the most devoted to any given religious doctrine; this was just the choice they made.
My mother as an immigrant, now a legal citizen, was faced with true poverty. This poverty is unequivocally incomparable to my menial poverty. Her economic devastation didn't rely on the fact that she didn't have enough money to buy the new Air-Jordans this month; no, her poverty was real because she really didn't have enough money to eat on a daily basis; she found herself wearing the same clothes, which were torn to pieces and were stained and had a peculiar smell that arouse from a combination of perfume and sweat, accumulated throughout the past months, sometimes, years. Thus, my mother decided to emigrant from her home, Dominican Republic, and come to the prosperous, wealthy, populous, luminous country, the United States. This was just the choice she made, and, admittedly, I'm glad she made it.