This Is My FYE Project. There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine.

My name is Charlie Fesler and I am 3 years old. My family loves me and I love them. I love TV and hide-and-seek and hugs and kisses and Mommy and Daddy and socks and cats and pop-tarts and silly hats. All I know, and this I know alone, is that I am 3 years old, and that my name is Charlie Fesler and I love to love and hug and sleep and cry and scream and eat and whine. I took apart my keyboard to find where the sound was coming from, and when I was done, I grew up. My name is Charlie Fesler and I am 7 years old. I’ve learned to learn; I know a few sounds, a few words. My favorite color is purple like my belt in karate or my head when I fell. I can tell from people’s faces when they are feeling happy or sad or angry or mad or scared or unwell or hungry or something I can’t read, like that book with the letters that made words that made sentences that made me feel purple--that is, a mix of red and blue that’ll soon get better. Letter by letter, I learned a verse or two, and when I was done, I grew up. My name is Charlie Fesler and I am 11 years old. I can’t say I like the outdoors much, because I don’t. I lost my bracelet on a camping trip, and when I returned, I thought I had become a man. But man, had I planned such a way to go, I suppose I wouldn’t have said I would, because no, I won’t. And so, I didn’t go. I went home to wash the dirt off my hands--if I could--yes, I can. And so I scrubbed and I scrubbed, and when I was done, I grew up. My name is Charlie Fesler and I am 15 years old. My mother made pho for lunch and for dinner, but I’ve gotten sick of it lately. Driving’s still scary; I don’t know how my friends do it, but whatever they’ve got, I need. Whatever they’ve got, I need, I say. No… I pray. I’ve been thinking about the words that I use, and the thoughts I put into the words, for better or for worse. But first things first, what is wrong with me? Am I alone in this? Is anybody out there? Or in here? Should I fear the worst? The best? And the rest of you few, out in the field playing flutes and drums in the band and then some: who are you? Who are you to me? Are we on the same team? Why so nice, so calm, so mean? What do you mean? What do you mean? What do you mean? Who am I? Wait, I know this one: I am me. My name is Charlie Fesler and I am 18 years old. Go on and play your drums, your horns, your radio-friendly pop song melody, your dreams. I won’t be listening, but that’s not to say I don’t care--just blissfully unaware of the imposition, the dogma, the rules that guide a generation of outsiders--insiders?--to drive me away; but at least I can say I’ve got a license. That was a joke, you see. I’ve been getting better at these things. I love TV and movies and words and music and fashion and art, and the farther I move, the sooner I’ll lose what I once thought was me, but is now part of you and you’ll tell me I’m crazy, I’m lost, and I’m boring--My name is Charlie Fesler and this is my story.