The final student work from the Spring 2026 semester that I’d like to share is this collection of poetic vignettes by Graham, which he wrote for American Lit II after reading Sandra Cisneros’s House on Mango Street. The creative option for this assignment was to adapt Cisneros’s storytelling technique (telling a bigger story via a collection of very brief, vivid moments) to tell a new story—fiction or nonfiction—inspired by a particularly challenging or transformative period in one’s own life.
When I read Graham’s collection, I was totally blown away. I wasn’t sure if this was fictionalized or simply a display of honest and courageous openness. Turns out it was the latter—Graham told me that aside from changing the names of certain “characters,” what follows is true as he remembers it. It is a powerful account of how addiction can derail one’s life, but also how one can survive, create, and heal.
Creation and Addiction
I cannot shake free from the thought that the pursuit of creativity is the same as the pursuit of getting high. The pursuit of (Addiction or Creation) is like finding an antidote to a feeling of emptiness, nothingness, pain, personal inadequacy, as a stress reliever, as the thing that will finally curb the insatiable yearning for fulfillment. Does what I create possess anything of value? Do they provide any emotional or intellectual substance? Truths? Anything at all? Or is it all useless nonsense from a sick mind attempting to fill a void? A void that will never be filled because the one filling it is an addict. A thousand of them...at least...a thousand attempts at writing. A thousand attempts of escaping. And I know there’s more somewhere. There has to be something valuable in them. Something worth showing or expanding upon. One verse, or line, or phrase...or word. But no matter how elegant they seem, no matter how emotionally impactful the verses are, I, the addict, cannot look at them without feeling shame and guilt. Without feeling angry at myself for wasting so much life in a realm filled with delusions, and shadows of what could have been. Does it all come from the same realm? Is it all worthless? Hours. Days. Nights. Scratching. Bleeding. Shedding. Onto the pages. Pages sepulchered in the past. Pages in journals, journals in boxes, boxes on shelves, shelves of a garage. Pages never to be seen again. Does it even matter? When I return to the pen and the page to write, will it be different? I hope it is like that saying. You never step in the same river twice. Creation and addiction both consume me. The difference is that the pursuit of creation has not gotten me in jail or landed me in the hospital. Where addiction has done so and much more. Instead of filling the void, perhaps I should be sitting beside it, listening, and telling it everything will be ok. I do not think it is possible for the paths of creation and addiction to not intertwine, or merge, for the pain I have experienced exists within me; at times it lends itself to creation, other times it reminds me that I have suffered from the insidious hands of addiction.
Where is home?
Home is a suburb in Pennsylvania. Home is a little village where the majority of its inhabitants are wealthy. I am somewhere in the middle. I am the son of two artists; one a photographer, a dancer, and a singer, the other a film producer. In this little village the lawns are perfect—too perfect—artificially perfect. The houses are big and modern. There are always flags waving on the front porches of these houses. The flags let everyone know that the children of these houses are going to attend college—usually a really good one. People love to show off their achievements where I am from. It is ingrained in them like the harmful pesticides that are ingrained in their lush green lawns. When I would walk past these houses, the flags said, “My children are bright, hardworking, moral, and normal." I don’t have a flag in front of my house. I look at our lawn, the front and the back. It looks normal to me because it has always been like this. It is natural. There are weeds and there are random patches of taller grasses. There are some brown spots that indicate too much sun and not enough water. There are dandelions. There are acorns. There are rabbits. A lot of rabbits. There is a bird feeder. And underneath the bird feeder is a bunch of seeds. Squirrels eat these seeds. When I walk out into the backyard, I do so in my bare feet. I like to feel the cool mud and exposed earth. Birds fly away from me, but they always come back. The rabbits run a few yards away. The squirrels climb on top of the fence. I look over at the house next to mine. A green lawn. Perfectly cut, even in tone and color – a dark-lush green. No brown patches, no grasses that do not fit. (Even though the grass is not native and has been artificially planted.) No weeds. And nothing moves on the lawn. No animals. Nothing. It just sits there looking perfect – too perfect.
The Thing in the Basement
Broken and bruised in my parents' basement. I was nineteen years old. At this time in my life, especially where I am from, I am supposed to be away at college. I am supposed to be living, growing, and experiencing the new. But I am not. I am high. I am watching T.V. in the middle of a beautiful day. I know it’s beautiful because I am ashamed of myself. I know it’s beautiful out there because in here I feel so dark and dirty. I know it’s beautiful because I am so mad at myself; I just want to destroy everything that resembles it; the birds chirping, and the wind-chimes singing softly in the gentle wind. I know it’s beautiful because I know I am not. Beautiful makes me squirm inside. The only time I am able to feel it is when I am intoxicated. This is how I became the thing in the basement. I went to college. I felt the beauty. I was so scared. Then, I drank, smoked, took, and snorted. Then, I was ready for the beauty. I climbed over the railing, the railing on the second floor of my dormitory building. It was night, I felt the beauty all around. It was in the stars raining down like fresh rain, and I was a flower ready to accept it. Freedom, creativity, confidence, dopamine, dopamine. Then, I fell… …down… …down… …onto the pavement. I know beauty because it hurts me.
Bagel
My father drove me to rehab. I didn’t feel a whole lot of anything at first. I wasn’t thinking of much. I remember thinking that I should feel like this is a special moment in my life. I was part of a heroic story, and this was a significant moment of change. But this was my second time going to rehab. The mystical spark had been used up. I should be staring out at the world passing by, the world that I can’t seem to be able to live in properly, and I should be drawing parallels from my life to the outside world. As if I were writing a story. But whether or not I should eat the bagel that my mom packed for me was the only thing I was truly thinking about. My answer to that thought was, ‘But what about all the sesame seeds? What about all the fucking sesame seeds? How are you going to eat this bagel without getting seeds everywhere? How will you eat this bagel without it covering you in crumbs?’ The worry I had about eating a bagel, and there potentially being crumbs everywhere, is what stopped me from eating that bagel even though I was hungry. I did eventually eat the bagel. It’s kind of like going to rehab. I don’t want to go to rehab because it’ll bring about memories, shameful experiences, guilty thoughts, and deep psychological complexes. It’ll bring all this up, and I’ll be covered in it. And what if nothing happens? What if I just sit in it? Like sitting in a car seat covered in sesame seeds.
Vultures Eat the Dead. Don’t Worry.
Omens can be good or bad. I thought an omen could only be bad. Turns out they can be either. Like the Vulture. Omens possess a spiritual message within them, and that message is easily accessible. Kind of like a children’s story. When we see one, we know because it has usually been told to us. “When there’s a vulture, there’s death." This can be seen as a warning, or this can be seen as a curse. Depending on the circumstances… I was walking back to my room in rehab, and I saw a vulture. Well, first I saw a bunch of people smoking cigarettes and pointing up at the sky. They were pointing to a large vulture perched on top of the roof. Right beneath it was my room. I shared the room with my roommate, Will. I turned to my fellow patients. ‘Hey, that’s my room,' I said. Finally, a break in the monotony of day-to-day life in rehab. I walked into the building and up the stairs. My door was closed. ‘Will?’ I knocked lightly. I didn’t hear anything. I pressed my ear against the door. Still nothing. I opened the door. Will was face down in the bed. He was crying. He sat up and faced me. He was holding onto his wrist with his opposite hand. I saw the dark blood dripping down his arm. Then, the vulture flew away.
Icarus
Jack survived a heart transplant surgery. The odds of him surviving were so low that the Make-a-Wish Foundation showed him his gift before he went under. The gift was a vintage black Mustang. Fully refurbished, polished, and ready to drive. Jack survived the surgery. But he couldn’t drive that car yet. He had to wait. I’m not really sure why exactly he had to wait. At this time in my life, I was also healing, but not to the degree that Jack was. And we were the only ones from our friend group who were home instead of at college. My mom would drop me off at his house, and we would watch comedy movies. His favorite was That’s My Boy. Highly underrated. We bonded in our shared solitude. The world was happening outside, and we were inside. Again, it was different. My inside was purely psychological. I didn’t think much about my physical return to things. I think Jack was both psychological and physical, for even though he survived the surgery, his life expectancy was seven years. That’s what he told me. That’s what he told our friends when everyone came back home for summer break. I was healed at this point, and Jack could drive his car. He loved that car. One night, we were all drinking, smoking, and hanging out at the little makeshift beach next to a pond in my buddy James’s neighborhood. We were all sitting next to the fire. I remember not really being into the scene at the time. I just kind of wanted to go home. My other buddy, Noah, who was there, had been begging me to sleep over and watch movies like we used to do. I said yes. But I didn’t really want to. I was compelled to say yes because I had been away from him for so long. Jack, David, and James stayed behind as we left. They continued to drink. As the night progressed, they got increasingly more intoxicated. Not just with booze, but with the mystical elements that exist in a young man’s life. The freedom of the night, the freedom to be whatever they wanted to be because they were still so young. They had all the time in the world to become whatever they wanted. They even said this out loud to each other. They spoke about the future and their dreams. I don’t know how Jack felt about this. I can’t, I won’t, speak for him. But when the fire began to die and the vodka ran out, Jack wanted to drive the Mustang and David agreed without thinking twice about it. Apparently, Jack stepped on the gas with too much force when exiting the neighborhood; he was also simultaneously turning the wheel. This caused the car’s back wheels to lose their grip on the road. The high speed and the lightweight of the vehicle caused it to spin out of control. They crashed into a large tree. Jack was immediately knocked unconscious. David, who was in the passenger seat, ran from the wreck and began knocking on people’s houses, yelling at them to call the police. When the police, the fire trucks, and the ambulance finally came, Jack’s brain had been without oxygen for a very long time. It was told that he would have severe brain damage and would never be the same again. And he wasn’t. When I went to visit him after a few months of being in the hospital, I could barely recognize him. Everything about him had changed. A few months later he died.
The Withdrawn
You are going to jail for three days. You are addicted to a new synthetic opioid that they sell at gas stations. You don’t know it yet, but you are about to experience withdrawal. You don’t know it yet, but the withdrawal of this specific synthetic opioid, which affects your dopamine receptors the same way that heroin does, is going to be the worst thing you have ever felt. But wait it gets worse… You show up to jail. Your dad drops you off. Even though you are high, even though your emotions and your feelings are all melting together in some dopamine stew, you get really scared. ‘It’s only three days,' you remind yourself before closing the door of the car. You say it again once you are passed the first gate. Before the second gate can open, the first one has to be shut. This process takes a while. You don’t want to appear scared or weak because you think this will only give your dad more stress and anxiety. The second gate opens. You are at the door of the jail. The door opens and you walk in. Immediately, you know something is off. When you introduce yourself to the man behind the glass, he is confused. You have a piece of paper from the courts in your hand, and you are also carrying a brown paper bag filled with two towels, a notebook, and a copy of Frankenstein. You hand the man the piece of paper. He laughs. He says you are exactly one day late. He hands you back the paper. You are exactly one day late. You have no idea how you did not notice this. Then you realize that your parents haven’t actually looked at the paper; they have just been going off of what you have been saying. And for some reason you had the 19th in your head. The day you were supposed to go in was the 18th. It’s the 19th. You look towards the window, towards the outside world, towards where your dad is still waiting in his car. You wonder if he is crying. You want to cry. You want to crawl into a ball and scream into yourself. You don’t know what to do. The guard says to go forward. You look away from the window. You got this reduced sentencing because you went to rehab, and you did what your lawyer told you. The usual punishment for your second DUI is a minimum of ninety days. But you were given a good deal because they saw that you were changing. But you fell back down again. It only took you two months out of rehab to find a new drug. You are going to be in here for ninety days now because you fucked up. ‘How did this happen?’ A different man comes into the room. He has a gun. He tells you to fill out some papers. He gives you a tiny golf pencil. The man behind the glass is gone. The room you are in is ugly and cold. You have one more pill in your pocket. The last of your synthetic-gas-station opium. You finish filling out the papers Now he asks you to get undressed. ‘What about the pill?’ you wonder. You were saying before that you were going to sneak it in and split it into three parts for each day. You put the pill in your mouth and chew it. The guy is taking the insoles out from your shoes. The pill tastes horrible. Without any liquid it quickly covers the inside of your mouth in a thick paste. You are high. You feel good.
The Withdrawn, Part 2
You are in a holding cell with three other inmates: A young man, younger than you, from North Philadelphia. An older man, who got picked up by police when he was spray painting a train. And a man whose age is somewhere in between these two; he is skinny, and his eyes are wide; he keeps whispering, ‘I didn’t choke the bitch.' You are moved from this holding cell onto your 'Block.' The ‘Block’ is a grouping of cells. You are on ‘O-Block.' This Block is where people go when they are awaiting their official sentences. Many people in this Block have been arrested and immediately taken into custody. They have been taken here. You, however, are here because you are only here for three days. You will spend all of your time here. The conditions of this Block are different from other Blocks. At this Block you are given none of the ‘freedoms’ of the other Blocks, and you do not have the same schedule or set of rules as the other ones. You are subjected to your cell for seventeen hours. You do not get to go outside. You learn all of this in due time. But right now, you are in your cell for the first time. You stand there in the middle of your cell. You don’t move. You look at the walls; drawings, writing, signatures. One of which says, “I promise I will never stop going in." You immediately think to yourself how much you do not belong here because in no way could you ever imagine yourself saying something like this. Yet you are here. You toss and turn on the rough-ripped-mattress thing that covers the metal slab you will be sleeping on. You begin to feel. You begin to not feel the sensations of your drug. Within in an hour or so, you begin to have muscle spasms. You cannot stop kicking your legs. You feel your muscles tensing and releasing without your control. You feel bad. Like really bad. Negativity, pessimistic views, followed by a pounding headache. The darkness begins to creep inside. You are withdrawing. You haven’t stopped kicking your legs for the past three hours. Your skin feels like it is covered in bumps; it becomes so sensitive that you do not want anything touching your skin. But you are afraid to take your clothes off. The door of your cell finally opens. You begin to notice the smells of the prison. They are awful. A mixture of chemicals like bleach and lingering food like someone’s vomit. It is ‘Chow Time.' You get your plate. The smell is so powerful you nearly vomit. There is no way you can eat this. ‘How can anyone eat this?’ You turn around to see a man that looks like he just got shocked from some electrical current. His hair is sticking straight up, he stares straight ahead, his feet bounce up and down, and he is eating the food like it is the best thing he’s had in years. He looks at you because you are looking at him. He quickly gets up and walks over to you. You can tell by the way that no one around you reacts, that the man isn’t going to attack you. He just asks if he can have your food. You give it to him. After the food is gone and the trays are taken away, people flock towards the line of phones where you can make outside calls. You watch as the young man from North Philadelphia begins to bother an older inmate with scars on the sides of his forehead, who is on the phone. The young man keeps asking the older man to hurry up. The young man feels like he is being disrespected, and he begins to raise his voice. He gets louder and louder. His taunts become threats of violence. Finally, the older man with scars on his forehead gets up and hands him the phone. You turn away and watch people walking around the perimeter of the small block as if they were on a trail. You, who are still in tremendous pain and discomfort, think that walking may help take your mind off of it. It does. But then you have to go back in your cell for the rest of the night. You cannot sleep. You try so hard, but you cannot stop moving your body. You squirm, twitch, and shake uncontrollably. You are hot and cold at the same time. And your skin hurts. And your head is about to split open. You thank God, even though you don’t believe in God, that you do not have a roommate. You think that if you had one, they would become so annoyed by your constant moving that they would hurt you. Then, a few hours later, you are still unable to sleep, and you are still just as uncomfortable as before; your cell door opens. Two guards come inside and tell you to move to the top bed. You ask why? But then a three-hundred-pound inmate who speaks no English walks in. He won’t be able to get in and out of bed if he slept on the top bunk. You spend the rest of the night in a tormented daze. You don’t sleep. The next day, when you are out of your cell, you talk to people here and there. You try to distract yourself from your discomfort. You speak to a man who has a massive abscess in his mouth. He got it from chewing meth. You go on a walk with him around the Block. You feel the best that you have felt in nearly thirty hours. He tells you some of his stories and you tell him some of yours. You are surprised at how honest you are. You realize that he is the only person who knows that you have relapsed, and that you are now going through a wicked withdrawal. You tell him you have never felt anything like this before. He laughs and calls you 'green.' Green means a lot of things; new, not meant for prison; innocent; it is almost like he is making fun of you, but it does not come from a place of anger or hate. He just finds it funny. And you laugh as well.
The Withdrawn, Part 3
Once the pain of your withdrawal becomes more tolerable, a conscious fear rises within you. You don’t know if you will be out in three days. You grab the paper from your cell. The paper has the agreed-upon dates, the agreed-upon sentencing, and a signature from the judge. You go up to the window where the guards can see you from their station. You point at the paper. One of them buzzes the door open, and you walk into the cold hallway between the Block and the guard station. You slip the paper underneath the glass window. You try your best to explain yourself. The guard looks at you and calls you a fucking idiot. You say, ‘I know. I know.’ You ask him what you should do. He says you need to get in contact with your lawyer. You go to the phones. You follow the directions. You call your mom. The moment you hear your mom’s voice, you want to cry. You quiet your voice. You tell your mom what has happened. You arrived late to jail; you need to get in contact with your lawyer, and before you can tell her that you are withdrawing, the call gets disconnected. You have to go back into your cell. In the cell, you take out your notebook and the little golf pencil. You do not feel like writing at all. You do not feel like doing anything but sleeping. But you still cannot fall asleep. You find out your cellmate’s name is Hector. The two of you cannot communicate further than that. However, you can tell that he is a really nice person. And that he too is scared. Later that night, you are surprised to hear him speak more English. He says that he was picked up in an ICE raid. He says that his family, including his five-year-old daughter, has no idea what happened to him. He figures that nobody knows where he is because he was taken in the middle of the night after he finished a shift. You feel terrible for him. You feel sad. He asks to see your notebook, and he writes down the names of his sister and his brother, and their Facebook profiles. He asks that if you get out before him, to find them and tell them where he is. You say yes. The next day, when the gate opens, you still cannot eat anything. You go to the phones. You call your Mom. She has not been able to get in contact with your lawyer. You feel your soul exit your body. It is perhaps the worst news you have ever heard. She says she will keep trying. She says that she will show up to his offices as soon as they open. You thank her. You tell her that you love her. You tell her to tell your dad that you love him. Then, you look at your notebook, and you tell them to look up Hector's relatives on Facebook and to tell them that he has been arrested by ICE. You can tell that your mom is confused. But she agrees. You smile.
