Stephen Mejias

I sat, quietly, in the dirty seat, empty bottles of beer and peanut shells at my feet. My throat was sore from shouting chants and pleas, my hands bruised from fruitless rooting. How could this have happened? As the stadium emptied out, leaving behind only rows of orange and blue paint, an painful truth sank in: This is how it ends.

Last week, my wonderful coworkers completely surprised me with a delicious birthday cake.

We're shipping our November issue today. Shipping gets me all excited and nervous. I don't sit, I shake. I don't walk, I dance. I don't talk, I sing. Like Willie Colon: Cua cua ra, cua cua!

I've mentioned my insecurities and low self-esteem, told you of how I often feel so out of place and inferior. Whether in my personal relationships or professional duties, I can overwhelm myself into paralysis and depression with the idea that there is someone better suited for my life, that I do not belong where I am, that I am simply not good enough. It's a problem. But, considering that I was a red-headed white kid, growing up in the housing projects of Newark, within a large, Puerto Rican family who spoke a different language, and had an alcoholic father who cheated on my mom and often humiliated me, it's not too difficult to understand.