I open the door as I say goodbye to my mother. 

“Make good choices,” she says. 

Her words echo in the back of my head. 

Why do I need to be reminded of the expectations?

Am I really as careless as the people on her caseload?

Everybody my age is out drinking and doing drugs,

I drive out of the driveway,

and onto the road.

The winding road of mansions,

mirroring the ones that once flooded America.

The upscale houses rise from the ground,

capturing the essence of the American Dream.

They grow every time I pass by. 

Out of envy, I ridicule their wealth.

Their boats bobbing in the distance on their shoreline.

The glitter and glam whisked away, 

 while my eyes shift back to the road.

The cars. 

The luxury vehicles I can’t compete with.

Audi, Porsche, BMW. 

Even Range Rover or Ferrari.

The 16-year-olds drive their parents’ cars. 

No, not their parents’ car, their car. 

Entrusted with a car most Americans dream of. 

I, myself, daydream of what it would be like,

to own a Porsche 911.

The clothes. 

They wear designer brands

they convince their parents to buy

and ‘flex’ on everyone who cares.

And trust me, they do. 

They buy the newest technology,

AirPods, MacBook, iPhone X Plus.

to show everybody who really is successful.

The audacity. 

The crudeness. 

The envy. 

This must be what it was like to live in the labor filled days,

the days in which the colonists lived,

while the nobles dined. 

The commodities. 

They huff and puff while sipping a glass. 

Alas, what it would be like to squander the riches of 

the land, as they once did in colonial times. 

That’s all they think about. 

Go to the bathroom to satisfy their urges.

Party every weekend, bragging about how many times they vomited.

I loathe being compared to this being.

I resent it. 

Then the heat of competition rises from the ashes of their expensive things.

Just as our ancestors, competition, 

 floods the air.

Everyone obsessed with sports and being the best.

If you play football, baseball, or basketball, you are ‘cool’.

As humans they have to show off. 

They have to be the best.

In athletics. In wealth. In life.

Sometimes this fundamental instinct is intentional, other times not. 

We call ourselves “One Team” unified under the letter A. 

We tear each other down at the hopes

of making ourselves better, attempting to enrich ourselves in any way possible.

In essence, 

history is repeating itself.

I don’t want to be a part of it.