Reconciling

[I look at the old picture - the small blonde headed boy in the man's arms.]

I am perched in dad's protective arms, cradling me in his right arm with the left one providing support. He is turned towards me, smiling while I am turned away - maybe I had just said something? Or, s he leaning back to help with the picture being taken of me? Mamaw took the picture, was it supposed to be of father and son or just me? Whichever, it is funny that neither of us are looking in the right direction.

We stand in the hallway of Mamaw's house - the shiny wood trim decorating the hallway - her bedroom door is just visible in the background. I walked that hallway so many times as a child and later in adulthood. She often was my babysitter when mom and dad were out. They are picking me up from one such night. Moments after this picture, I sit on dad's knee as everybody talks. He bounces me and I eventually puke on him and the floor. There is no scolding as they clean me and everything else - he is gentle and comforting. I felt safe with him.

It has been just over two years since dad passed away and this photograph sits on my desk - as always. It is proof, at least my own, of his humanity and love. A tear appears as I hold the picture today. I included this photo in the funeral home slide show. At one point, I told its story and it is met with shaking heads, disdain and negativity.

Nowadays, the photograph makes me nostalgic and keenly aware of my own mortality. I have a similar picture with me holding my grandson sitting nearby. Both images make me smile and stress how quickly things change.

Those who knew dad like to say I am a much better father than him, but really they base this judgement on stories - stories that have grown over the years. My memories of dad are chocked full of good moments. The bad stuff happened when I was an adult as we locked horns over and over.

I miss you dad. 

Writing as Therapy

"Here's what I want you to do this week I want you to write, keep a journal of your daily journey and/or struggles. Better yet, write a letter to those that have harmed you - lay it all out, but do not mail it. We can discuss here. Can you do that?" Carolyn, my therapist, awaiting my reply.

"You mean like a diary?" This felt like a less-than-manly concept, I knew my brothers would ridicule it if they found out.

"Well, we like to say journaling, but it is the same concept. Just keep a record and bring it with you to discuss, okay?"

"Sure, I can give it a try."

The day's session ran on a loop in my mind as I headed home. It felt good to actually tell somebody the truth and not be judged and actually take my side. Then again, were they not paid to take my side? I berated myself for once again failing to trust somebody.

I found an old notebook  in my desk and immediately tackled the day, writing details on the daily session and the rest of the day. This continued for a few days with some sense of monotony as there was nothing interesting, and then I remembered the instruction to write a letter to those that had harmed me or at least that is how I viewed it (they would strongly disagree if asked). 

I sat back in my chair and stared out the window. A picture of mom standing with me and mamaw caught my eye. I felt the emotions percolate, I turned to a blank page and addressed the letter to mom. I write Dear Mom, but strongly considered To Whom it may concern. I laid it all out, the lack of support, the parentification (I did not use the word but more laid out what happened) at such a young age followed by the overwhelming pressure to always take care of her and everything. 

Carolyn was right, it felt so good to get it out onto paper. I reread my composition and read it again, making a few corrections. The shame and anger stirred deep within me. For a moment, I doubted it, doubted all of it, but then again a board certified professional backed me up - she had actually provided the ammunition, the words for what had happened. I felt my head shaking up and down, agreeing and validating my prose. I reached for an envelope, then a stamp and prepared the time bomb. 

The letter stared at me the rest of the day as I moved around the house. Finally, I grabbed it on my way out to run errands. I drove straight to the post office, dropped it in the familiar blue box outside and returned to my to-do list.

"You did what?" Carloyn was incredulous when I relayed my handiwork during my next weekly session.

"I figured it was better to get it out there, let her know how I truly feel." I put up a good front, but the time bomb I had mailed scared me plus there had been no word from my mother, so it still had not arrived.

"Why did you think it so necessary to mail it? I specifically told you to not do that, the exercise itself is therapeutic." She sat back with arms crossed.

"I don't know, well I do know, I became more and more angry as I wrote it. Besides, it is all the truth."

"The truth according to you."

"Wait, what? We have discussed this, like almost six months now, you agree with me, you told me what it was." I suddenly felt like I had been setup.

"Yes, we have done a lot of work and I do believe and agree with you. It would be healthier to have a discussion with her, bring her in here in a safe space to hear her side, discuss and work through issues."

"Now you tell me this is the plan?" 

"These things take time, there is no express route."

"I think mailing that latter may be one." I laugh and shake my head.

"This is funny? Do you think she will laugh?"

"I never said that, but it is funny in a harsh way so we'll just see how it goes."

In the end, the letter never reached my mother. This was fifteen years ago, so I finally asked her directly a couple years ago and she received nothing. Did I address it wrong? Lost in the mail? I will never know, but it is worth noting that I never discussed any of the issues directly with mom - further therapy decided it was not the best idea.

Sit with it

Writing has been my therapy these past few years. It has allowed me to safely navigate and explore past trauma within the confines of the page and my mind. I find the printed/written word makes it real. I record my account of events and then return to them, tweak/edit and continue the process. There is so much anger and confusion from the stories, but the process dampens the anger and lets me process certain events. Of course, sharing such stories with others may evoke anger from them, which is something I did not predict and the reason I no longer share.

Top 10

 Here are 10 things that interest me:

1. Technology
2. Baseball
3. Writing
4. A good meal with friends
5. Learning new things
6. Working in the yard
7. Helping others
8. Laughing - funny books, movies ...
9. Travel
10. Recovering from traumatic past

Here are 10 things that make me angry:

1. Laziness
2. Assholes
3. Talking to my mother
4. People that constantly complain
5. Slow drivers
6. 
   

Here are 10 things that make me happy:

1. Grandson
2. Conversation with friends
3. Logging off work
4. Traveling
5. Reading
6. Going for a hike
7. Time to myself
8. Fixing something
9. Learning something new
10. A good night's sleep

Here are 10 things I'd like to do in the next 5 years:

1. Go to Ireland
2. Finish fixing my old truck
3. Spend as much time as possible with grandson
4. Change jobs
5. Reconnect with my brother
6. Be healthy
7. Get a dog
8. Fix the hallway closet door
9. Abandon social media
10. Volunteer more

Judge and jury

 "I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged."

You can't finish what you never really start, right? That has always been my approach with personal writing. Sure, I write in a journal and a blog, but that is just random stories and observations, nothing real. I have created outlines - even using notecards - for longer pieces on specific experiences or aspects of life, but nothing actually written and really only I know they exist. I have a lot of stories written over the years, I'll reread some of them from time to time and they always take me back to a place and time, but that is just for me and actually cringe a lot of times and judge myself. I made the decision last year to push forward and actually show my writing to others, but then the pandemic (yeah, just what I needed, another excuse) hit and all outlets were shut off. I stumbled upon the Creative Non Fiction site a couple years later and finally clicked the button to participate in an online class. I had no clue what to expect, but the feedback has been great to receive and all of the writing from fellow classmates has been impressive.

Getting paid

I grew up in public housing and then a trailer park (insert cliche), so I have always been focused on earning a living - not money hungry, but just making sure everybody has what they need along with a roof over our heads and plenty to eat. I have always loved writing whether crafting stories or laying out how to do something, but anything paying money always took precedence. When I was a teenager, I created a family newsletter and wrote funny stories about everybody, but I only worked on it after mowing yards, washing cars or whatever paid that day. In my thirties, I landed quite a few magazine article gigs, a couple books and ultimately a weekly newsletter - it was all technology focused but I enjoyed crafting the 1000-2000 words a week and releasing it to the world and it actually paid real money so it was okay to work on it. Once that was complete, I drifted away from the daily discipline although brief stretches of writing on a blog. I am finally trying to return to a regular routine and killing that inner voice that keeps criticizing me for doing something frivolous that is costing money instead of making it.

Wheels Up

My first experience in an airplane occurred in my mid-twenties. I landed a job with a consulting firm - they had a local office, but the headquarters was in New York. While I would work locally, I would regularly visit the mothership. This was before Expedia, so I called and booked a flight - paper tickets arrived in the mail. I talked to a friend with a little travel experience and got a few useless tips. I was a nervous wreck the days leading up to the trip. My stomach did flips as I boarded the flight. I paid closed attention to the flight attendant emergency procedures as everybody else ignored it. I was frightened as the plane took off - I leaned back and closed my eyes. I stood in the Newark airport waiting for my bag - I had followed my fellow passengers to the right location. Everybody around me seemed to know what they were doing, I felt like an imposter but this was nothing knew. My grandma's hand-me-down bag (it's first time on a plane as well) rested at my feet as I figured out transportation. Buses were supposedly simple, but the numbers were confusing plus I had never been on a bus. Eventually, I settled on a taxi - the driver met all of my expectations from tv shows as he drove like a maniac. My eyes widened taking in the famous skyline and people everywhere. It was like a Black Friday Walmart crowd waiting for the $50 television - it was overwhelming. I made it to my room and stood at the window, smiling, feeling like something had been accomplished then the loneliness returned - I had no clue what to do next.

On the fly

I do not have any type of special "writing space", and I really don't think of myself as a writer. However, I write a lot with these writing prompts; my personal projects; tons of communications and an occasional online piece, so it makes me think about what is a writer? I guess my definition or idea is a writer as a person who gets paid to write and that is how they make a living. Are those the only people that can introduce themselves as a writer? This reminds me of a few years ago when I met an individual who said they were a writer which led the the inevitable questions of publications, their response was they were working on a book that was not complete. I was surprised, not because I did not believe them, but at the confidence in their introduction - I guess I was jealous as I give it further thought. When someone asks the popular "so, what do you do?" question, I always feel like I have to have a concrete answer with evidence to back it up as if I could show them a pay stub. My grandson often tells me he is an astronaut as he zooms around the house, who am I to question it? Does a person's occupation define them or is it rather their hobbies that really show the real person?

In terms of a writing space, I have no preference as I just like to write, especially when the urge or an idea hits. I guess a routine and consistent space would or could be more productive, but I am not sure. I just like to have or find the time to write.

Unlocked

I push the door and step into the darkness - light bulb out again. My eyes adjust as a door slams and two bodies scramble away. I jog down the driveway and towards them, squeezing the bat. I stop after a few houses. 

I stand for a moment, complete silence in suburbia - both soothing and disturbing. Every house is dark, except in the distance, light beaming from home. I stroll past Mike's impeccably manicured yard - mums blooming. I contemplate swinging the bat, but stop myself. I spot a For Sale sign in Linda's front yard, wondering when that appeared. Mike's house remains dark with no update on his hospital stay - I make a mental note to mow his lawn.

I open the truck door and immediately notice the missing bag. Anger erupts, I hop inside and turn the key.

A quick right after speeding through the stop sign and I spot two silhouettes approaching the playground just past Dave's house - a non-stop talker that always manages to catch me when heading to the playground. I gun the engine, they turn, see me and run. I laugh when noticing they stay on the sidewalk, we go another block before they disappear into the woods.

I stop and step out, standing at the edge of the trees. A giant sign to my right announcing a new development. Adrenaline is pumping, the bat feels good in my hand, the truck's engine echoing against the trees. I return to the truck, surveying the door. I think of crime shows and dusting for prints, it is old and full of scratches - like me. I realize I left it unlocked. I drive slowly, taking the long way home, searching for any sign of light, am I the only one awake?

What do I do?

One reason I do this writing is  to force change upon me - force me to regain the writing habit that I had years ago, but I lost it as the demands of life piled up. Even thought I voluntarily signed up for this class, I continue to fight it. I must admit to myself that I do not like change even though I consider my current situation and, dare I say, mental state to be a bit lost like a ship without a rudder. I am at a point in life where I have accomplished a lot of my goals - even if I never expressed them to anyone and really not sure if they were goals or mere survival. It feels like a change is necessary or maybe coming, but I just don't know what it will or should be. 

The uncertainty seems to be shared by a lot of people I talk to these days. I lost a few family members over the past few years, and that always leads to reflection. Then, there is society that is seemingly unraveling before my/our eyes. So much of what is happening on a daily basis is hard to digest, and is it possible to discuss anything with people these days? Opinions and righteousness have replaced civil discourse? I want to both pull my loved ones close to me and at the same time I want to run away, go away and be somebody else. In the end, maybe this is the proverbial mid-life crisis? Or, is it the broader existential crisis that I fear? I think back to that kid growing up in public housing and bullied on a daily basis and feel relief that I made it this far, but what next? What changes are coming?

Get In

It was another scorching summer day, the sun punished any venturing outside of shady areas. I sat on our steps, staring at the nothingness of the neighborhood. With no air conditioning, it was too hot to return inside along with being too hot to go anywhere. I took a big gulp of water from the nearby hose as a yellow Duster roared into the space in front of our neighbor's trailer. They were the envy of the neighborhood since it was a double wide with top notch air conditioner that I had enjoyed when doing chores for the old guy.

A young guy stepped out of the car and disappeared inside the home - I was jealous wanting to feel that air conditioning. He returned after a few minutes and raised the massive hood on the car. I stood and watched as he leaned under the hood and worked After some time, he finally acknowledged me while motioning for assistance – I slowly approached him and stood with hands in pocket and shielding the sun with my hand.

"Hey there, I am Gil, my dad lives here." He motioned to the home behind him.

"Cool." 

"Can you hand me 7/16 socket?" He leaned under the hood, left hand dangling, awaiting the tool.

I placed it in his hand and he smiled.He continued working as I handed more tools and put everything in its place. Dad said I never paid attention, but I always watched intently whenever he was working.

"You sure know your way around a toolbox." He slammed the hood and ordered me to get in. 

I stumbled into the passenger seat, struggling to close the massive door – he slammed it and we sped away bouncing over the random speed bump – continuously fumbling with the new shifter, mumbling about the transmission, smacking the shifter.

We ended up at the park, speeding up and slowing down and eyeballing me. He asked if I liked girls and how often I touched myself - laughing with each question. The car came to rest in a dark area under some trees. He slammed the shifter forward into park and reached over, touching my leg. I was scared and confused. He abruptly stopped, holding his hand in place with his gaze meeting mine. It felt like he was looking through me. He stayed in a trance before pulling back and placing both hands on the steering wheel - shaking his head back-and-forth while mumbling. I kept wondering what I had done wrong.

He revved the engine and sped away. We stopped for ice cream before returning home. As I exited the car, he came around and grabbed my shoulders. He pushed me down and knelt beside me, said the Lord’s Prayer, handed me a necklace with cross pendant. He squeezed my shoulder, thumb digging into my shoulder blade while reminding me to tell nobody about our trip. I slowly walked the short distance home and never saw him again.

Let's not discuss

"Hey, you taking your break now?" 

It was an innocent question, although it took me a week to summon the courage to ask her, my coworker, to take our break together. That encounter led to more mutual breaks and then an actual date where we went to see the movie "Sleeping with the Enemy" - not a joke, we still laugh about it. When I approached her that first time, there was only the thought of talking, spending time together, I had somehow forgotten the obvious difference - others did not.

As the Three Dog Night songs says "The world is black, the world is white. It turns by day and then by night." Having been in a mixed relationship for many years, I learned, was taught, the difference between black and white. Yes, I was naive. I had no clue of anything related to race - not a big surprise with me being a white guy. Being together irritated so many with no shortage of opinions, stares and comments. It was a shock in every sense of the word, but it was bliss when only the two of us.

Cue the song "Brother Louie" by The Stories when she meets the family - "He took her home to meet his mama and papa. Now he had a terrible fright." 

I was hot-tempered, a short fuse, in my younger days thus many altercations. I lost many so-called friends and family, and all I can say is good-riddance. In the end, we persevered. The backlash never came from who I suspected and that has been a constant in life - people always surprise me or rather my pre-conceived notions (prejudices?) are usually wrong. It colored (no pun intended) every aspect of life as you have to always be aware of your surroundings; avoid certain areas; travel/vacations in large cities with more diversity and so forth - it is a consideration in everything.

A son joined us and I took notice of the slights and treatment directed his way. I held him close and took what bullets I could, but in the end I could not control it or shield him. He had to learn the hard realities. He had to be prepared to navigate and survive. 

A by-product I only really noticed lately is people speaking in low tones when any topic related to race comes up. They approach it carefully, they eye me carefully, gauging my reaction. In reality, I ignore most of it and the people these days as my expectations are low.

Relationships are hard enough by themselves, the added scrutiny does not help. A byproduct of the experience is more compassion for all others not following a traditional path. Life is hard and people are doing their best to survive the daily grind and find happiness - live and let live.

Who has the time?

I thought I would have more time to write or do whatever as I got older, but I seem to be busier than ever or just too tired to do anything. I write when the inspiration hits or there is something to complete (like this prompt), so maybe that is why I am not a professional writer as I never developed a discipline or routine to do it every day. I do find that once I have an idea/story in my head, it lives there - sometimes taunting (haunting?) me - until it is completely out of my system and on paper (virtual or real). 

There is no gray area

As the Three Dog Night songs says "The world is black, the world is white. It turns by day and then by night." Having been in a mixed relationship for many years, I quickly learned the difference between black and white in our society. Yes, I was naive. Very quickly I learned that I had no clue of anything related to race within our society - not a big surprise with me being a white guy. Being together irritated so many with no shortage of opinions, stares and comments. It was a shock in every sense of the word. I lost many so-called friends family, and all I can say is good-riddance. There were threats and a few fights, but we persevered. The backlash never came from who I suspected and that has been a constant in life - people always surprise me or rather my pre-conceived notions (prejudices?) are usually wrong. It colored (no pun intended) every aspect of life - we were always aware of surroundings; avoided certain areas; travel/vacations were in large cities with more diversity and so forth. Relationships are hard enough by themselves, the added scrutiny does not help. A byproduct of the experience is more compassion for all others not following a traditional path. Life is hard and people are doing their best to survive the daily grind and find happiness - live and let live.

Opportunities

I cannot for the life of me think of a single example of something I did not do and then got a second chance at it. The term "second chance" floods my brain with things I would love a second chance like if I had a second chance with school, I would have taken it more seriously and applied myself (the exact thing my teachers said I did not do). There is always the one that got a away, so maybe a second change with her would be good (or not). Furthermore, it has always been a personal motto to take advantage of the moment, so much so that a friend always made funny of me for telling them to do something because "who knows when you will get this chance again?" I have always used this approach when traveling for work - do and see things wherever they would send me, because who knows if I would ever return (in most cases I never did). Finally, my father passed away a couple years ago and my siblings groaned about wanting more time with him to tell them their thoughts (he was not a nice person), but I was content as I found many opportunities to give dad a so-called piece of my mind and he never shied away from doing the same to me - in the end, we both knew where the other stood. 

Why write?

I signed up for writing class because it was offered and I wanted to kickstart my writing and now I wonder if it was the best idea. You see, I signed up for the class long ago - seems like a year, but I guess it was a month. My mind was in a different place at that time, it was geared up to get things done and cross items off the mental to-do list which is where it found writing as a thing needing to get done. With that said, I signed up and forgot about it until the email arrived. My motivation is lacking, but I think this will still be good (this is my new mantra). Anyway, that is the gist of it, I look forward to working together.