A STORY OF ME

As it snows, it blows...

Before I get to this week's proper blog, I just want to say that I'm glad my cynicism about the health care reform package wasn't completely rewarded. It passed! Whatever feelings you might have about the provisions or cost of the health care reform bill, this is a landmark moment in American history and an important political victory for Barack Obama--although it does have the possibility to be short-lived. Remember that Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry Truman and Bill Clinton all tried to push some sort of universal health care coverage for Americans and they all failed. Remember this day over the course of the next few years as Republicans, "Tea Partiers", Fox News and most importantly insurance lobbyists attack, litigate and chip away at the $938 billion plus proposal. If nothing else, it provides an outline of where we need to go as a country and a gameplan for an embattled Democratic party on how to deal with Republican resistance going forward.

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The Dark Strands in the Tapestry
Lately I've been thinking a lot about my life. The face I show to some of my friends and co-workers; the guy who always cracks wise, tries to keep people's spirits up, who's quick with a smile, that's me but not me. There are darker strands in the tapestry of me. Sometimes I choose to pluck at those strings, sometimes I try to pretend they don't exist. They are there regardless.

I wonder which are the elements of my life that are truly interesting or unique? What are the things that I think are somewhat remarkable that are really a common experience shared by many people? What about things that are the opposite: events or behaviors that I assume to be fairly widespread but might be unique to me? The ruminations that drove me to these questions are me wondering if I'm always going to fail to reach my personal ambitions for myself.

I worked to become a screenwriter--I never even got an agent.

I've spent most of the last decade working in the obscure media field of Traffic--but I've never been in management and I always seem to be running in place.

I'm often well-liked but often not beloved. I have to keep most people at arm's length.

When I was seven, living with my Mom and grandma in one of Denver's rougher neighborhoods, a little red-headed boy from across the street knocked on our door and asked if he can please use our bathroom because his folks weren't home (?) and he was desperate. My mom let him in and he introduced himself to us--I don't remember his name. He used the bathroom for what seemed to be a long time, then he left and he thanked my Mom for letting him in. He seemed very nice and I remember my Mom saying that it would be nice to have a friend in the neighborhood, since back then I pretty much spent all of my time either at school (which was 11 miles away--remember school busing?) or playing alone by myself in the backyard.

When I went to use the bathroom myself a few minutes later, I was in for quite a surprise. Sitting in the tub was a large brown turd. The nice little neighborhood red-headed boy had shat in the bathtub. I ran out of the bathroom so fast I think I left jet trails streaming behind me. It wasn't until much later that it occurred to me that my Mom had to go in there and clean poop out of a bathtub and that this must have been unbelievably humiliating. Much, much later after that I finally realized that my Mom wasn't too keen on having me meet any more kids from around the way either.

All of my friends growing up were from school, not from my block on Williams Street. One day, I was minding my own business playing in the front yard when a Mexican kid walked down the sidewalk, threw an empty beer bottle at my feet and said, "Fuck you." He couldn't have been more than 10 or 11 himself.

I did get to occasionally hang out with a neighbor boy who moved in when I was in high school. My reward for his companionship was that one day he asked to borrow my Mom's car for an "emergency" and he promptly stole the car. I think he sold it to buy drugs. This was supposed to be the car I would learn to drive and maybe eventually own. C'est la vie. I learned to drive at the age of 24.

I know in many ways I was very lucky growing up, being blessed with great friends and teachers who looked out for me even though I was extremely sheltered by an overprotective mother who was slowly losing her mind, heading towards an undignified death at the premature age of 50. But looking back how can I fault her for any of her choices? Life was the turd in the bathtub, the borrowed car gone missing, the broken beer bottle at your feet. If you're my Mom, if you're anybody's parent, you have to hold what is dearest to you closest to your heart and protect it with all you've got the best way you know how. Once your child leaves you, you may always be their parent but you get to exhale just a little, because now they are on their own. The traumas of childhood will sort themselves out eventually and manifest themselves in many intricate ways, but at least the hard part is over.

It is then up to the child to figure out what it all means and how it all fits into their life plan, their successes and their failures. The final answer may never be known by those who ask the questions.

Thank you for letting me share this weird collection of totally true anecdotes. I know that there's a saying about reading people's memoirs, along the lines that it's kind of like seeing your friends naked, warts and all--it might be interesting at first, or even kind of funny, but in the long run you'd much rather look away than stare and if this was uncomfortable to read, I sincerely apologize.

You may now look away...

Peace!