In high school, when I wasn't being admonished for my deplorable behavior, a teacher would actually try to reach out to me. Sophomore year, an English teacher pulled me aside and used the gentle approach, to which I responded favorably. He said, "You know, they say English is one of the hardest languages to learn." To which I responded, "What do I care, I'm never going to England."
He was right, of course. There are inconsistencies in the language that are maddening, redundant, and sometimes just plain stupid. Case and point---Oxymorons. A short list of my favorites include:
Free Gift
Business Ethics
Military Intelligence
Civil Disobedience
Daily Special
Female Gunman
Spendthrift
Prison Life
Freezer Burn
Gun Safety
But my absolute favorite is Passive Aggressive. It attempts to join complete polar opposites, and it's just so fabulous at explaining what I do so perfectly.
Last week I had lunch with Dad. In an attempt to keep the conversation flowing, thereby avoiding awkward pauses, I asked about his knees, both of which have been replaced because of the damage caused by decades of masonry (please note that he wasn't employed as a mason, it was just a hobby).
He denies pain, but admits he still has trouble with stiffness and feels like Frankenstein when he walks, which is noteworthy because I always picture him as Darth Vader, whose ominous breathing plays whenever Dad calls my cell. I extoll the virtues of foam rolling, which helped my lower back pain, and is currently helping me regain my thoracic mobility. The idea resonates, and he asks me to show him.
Keep in mind that my motives are purely rooted in helping the man I share such a volatile history with. Deep down I admit that if it works, it would send a giant fuck you to my brother, who is seeking a degree in exercise science from UMass. I ask, "Doesn't Kev assess your tightness or suggest foam rolling?" Like a lawyer, I know the answer to my own question. If Kev had learned about foam rolling in school, he wouldn't agree with it. Hell, I didn't until I experienced it firsthand. Now I think that foam rolling could single handedly achieve piece in the Middle East. I believe that our anger is caused by the fact that we're all tight as drums. Women don't suffer as we do, Rachel foam rolls comfortably, never grimacing once.
So, today I showed Dad how to roll those pains away. When I told Rachel about it, I commented that foam rolling wouldn't work on Dad, as pure evil lubricates. I was wrong. Pure evil binds.
I killed two birds with one stone, I guess.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Request Denied
Anger is a great motivator, providing the will to act. Evolution instilled the impulse, helping us protect ourselves so we can survive. But as energizing as it is, it bows in the presence of a greater motivator: Guilt.
In the absence of a crime, guilt is neurotic. At least that's what my therapist used to tell me. It resonates each and every time I fell compelled to visit with Dad. I worked hard to abandon the expectation of him coming close to my ego ideal of what a Dad should be. Instead I've suffered one crushing disappointment after another butting against what is and what will never be. Instead, I am crippled by a mistrust of males and only have a handful of male friends. The Reverend is the closest. Our bond stems from scars that refuse to heal, left by men whose job was to prepare us to survive this life, instead of just donating sperm, and using us to achieve their own nefarious deeds.
My anger and guilt erect walls that protect feelings of inadequacy. I’ll never be free of feeling like a little boy, cowering in the presence of Dad almighty. But when he asks me to call grandma I don't. When he asks me to patch things up with my brother, I scoff, opting for my pride in the face of a stalemate. Until I'm presented with an ideal father, incorruptable in matters pertaining to his son, do not ask me to nurture relationships that will bear no fruit, nor provide any solace.
Request denied!
In the absence of a crime, guilt is neurotic. At least that's what my therapist used to tell me. It resonates each and every time I fell compelled to visit with Dad. I worked hard to abandon the expectation of him coming close to my ego ideal of what a Dad should be. Instead I've suffered one crushing disappointment after another butting against what is and what will never be. Instead, I am crippled by a mistrust of males and only have a handful of male friends. The Reverend is the closest. Our bond stems from scars that refuse to heal, left by men whose job was to prepare us to survive this life, instead of just donating sperm, and using us to achieve their own nefarious deeds.
My anger and guilt erect walls that protect feelings of inadequacy. I’ll never be free of feeling like a little boy, cowering in the presence of Dad almighty. But when he asks me to call grandma I don't. When he asks me to patch things up with my brother, I scoff, opting for my pride in the face of a stalemate. Until I'm presented with an ideal father, incorruptable in matters pertaining to his son, do not ask me to nurture relationships that will bear no fruit, nor provide any solace.
Request denied!
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Change, Optional?
We've had discussions about lofting our mattress. We anticipated the arrival of Reverend Austin. To accommodate him, it made sense to hoist our mattress so that he sleep beneath us and avoid the any sleep disturbances caused by slumbering in the high traffic living room. To do so required getting rid of the bed frame, a platform, and one I've had for over a decade.
The loft idea fell by the wayside and wasn't given a second thought. The Reverend came, made himself cozy on our couch, and hasn't complained once. Last week, he built the loft out of scrap wood, packed it up, and zipped it down to us, resurrecting the plan and sending me into a complete tizzy.
I pride myself on my ability to accept change. I roll with it, welcome it, and accept it with only a modicum of apprehension.
Right?
In reality, I resist change. I sanction it with silence, withhold excitement, and withdraw. My first change embargo happened when Rachel wanted to combine our incomes and work as a team toward our financial goals. I resisted, using my credit card debt as an excuse. I even went so far as to deny her my savings, savings that would have helped her get out of her cash hemorrhaging condo. A move, I might add, that would have benefited us both.
I'm sure my reticence had something to do with my fear of intimacy. Symptoms of Male's Disease whose delirium includes a deep paranoia of female hidden agendas. Part of me was convinced she would squander my earnings. My mind changed when it dawned on me that if anyone was squandering, it was Visa and MasterCard. Once I relented, rara paid off my debt within six months.
Another momentous hurdle for Rachel to overcome was moving. Long had I lamented about my desire to leave Salem and its high polluting, coal burning, power plant. It took Rachel close to a year to get me out.
So many people have bestowed upon me accolades for overcoming so much adversity in my life, when in fact I merely survived. It's true that I have worked hard not to repeat my transgressions. To do so takes thorough examination, self actualization, and hard choices. I still feel as though I'm in flux, pushing hard to shed the false beliefs that hold me back. Tragedy, it seems, is easier to weather than the simple changes, life on life's terms.
As for the loft, it took a rare moment of honesty. Feeling cornered I yelled, "Excuse me, in case you two haven't noticed, I don't accept change very well. I love that bed frame. Do you have any idea how many coke binges I've slept off in that bed?"
They both laughed, then proceeded to store the loft in the basement, where it mocks me.
The loft idea fell by the wayside and wasn't given a second thought. The Reverend came, made himself cozy on our couch, and hasn't complained once. Last week, he built the loft out of scrap wood, packed it up, and zipped it down to us, resurrecting the plan and sending me into a complete tizzy.
I pride myself on my ability to accept change. I roll with it, welcome it, and accept it with only a modicum of apprehension.
Right?
In reality, I resist change. I sanction it with silence, withhold excitement, and withdraw. My first change embargo happened when Rachel wanted to combine our incomes and work as a team toward our financial goals. I resisted, using my credit card debt as an excuse. I even went so far as to deny her my savings, savings that would have helped her get out of her cash hemorrhaging condo. A move, I might add, that would have benefited us both.
I'm sure my reticence had something to do with my fear of intimacy. Symptoms of Male's Disease whose delirium includes a deep paranoia of female hidden agendas. Part of me was convinced she would squander my earnings. My mind changed when it dawned on me that if anyone was squandering, it was Visa and MasterCard. Once I relented, rara paid off my debt within six months.
Another momentous hurdle for Rachel to overcome was moving. Long had I lamented about my desire to leave Salem and its high polluting, coal burning, power plant. It took Rachel close to a year to get me out.
So many people have bestowed upon me accolades for overcoming so much adversity in my life, when in fact I merely survived. It's true that I have worked hard not to repeat my transgressions. To do so takes thorough examination, self actualization, and hard choices. I still feel as though I'm in flux, pushing hard to shed the false beliefs that hold me back. Tragedy, it seems, is easier to weather than the simple changes, life on life's terms.
As for the loft, it took a rare moment of honesty. Feeling cornered I yelled, "Excuse me, in case you two haven't noticed, I don't accept change very well. I love that bed frame. Do you have any idea how many coke binges I've slept off in that bed?"
They both laughed, then proceeded to store the loft in the basement, where it mocks me.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Sitting Duck
I wake to her banging the window and shining a flashlight down on the pond next to the house where the ducks nested during the summer.
“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.
“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.
“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”
I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.
The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.
“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”
Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.
“You can’t be serious.” I said.
“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.
“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”
She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”
She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.
I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”
The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.
“Nope.” I replied.
She smiled, “Good.”
“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.
“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.
“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”
I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.
The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.
“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”
Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.
“You can’t be serious.” I said.
“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.
“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”
She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”
She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.
I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”
The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.
“Nope.” I replied.
She smiled, “Good.”
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