When I took this picture my intent was to focus on the small creek. By chance, I was able to capture the road and the yellow lines that seem to suggest infinity. I love this picture because it reminds me of the beginning and middle of possibility. I created this story to illustrate that possibility the photo has captured. Enjoy this random act of prose...As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.
-Proverbs 23:7
The other day on the way to church I saw a homeless woman on a street corner screaming violently at absolutely no one. She was holding a sign so I assumed she was a panhandler and her clothes were ratted and destroyed. My first thought was that the production she was putting on was all a ruse to invoke sympathy and more donations. This very well could have been true but the conviction she showed while chastising the imaginary person on the street corner standing next to her was extremely convincing.
The human mind is incredible. Since creation, human beings have challenged themselves to adapt, overcome and conquer the world around them. All the while, we have been developing the efficiency and quality of using our most powerful tool, our brain. The imagination has become a mere stepping-stone to reality and the world has become a smaller place because of forward and progressive thinkers. As a father, I have watched my children grow from observing the world to impacting and manipulating it to fit their needs. Being in one’s “right mind” unveils limitless possibilities for the individual and the world in general. Losing one’s mind, in any capacity, makes the impossible an unfortunate way of life.
The woman I saw had obviously been betrayed by her mind. She appeared to be trapped in a virtual prison that I can only imagine was inconceivable to live in and impossible to escape. Though it would be easy to write the woman off as merely crazy, the fact of the matter is that her brain tells lies that mine does not. My brain informs me daily to wake up, perform hygiene, eat breakfast and go to work. My mind is my guide; it helps me to reason and rhyme. It assists me in sifting through the infinite amount of information and stimulation that I encounter daily. I couldn’t imagine living in the contrary.
Imagine your mind insisting to you that there are people who exist that are not there, and that the imaginary people are rude and imposing. A life of complete and utter fantasy can be both disturbing and tiresome. The level of imprisonment for some may not be so extreme. There are those who are so overwhelmed by depression that they have been convinced that life is not worth living. There are others whose mind has bombarded them with thoughts of grandeur and power beyond that of any human being. We have all witnessed the impossible conundrum that putting faith in an unhealthy brain can create.
So do we offer a pass to individuals living in the deception of their minds? Should we understand when insanity becomes normality? To be honest, I don’t know. I find it a hard pill to swallow prosecuting and punishing a person who honestly believes that he is the risen Son of God and that his legacy includes killing his followers. I also secretly weep for the person who attempts to kill themselves so that the voices they hear so clearly in their mind will cease, if only for a moment. I find it equally devastating to allow these individuals to go untreated.
The human mind is a remarkable thing and when it is healthy it holds the tools to answer questions man has pondered since the beginning of time. Equally, it has the power to imprison its owner in a place of solitude and terror. Be careful with your thoughts because they truly will reveal the reality of who you are, regardless of what you think you are.
The Pink House
Damn that house! Damn that pink house!
I see it from time to time when I decide to drive the coast to work and there it is, a pink nightmare! I haven’t stepped foot in the house for over twenty years but I can still remember every nuisance of its pink existence. My stepmother, Barbara-Jo, (who insisted that she be called Barbara-Jo) begged my father to paint the house pink. Not just pink but an eerie, iridescent pink. I hated and still hate Barbara-Jo. I hate her for her false opulence, I hate her for her over-the-top extravagance and most of all I hate her for what she put me through during the fourteen years I lived in that damn house.
My mother passed away when I was the young age of three. Passed away. The terminology seems so inappropriate for the death of my mother. I understand the concept completely, but my mother was not one to just pass away from anything. She was the quintessential busybody and over reactor. All of this I learned from her sister but I can imagine her scurrying around our home fawning over every little detail. The house wasn’t pink then. It looked like a normal house.
Images of my mother exist only in my head because I have no actual memories of her. My father kept no pictures and he refused to say her name much less allow himself to remember her. I only know of one picture of my mother and my Aunt Rose keeps it in a teak, wooden dresser drawer given to her by my grandmother (another matriarchal figure of my family I do not remember.) The picture is of a woman with auburn hair and over sized dark-rimmed glasses. She had a slight overbite that caused her lips to jut ever so slightly upward. Her smile seemed unfinished and her nose crinkled right below the bridge. Beneath her thick lenses sat eyes that were an unfinished blue like a pale amethyst. Her face was slightly freckled and she appeared no older than twenty-five. My Aunt Rose swore she was only eighteen when the picture was taken. That would have meant I would not come into the world for at least four years. Whenever my aunt allowed me to look at my mother’s picture I would compare her face to mine. The only semblance we shared was red hair and the crinkle, which I have grown to adore.
Aunt Rose informed me that my mother’s interloping was a direct result of my father. She insists that before my father came along, my mother was quite reserved and would never dream of meddling in other people’s affairs. My father, a man who shows loyalty to absolutely nothing, would disappear for days on end with no excuse or explanation. Again, my memory of my childhood with my parents is both blurred and unreadable. Aunt Rose contributes all of my mother’s bad attributes to my father. It is no secret that she despises my father and his second wife, Barbara-Jo.
Barbara-Jo. What a character. If you were to close your eyes and imagine the most ridiculous woman in the world, you would have a snapshot into the life and lifestyle of Barbara-Jo. She is living proof that my father had to have taken my mother's death very badly. Everything about her is excessive; her hair, her make-up, her perfume, everything. I learned that my father was having an affair with Barbara-Jo shortly after my mother became pregnant with me. It never mattered because to me she has always been Barbara-Jo. It seems odd that I would completely block the first three years of my life. Most people I know remember snapshots of their youth but I don’t. I only remember the time I spent with Barbara-Jo.
Every morning Barbara-Jo would make breakfast for me. Every morning I sat before a plate of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. Every morning except Sunday morning, when she had to nerve to make pancakes in the shape of my choice. Every day I came home from school and there she was... Barbara-Jo. She would be sitting on the porch of that hideous pink house with an ignorant grin on her face. She would ask me meaningless questions about my day as if she really cared. I hated Barbara-Jo. I hated her because she would never allow me to complete my school projects with out going overboard as she did with everything else. The solar system had to rotate around the sun. The volcano had to erupt bright red food coloring. The poster couldn’t simply read, “Vote for Candace,” it had t be ornately decorated like everything in her life. This was Barbara-Jo. I hated her. I hated everything she stood for and I hated my father for marrying her.
My seventeenth birthday was the night my disdain for Barbara-Jo grew out of control. It was night that my father, a man who drowned his failures and doused his triumphs in alcohol, stumbled into my room. He was holding a large box wrapped in red paper with a large gold bow flanked by little silver stars. I could see that it was Barbara-Jo’s handiwork. My father, a man who stood six feet, three inches when he was sober and able to stand, fell on the edge of my bed as I lay pretending to sleep. He was unshaven and his salt and pepper beard displayed more salt than pepper. His breath was both audible and pungent. I could smell the alcohol fermented on his tongue. His brown eyes were surrounded by a yellow haze and were glazed over as if he was unaware that he was even in my room. He mumbled something and shoved the box in my direction. I half-heartedly smiled and began to peel back the wrapper.
I’ve read stories that wild animals in captivity can be triggered by almost anything and violently revert back to their primitive instincts. I’m not sure what I did or said but my father went from drunken stupor to violent rage in seconds. Before I could say a word he was on top of me swinging his arms wildly, slapping my face. “Why did you leave me?” he garbled. He tore open my nightclothes and began raping me as if he had never seen my face. For what seemed like an eternity my father violated me while muffling my screams with his calloused dirty hands.
The ordeal was horrific and to this day I still shiver at the thought that my father could have violated me. Immediately after my father fell asleep, I ran into Barbara-Jo’s room and locked the door behind me. I crawled into her bed and wrapped my arms around her. I sobbed in her bosom refusing to reply to her constant inquisition, “What’s wrong?”
Finally, I mustered the courage to tell her what happened. Her face was stoic. She didn’t reply. Instead she stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and took my hand leading me back into my bedroom. She wrestled my father to his feet and drug him back to their room. She came back to my room and stood at the door smiling. It had to be at least ten o’clock at night, but I distinctly remember Barbara-Jo still wearing an absurd amount of make-up as she did everyday. The mixture of her Red Door perfume and my father’s drunken must created a malodorous stench throughout my room.
She kissed the palm of her hand and blew the imaginary kiss towards me. She turned off my light and turned and walked away. I must have cried myself to sleep because I remember waking up to the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights chased each other around on the walls of my room. I peered out my window and saw police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck. I ran into the living room to witness two men in uniform zip up a large white bag. I recognized my father’s red nose as the zipper barely traced its tip.
Sitting on the coach was Barbara-Jo, shaking but not hysterical. I listened as she told the police about a man who had broken into our house that night as I slept. She told the police that the man entered their bedroom and demanded their belongings. She reported that she screamed and the masked man fired his weapon through a pillow at my father three times and then turned and ran out of the house. She described the man with great details and paused as she thought of the terrible act he perpetuated against my father. The police officer wrote vigorously in his little notebook and once placed his hand on Barbara-Jo’s knee to comfort her. He turned towards me and Barbara-Jo stood, walked towards me, and placed her hands on my shoulder. She informed the police officer that I was a heavy sleeper and probably didn’t hear a thing. The police officer was satisfied and promised that his crew would finish up as quickly as they could.
I didn’t attend my father’s funeral, but Barbara-Jo did. She tried to convince me that my attendance would be appropriate but I refused. Three months after he was in the ground, I moved out of the pink house and vowed to never return. I’ve never questioned the validity or the details of my seventeenth birthday with Barbara-Jo. All I know is that I hate her. I hate her for not sharing with me the vengeance I believe she exacted upon my father that night. If she was telling the truth about the masked man, I hate her for allowing him to carry out a punishment that should have been reserved for us.
Masturbation has always been a private issue. It is an issue that is rarely discussed and even more rarely admitted to. There are varying beliefs and theories regarding masturbation, but as w all know it has some form of presence in all of our personal lives.
I am of the belief that masturbation is best kept in the proverbial closet with all of my other skeletons. Unfortunately, fatherhood has propped the door of this closet open far more times than I am comfortable with. This time it was my ten year old, Desmond. He approached me in a careful and inhibited manner that made me cringe. Usually when he beats around the bush what follows is a tough question that forces me to dig deep into the realm of my vocabulary to answer. I made a pact with my wife that I wouldn’t confuse the issue with medical terms, nor would I approach any answer with pre-pubescent words like pee-pee and wee-wee. Without being crass, I vowed that I would answer my children’s question about sex in a straightforward and honest manner. That was simple when they were too young to ask. Now at 8, 10, and 12 the questions are becoming harder and the answers more confusing – to them.
So Desmond cocks his head to the side and says, “What’s masturbation mean?” I froze. I took the approach that many parents take when caught by surprise by an inquisitive child… I changed the subject. I responded curtly, “Have you finished your homework?”
“I don’t have any,” he coyly replied.
My wife, my life partner, my best friend, my lover, my ace boon coon, sheepishly turned her back on me and the situation. She offered no assistance and pretended as if she was completely unaware of the conversation. So there I was abandoned all alone to face an inquiry I honestly had no desire to. I would love to report that I reached for my pipe, Ward Cleaver style and invited my son to sit as I eloquently explained a concept that he would become intimately familiar with over the next few years. Well, that’s not what happened. I gave him a short answer that quickly gave him the impression that he had no business asking the question…
“It’s something you shouldn’t be doing, no take out the trash and go to bed!”
What followed was an intense guilt completely overtaking me. I didn’t quickly fix the situation and instead allowed my son to drift off to sleep completely ignorant to a natural part of manhood and life period. It wasn’t until the next day after hours of contemplation that I fixed my inappropriate response. Before I dive into how I responded, I’d like to share my thoughts that raced through my mind…
My first thought was that his innocence was refreshing. I don’t remember asking my mother or father about masturbation. I think I just discovered it as most young men do. Of course, as most young men, I also developed a sense of shame to accompany the euphoria that touching myself brought. Second, I was actually proud that my son thought so much of me to trust his query with me. He could have very well consulted the school’s playground as a credible source (which I’m not sure he didn’t do.) He trusted that his father was reliable and that the lines of communication were open so wide that he could approach me with such a difficult question. Concentrating on my own discomfort, I never considered how he must have felt. Finally, I thought of the aftermath. If I couldn’t handle something as benign as self-pleasure could I really expect him to confront me with his desire to have sex with a girlfriend for the first time? Could I trust that I would be the one to teach him about condoms or sexually transmitted diseases? Would he come to me with his confusion about his sexual identity or his fear that his body seems to have a mind of his own?
Unwittingly, by ignoring the validity of my son’s curiosity I could have driven a wedge between us preventing future opportunities to educate and dispel myths. I could have forced him to believe that STD’s are impossible with oral sex. I could have given him no choice but to surmise that girls are unable to get pregnant while on their period and that you can tell someone has HIV by looking at them. I know these myths exist because at one point in my life, I believed them along with many other ridiculous untruths.
I realized that I had to act. I had to undo my carelessness with haste! I waited until my daughter was asleep and called my son downstairs to have yet another “talk.” I explained to him the meaning and mechanics of masturbation (without getting to explicit and without giving a “how-to” lesson.) I explained that it was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of, however it is polite and good manners to remain private with regards to it. I explained why people masturbated and what the eventual end result would be while referencing previous “talks” about copulation. I explained that masturbation was something to be experimented with in the privacy of his room with the door closed. I also took the liberty of highlighting the changes he would be experiencing over the next few years. I cautioned him about the pitfalls of excessive masturbation. I even managed to work in a hygiene brief (a necessary subject when it comes to boys.) I answered his very thought provoking questions and tried my best to avoid belittling and preaching. He seemed satisfied and rushed off to bed. I prayed that his newly attained knowledge wouldn’t be utilized that evening and more importantly that my willingness to address his concerns would reinforce the bond that we share.
The role of father is becoming increasingly tough as I get older and my children follow. About three months ago I took a picture of my kids and noticed that they looked nothing like the over-sized toddlers that existed in my mind. These guys were becoming little men and women that I would eventually give away and watch walk their own path. It made me shutter to think that my little kids would one day ask for the keys to the car or request a couple of bucks to take out their girlfriend. I’m not sure I’m ready to handle a pimple-faced teenager ringing my doorbell requesting the presence of my daughter on a date.
I know I have no control over my children’s ascension into adulthood but I can only pray that I am able to instill a sense of right and wrong and self-awareness to accompany their journey. I also pray that as they search for the answers to life’s question they will consider me a reliable and suitable reference tool that can freely and openly use without fear. The role of father changes as much as the children in our lives. We as parents must be diverse in our dealings and in our approach. I long for the days where provider was my primary duty. Now I am being multi-task past my comfort zone but honestly, it’s a job that I wouldn’t trust with anyone else.
