memories and remembering

I don’t have a lot of pleasant stories about my childhood. Honestly, I don’t remember a lot of it. I think I’ve blocked out bits and pieces, harder things to remember and to deal with and accept. I get flashes sometimes. And some things I remember vividly that I wish I could forget. I remember the exact flare in my dad’s eyes when he’d go from frustrated to angry. I remember the way his eyebrows bushed over the top of his round glasses, the way they reminded me of horns, and how I often wondered if I had woken up in hell one day, pissing him off simply for existing. That’s not true. I usually did more than just exist. I was too sarcastic and biting for my own good, back then. While the sarcasm never went away, I’ve learned to keep a lot of my comments to myself. A few wallops about the head took care of that.

I remember clearly the day that I broke my right arm. My mom was a 4th grade teacher in my elementary school, which was a nightmare all to itself. It meant that I spent a lot of time at school. When all the other kids went home, I was left there to play the piano in her classroom, to find ways of entertaining myself. I spent a lot of time on the playground. One day, I was feeling particularly daring and tried to go down the slide standing up – in socks. Not a good idea. I’m naturally klutzy anyway, without any assistance tempting fate. I went over the side and landed on my right arm. I told my mother that it hurt. Problem was, I told lots of stories as a kid. Not lies, exactly, more like I was trying to bring my imaginary world to life (more on that later) but…she didn’t believe me. Said it would be fine – seemed to think it was a ploy to get my way and garner attention. I didn’t get much positive attention growing up – it was all negative. I got called out on every single thing that went wrong, whether or not it was my fault. We drove home from school that night, around 7. I couldn’t lay my right arm on the car rest in the car – the vibration was setting my teeth on edge with the pain. I refused to eat dinner, which was not an uncommon occurrence – not because I wasn’t hungry, though – but because my parents required perfect manners, and my arm hurt so much that I couldn’t lift a fork with my right hand. I kept telling both of my parents that it hurt, but my dad was too busy with a football game, and my mother was too busy cooking, then grading papers to pay attention. I cried myself to sleep that night – fifth grade, nine years old. When I woke up the next morning, my arm was the size of a watermelon, and it was blackish-purple. They believed me then. My dad took me to the emergency room – turns out, I didn’t just break my arm in two places –I crushed it like if you step on an upturned soda can. To this day, my right arm is still a bit shorter than my left.

I remember the best memory of my mother as well. I was in 6th grade, and I had to do a country report on Bolivia. I, of course, waited till the last minute, and it was well past my bed time. My mother agreed to help me, and we sat on the couch gluing bits of fuzz onto a map. We were both so tired, we kept almost falling asleep. My mom would get up and run to her room pretending that she was running away and going to bed – I’d get up and chase her into her room and tackle her, and she’d tickle me. My mother’s the only person to this day who can successfully tickle me any time she wants. With other people, I’ve managed to be able to turn it off. Being able to turn off the tickle at will is a skill I’m very proud of. But this continued till about 3 am…one of us running away, the other chasing and tickling until we could get back to work. Remembering that today makes me smile.

My best memories about my father aren’t so clear. Every time I have a moment that makes me smile, I remember what he said to me, and my smile fades a bit. I don’t know why I have such a hard time writing it down…maybe seeing it, written in black and white terrifies me, because it seems more real somehow. Even though I can still hear the inflections in his voice as he said it…still hear the way it came out of his mouth, and the fact that as he was speaking, he managed to accidentally spit on my arm. My father, being a sort-of missionary, this visionary and representative for god in the field…this person who was supposed to be my first idea of god. Failed me. I was adopted when I was 6 months old. My parents were over 40, never were able to have kids of their own (although since my father moved out of the house, and out into the camper in the yard when I was still very young, I’m seeing how conceiving might have been an issue) and had wanted nothing more than a baby the entire time they were married. They got me instead. I’m well aware of what a disappointment I must have been. I wasn’t a good kid. I was a good student, but I was never impressive. I stayed to myself, which was good, because I was a social reject anyway. Going to an all Christian school Kindergarten through my first year of college, and happening to be gay, even though you don’t realize it yourself yet – everyone else does. But this memory was also in fifth grade…a little bit after the arm-breaking incident. I think I was still wearing my fiberglass blue cast, actually. But he said what he said…and I’ll never get the thought of it, the memory of it or the pain of it out of my head. Sometimes when I think of it, I still feel like I’m five. Maybe I always will. But my best memories of my father were all before that. I remember being carried around on his shoulders as a youngster. I felt like the king of the world. I felt more than that. I felt safe, protected, yet on top of everything. I remember the sun shining off the bald patch on the top of his head, and knowing that I was going to be okay. It’s only recently I’ve gotten that sense back. It’s kind of intense.

I didn’t have a lot of hiding spots when I was growing up. For that matter, I wasn’t even allowed to have my bedroom door closed. I had no privacy, no room, no anything. No wonder I rebelled so bad when I was given the chance. I did have that one spot under the rose bushes in the back yard. I think I’ve mentioned that. But mostly, I hid internally. I retreated into my own head, I lost myself in books and fairy tales and stories. I read everything I could get my hands on, because if I was reading, I could lose myself in that world and forget about the one I was in. I could forget reality. I could make my own reality. After a time of reading anything and everything within reach, I came to the realization that I didn’t need a book to escape. So I made up worlds for myself. I filled them full of mythical creatures, and I was one of them. I made up friends, made up ghosts, made up things that could keep me company when I was lonely. I fostered and grew my imagination. I think that’s why I write now. Because that world was my only escape for so very long. I also think it’s why I’ve invented and fostered my own family – close friends, a few people I’ve med on OD…a few people I’ve met other places. They’ve become my siblings, my uncles, my brothers, sisters. People in group that I talk to all the time, we’ve gone from just seeing each other once a week to randomly meeting up for coffee, texting each other – checking in. I built my own family around these people, like I used to build my entire world. Out of bits and pieces of those that get close to me. Those I allow to get close. And now, at this point in my life they’re all coming together into a cohesive unit. One day, they’ll all meet. I’ve had dreams of what that will be like, and I look forward to it a great deal. I’m not sure when I stopped living in my head, and started stepping outside the door of reality into the world. I think, really it was a gradual process. One that I’ll always be grateful for, while recognizing where I’ve been. To this day, the sound of a grandfather clock reminds me of home, and my own personal version of wonderland. And it will probably always make me smile. Banjos too. And I will never forget the sunrise or sunset over the rift valley in Africa. Never. The world is alive with wonder to me now…and my past can’t keep me from my future. I wouldn’t be where I am now, without it – but it doesn’t mean I’m going to allow it to hold me back any longer. These chains are no longer mine – I’m free, and I’m flying.

“and I’m circling the in-between, the life between the certain and the changing – the winter to spring…being open to the beautiful, the real – and the possibilities”