I was eight the first time I
experienced heart-rending fear. We had just been evicted for the first time,
and my mother, brother and I moved in with my older sister. It was summer and she’d
just filed for divorce from her husband.
Their
dog, Mink, was tied by rope in the backyard, next to the garage. He barked viciously
and charged powerfully until he broke loose. I bolted down the long driveway
and didn’t look back until I reached the far end of the block. I remained there
until sundown.
***
Winter
came and I was unprepared. I peered into the snow; tiny drops of scarlet. My first
nosebleed. I panicked and abandoned my playmates for our flat. The spare trees
and statuesque sky betrayed the fabric of time.
***
My
grandfather was a slight, dark, foul-mouthed man who passed before I was born.
He was also a hard drinking auto plant worker. For years, following shift, he’d
get sauced at the bar before coming home to curse out my grandma in front of my
father and his siblings.
Because
of this, my father rejected convention, attempting to escape the genetic shadow
cast by his father. As an adult he became addicted to crack and heroin, but
refrained from ever touching alcohol. He was firm, taught me right from wrong
and began to understand me early on.
We’ve
steadily grown closer over the years.
The
trajectory of my adolescence mirrored that of my father and his father before
him. I was young when I first tasted alcohol, but it never did much for me. I
can pick it up and put it down without issue.
Weed is a
different story. I began smoking at thirteen and tasted liquor for the first
time the same summer. The weed stuck and alcohol remains an intermittent shadow
waiting for the right conditions. I recently decided to pursue sobriety; coming
up on my first month.
***
I was
twenty-one, rushing to trade dollars for coins to use a payphone. It was my
sole means of keeping in touch. The gas station lights blushed against fleeting
twilight.
A
carousel of mental wards, psychiatrists and adverse med reactions rendered me disoriented
and afraid. An unhoused man sometimes stood near the gas station entrance; I
offered him whatever I could spare. Once, I asked him for advice and details
about his plight. He had no one. I told him I was scared and had no solid plan.
He said,
“Just keep on living.”
There was
a highway beside us and I felt like walking in it.
But his
eyes told me, “We all pretend.”
***
Last
spring, I quit my auto plant job. The wages were fine, but the ten-hour shifts
and two-hour commute guaranteed no work-life balance. I was also not taking
care of myself – I gained weight, developed sleep deprivation and was generally
not a happy person.
I also
began to realize that my financial goals were clashing with creative and moral
ones. A few times a week I’d stop and talk with the Socialist, anti-capitalists
demonstrating in front of the plant. They were knowledgeable and opposed to the
exploitation of workers and the unchecked authority of centralized power.
My mom
told me that that my father once had a job in an auto plant but quit after a
brief while. As a teenager, I felt that if he’d done me a disservice; if he’d
stayed in the plant, I wouldn’t have had to suffer such hardships. I silently
scorned him for quitting, believing that my condemnation safeguarded me from
making the same choice.
I failed
to consider that being indoors for long periods of time was torture for my
father. He loves being outside, even during bitter winters in Michigan. In my
frustration, I was selfishly projecting how I thought his life should’ve gone.
I was trying to supplant his autonomy with my own illegitimate contempt.
I
wouldn’t accept any hypothetical that involved my father undermining his own
free will, even if it meant a more advantageous upbringing for me. Him living
an honest and authentic life is all that matters.
***
We were
thirteen and had just met. She thought I wore eyeliner, but my lashes were just
thick. We kissed in the hallway of her friend’s apartment. She moved my hands
from her hips to her rearend. Her lips were soft, but I didn’t understand
anything. Later that night, we spoke on the phone and she told me her boyfriend
was visiting the next day.
My father
came to see me soon after and we got Chinese take-out. Before he left; he asked
why I sounded so sad. I didn’t have the language to fill the gulf between us.
***
Frozen oceans in front of me, serpents lurking in stiffened leaves. A coral mosaic crystallized the anguish. Plundered my conscience for solace only to find doves. Who did not speak but knew who I was.
***
A few days after Mink got loose, my sister’s ex-husband introduced us to one another. I learned that Mink’s vision was poor, and because of this, he relied on his sense of smell more than anything. He became animated as I timidly approached him. He then pressed his wet nose against my outstretched hands, wrists, then my clothes. His tail began wagging energetically when I fed him treats.