My Grandparents had two kids after I was born. Meredith was born six months and a day after I was born. He was kind of my buddy when we were growing up. When we visited my Grandparents it was always kind of a given that the boys would play together and the girls would play together. Meredith and I always played outside, because we were older. He used to get some pretty cool toys. He had these metal pedal cars that were hot as hell to get into during the summer months, but were alright to get into any other time of the year. These were our hot-rods! These were my ticket to a rebels life and a Hollywood style action adventure. We'd "pave" roads in my Grandparents backyard. We'd imagine elaborate scenarios in which either of us were one the Duke brothers. And we would always enjoy ourselves right up until the moment the sun went down and it was too dark for us to remain outside playing.
Those were fun days and fun memories. We would play cars. We would play cowboys and Indians. We would play in the many different forts and hiding places that we could find in my Grandparents backyard, because they were kind of pack-rats who kept a lot of useless junk. My Grandfather used to build things in his backyard. He built Meredith a stagecoach. He built himself a bar with an adjoining bunkhouse. He had a tool shop and a vineyard. And many times throughout the year, the entire family (and some friends) would gather around my Grandfather's outdoor barbecue to raise a little hell and eat some badly cooked food. This was adventure to me. It was my tradition. It was the formula that shaped my little brain into becoming the rebel and thrill seeker that I had always dreamed about. Freedom felt like being one of the Duke boys and doing whatever the fuck I wanted.
Then I became a teenager!
As I grew older, that thing inside of me started to disappear and started to get replaced by angst. I was growing up in a house with a man that my Mom chose to date regardless of how he treated her children. I hated Mario. I still hate the sorry son of a bitch and he has been dead for many years now. Many of my bad dreams involve him and the psychological torture that he inflicted on me and my sisters over my developmental years. He killed any thoughts of adventure that I had in my head and replaced them with fear. I was afraid to be effeminate, because he and his friends would call me a faggot. I was afraid to were certain clothes, because of how I would be perceived as gay and he didn't want that kind of reflection. I spent most of my formative years doing slave labor, because he insisted that children were meant to do chores and homework. They were not meant to have friends, sleepovers, hobbies, or dreams. His constant mocking and humiliation was so much to bear. I became quite a recluse whenever he was around and I learned how to escape to my room and block him out with music.
It wasn't enough to drown out his incessantly mocking voice with heavy metal music. I had always wanted him gone. We (my mom and my sisters) were always better when he wasn't around. We functioned better when we didn't have to worry about whether or not his judgmental ass would be around. Unfortunately, he was always around. Figuratively speaking, the house belonged to him and we were all his to command. It was hard to get through sometimes. And I am not speaking like "oh the man was mean to me and didn't give me what I wanted....boo-hoo-hoo!" This man was cruel! He was mentally manipulative. He would physically assault any of us for non compliance. He punished us for not being his own children who basically wanted nothing to do with him because of his temperament. He could be a drunk and he could be an asshole. He never left any of us alone and always made every minute of my childhood hell.
Laying in my bed in the late afternoons (or at night) I would escape into my music. Guns N' Roses, Warrant, Madonna, George Michael, Whatever was playing on the radio, I was immersed in it all. When Sebastian Bach (Skid Row) wailed "They call us problem child, we spend our lives on trial, we walk an endless mile, we are the youth gone wild!" I was all too revved up and ready to cause some anarchy. One of the central tenets of my childhood was that I was part of the children of the future. My generation was the generation that was going to go on and change the world for the better. We were the ones that would inherit the world and make it a better place to live in. We were the ones who would run the government and make laws that would benefit the earth. We were the youth of a nation and I was ready to start sticking it to the man (figuratively).
Gen X'ers seemed to have a lot of angsty, youthy anthems. I blame this on glam pop metal and grunge music. For the longest time I couldn't separate myself from the central characters in my rotation of musical choices. I was Dee Snider from Twisted Sister spewing "We're not gonna take it, no we ain't gonna take it". I was Rob Halford crooning "Breaking the law, breaking the law!" I was Sebastian, and Axl, and Robert Smith, and Morrissey, and Madonna, and Janet Jackson, and Jani Lane, and Brian Johnson, and Joey Tempest, and Tom Keifer, and on and on and on! I was living in a movement and I was ready to get my angst out and make a difference. All that I needed was someone to point me in the right direction.
I didn't feel like I was being set up for failure until I started high school and I learned that there really wasn't anyone looking out for me. It was understood that I was to get good grades, pass high school and graduate. It was also understood that I was to do chores and not set the bar too high so that I could accomplish things that didn't involve complicating my Mother's life. And by complicating her life, I mean her boyfriend. There were times when I was involved in special things, like a play or a choir event, that my mom and family attended. If they were events that were convenient for her, then she would be there. If not, then I had to sit them out and miss them altogether. I missed out on field trips, choir rehearsals and performances. I quit band after my sixth grade year, because I lost interest. Mostly because I would have performances that no one ever came to. Plus, I didn't want to be thought of as a loser in junior high for pursing a musical career. Instead, I took shop and art so that I could be like the cool kids. I didn't have the desire for either of those things.
My senior year of high school was a time of liberation for me. I manipulated my class schedule so that I had free hours in the afternoon. I took classes that weren't too hard so that I could graduate with the credits that I needed. I started to come out of my shell a little. I was involved in choir. I was one of two boys that took dance class. I modeled in the high school fashion show. I was ready to start becoming the rebel artist provocateur that I had started dreaming about when I discovered how artists became who they became. I wanted to glamorous life, but I hadn't set any goals on how to achieve getting that life. At home I felt like a prisoner and rarely had someone backing me up or pointing me in any direction that involved following my dreams. If I wanted something for myself, I was going to have to endure the degradation that was handed down to me by my Mom's boyfriend and the humiliation of being labeled the village idiot by my Mom for not getting good grades. Escape was 18 and I couldn't wait.
Discovering after-hours clubs in the early 90's was kind of a good and bad thing. The summer of 1993 my mom and her boyfriend finally split up and for good. I remember coming home from my graduation "trip" and readjusting to living kind of homeless. We all moved in with my Grandparents and kind of occupied the front room while my Mom tried to figure herself out. It was such a weird time in our lives, because at some point we were at an endgame from a life that was snatched away from us. I was no longer in school. My kid sister was busy being a teen Mom. My baby sister was busy being a trouble maker. My mom was trying to work and keep her shit together. My Grandparents were at the beginning of the end of their marriage. Meredith was a fucking asshole. His sister Melody was a conniving little cunt who would steal things. My escape was The Works on the weekends. The Works with Its pulsating house music and Its laser lights and steam and sweaty, writhing bodies. I was all too eager to get dressed up, make my way into the crowded club and dance or jump with my fists in the air whenever they played Rage Against The Machine's Killing In The Name Of. I'd scream and shout "fuck you , I won't do what you tell me!" over and over again and dream of a world in which I could still rebel against the system.
The Offspring would tell me "they don't pay no mind, if you're under eighteen you won't be doing any time. Hey, come out and play!" Garbage was "only happy" when it rained. Limp Biscuit kept "rollin, rollin, rollin". It was a militia of the mind and I wanted my voice to be heard. I still believed that I was going to make a change in the world, but I didn't have a plan on how to do it. All I had were some funky ideas and a notebook that I carried around with all of my writings jotted down in it. I remember when my mom found my book of poetry when I was a teen. I came home and she was thumbing through the pages very inquisitively. I was so embarrassed and I felt a little violated. I didn't want her to know that I wrote poetry. I didn't want her to continue thinking of me as that straight boy who wrote bad poetry about seeing ghosts or envisioning a supposed lover. I definitely didn't want the world to know that I had a bit of a creative side when it came to writing. I suppose it would have been a good jumping off point in the direction of becoming an English major if someone had decided to nurture that talent. I suppose I could have done a lot of things on my own. I was too busy listening to music and incorporating their anthems into how I lived.
I wanted to be the youth of the nation. I wanted punk rock rebel hair and I wanted to distance myself from that little boy who wanted to be on of the Dukes of Hazzard. It was no longer good enough for me to imagine a life of adventure and entertainment. I wanted a life of independence and security. I wanted to start dating and fall in love with someone who shared my ideals. I wanted to buy a house in a historic neighborhood or move to California and live in a beach-side apartment. I wanted to indulge myself in artists and musicians and poets and rebels who had tattoos and piercings. Who grew up listening to crappy southern rock and Hank Williams, but didn't mind a little classical and jazz. I wanted to be free from a life that was hell bent on beating me down. I wanted to find a direction that would lead me out of my fishbowl surroundings. I wanted something easy. Because as much as people say that life is hard and there is no way to escape it, I believed that life was easy for some and I just had to figure out how they were able to do it.
Dancing didn't work.
Drugs didn't work.
Friendships didn't work.
Boyfriends/husbands/lovers didn't work.
Family didn't work.
Work sometimes didn't work.
Singing didn't work.
Writing didn't work.
I was getting older and the light inside of me was/is dying.
Complacency is the killer of all dreams. Until recently I had forgotten how much inspiration I get from writing. It's not the killer high that I used to get when I would pen an epic poem in free verse, but it help get me over the writers block that I had suffered over the better part of ten years. In the back of my mind I still feel like that stupid kid waiting for the land of eighteen and all of the riches that it will bestow upon me. I look in the mirror and see a heavier, grey haired, slightly different version of myself that no longer has anthems. The kids today have so many artists that are more self aware and lovelorn than they are rebellious. Sometimes I can relate. Sometimes I shake my head and think "fucking twelve year olds!" I worry that I will never really find that thing that will work and I will end up just one of the millions/billions of faceless folks on this planet. It's hard enough to feel special, but knowing that you are not as special as some people really kind of sucks. My face, my name, my being is nothing more special than the next person. That makes me want to kill myself over and over again. I am nothing special and I have nothing new to contribute or say. This world isn't set up to give you what you want and it is rigged to deny you the dreams that you have. Hard work will only get you so far. Luck is only for the lucky.
If I manage to make it to becoming an old man, I hope that I will have matured into a better man. I can't say that all of my dreams are dead. Most of them are just a little further away than they used to be. I miss road trips and camping. I miss being a good ole boy. I miss the angst ridden teenager. I miss the nihilist that wanted to destroy the world. I really miss being a boy with a dream. I am reminded that time marches on. I wish I had a better pair of shoes to enjoy the hike.
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