The Dad Revisited

 It's hard to believe it's almost a year since The Dad left us. As he had cheated death oh so many times, I guess I assumed he'd live forever. Even having uncontrolled diabetes, eight (he said) heart attacks, a mini-stroke, emphysema, and chronic heart failure, he only missed his 82nd birthday by seven weeks. His orneriness (is that a word?) is what kept him going, I guess. 

Several times each month, I forget he is gone, and I go to call him on the phone to tell him about an exceptional meal I've had. I browse through the thrift store book selection with him in mind, as I sent him a box of books every month from 2014 until, literally the week he went into the hospital after he fell and broke his hip. That seems to be the beginning of the end for so many older adults. I have fallen more frequently than I like to admit (about once every six months) but so far, I've only dealt with bruises, to my chin, my knee and my ego. I'm healthier than he ever was, but as I am the opposite of ornery (truly a delight to all who know me) I may not bypass his 80+ years, but I think I have a good thirty years ahead of me. 

In the last few years, I was privy to the thoughts of The Dad, who usually kept his thoughts to himself, unless they were funny or shocking. He wasn't one for grand pronouncements or emotional outreaches unless they were related to his unhappiness with something. I learned much about growing old and coming to terms with a life that didn't quite go according to plan. Many of those were lessons about what not to do, as opposed to sage advice like he was Morrie, and it was a Tuesday. 

I am JD, the son of The Dad, alike in some ways, markedly different in others. But I could understand what he was trying to say but didn't know how. He couldn't bring himself to apologize for how he treated me, his admittedly odd, oldest son, but I knew what he meant when he said, "I liked living with you the best after your Mama passed on. If you woulda moved to the country, even in California, I'da never left."

For most of my life, I did everything I could think of to make him proud, to feel like I had earned his love. I tried to be who I thought he wanted me to be, but when that was spectacularly unsuccessful, I had to just be me and hope he would be okay with that. I discovered the search for acceptance and validation is genetic, as it was his primary motivator. Most of his emotional blow-ups were directly related to feeling unappreciated or disrespected, even when he was unappreciative and disrespectful to those same people. Me. Us.

My brother Thorn was with The Dad during our last phone call in May 2022. He had slipped into a coma and the doctor told us it was a matter of hours, not enough time for me to fly to Texas. I asked Thorn to hold the phone to The Dad's ear so I could say my goodbyes. I knew what he needed to hear.

Hey Old Man, it's JD. You did good. You had a good life. You were a success, even if you didn't think so, because you always took care of us. I am who I am because of you. I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself. Give Mother a hug from me. I love you.

He held on, stubborn as always, for almost 24 hours, before he left us; on his own terms, wearing his Tractor Supply hat.

The end of an era.

Define 'Extra'

          This past week, I received a text message from my sister of a dump truck with it's bed in the 'up' position, like it was actively dumping it's load.  I was wondering what purpose there was to sharing this with me, when I noticed there were power lines running across the windshield and a utility truck sitting in the road to the immediate right.
          Apparently, the driver of this truck was unaware his bucket (?) was still up when he drove through the bustling metropolis of Vega, Texas, taking with him most of the power lines and the one red light.  Yes, they just have the one.  And it's not a real red light; it just flashes letting you know there is a Dairy Queen and a Subway nearby, I guess.  I'm not sure why they even have it other than Vega is a town on Route 66, which was a big deal back in the day but hasn't really been relevant since the 1980s, somewhat like Steely Dan, Care Bears or Larry King.
          Consequently, the power was knocked out to the entire town, and by that I mean, the 25 houses and two churches, of which one is inhabited by The Dad.  Of course, I'm not talking about the church because he hasn't been to one of those since I bribed him with pancakes back in 2012 when he lived with me.  It was Presbyterian.  They weren't having a potluck lunch.  He has not returned.
          When my sister got to her house, she found The Dad sitting on the front porch, sweating like a field hand (because it's Texas and it's 138 degrees in the shade until sometime nearer Halloween) but smiling.  Knowing he had missed his lunch because the restaurant that makes the meals for Meals on Wheels had lost power and hesitant to engage with a hungry Dad, she said, "Whatcha doin' on the porch?"
          The Dad said, "Oh, some poor fella knocked out the power so I came outside.  I can't read in the dark."
          Still thinking he hadn't eaten she asked, "What did you eat for lunch?"
          He said, "That's the best part.  I got two lunches!"
          She questioned, "What do you mean, two lunches?"
          Looking at her like she was 'slow', he said, "Just what I said.  The Sheriff came by with a lunch and then the Meals on Wheels lady came by with lunch.   So I got two lunches today."
          She said, "Did you ask why they brought you two lunches?"
          He stared at her and said, "Why would I do that?  If somebody hands you food, you take it.  I don't care why they brought it."
          She called her friend Jaylie and found out that when the power went out and the restaurant that makes the lunches for Meals on Wheels and the prisoners at the county jail couldn't cook, the Sheriff drove to the next town and bought BBQ for the prisoners.  Because he knew the Meals on Wheels wouldn't have any food, he also bought food for their customers and delivered it.  Of course, he knew who got Meals on Wheels and who didn't as there are about 24 people in Vega, y'all.  For real.
          Meanwhile, the restaurant found that it had enough provisions to make sandwiches, with fruit and chips and, not knowing that the Sheriff was delivering food, completed their normal delivery route.  It was brought to their attention, not by The Dad, that the Sheriff had already brought meals, so The Dad got an extra lunch.
          My sister, thinking that he still had some of the food, said, "Well, good.  Since you have the extra lunch, I can eat that for supper and I won't have to cook."
          The Dad said, "I don't have any extra food.  What are you talking about?"
          She said, "The extra lunch.  I'll eat it for supper."
          The Dad stared at her and said, "They brought me two lunches so I ate two lunches.  It's what you do when somebody delivers lunch.  You eat it at lunch."
          She stared and said, "But they gave you two."
          He said, "I know.  I ate both of 'em.  For lunch."
         She laughed and said, "Well, you must be full."
         He patted his belly and said, "Yep.  It was a good lunch."
         She sat down in the chair beside him and after a few minutes he turned to her and asked, "What's for supper?"

The Dad is on The Move, Y'all

                The Dad is on the move again, people.  I would have warned those in the states between Ohio and Texas, but he left without much notification, barreling through the Polar Vortex, daring Mother Nature to try and stop him while he made the 16 ½ hour journey only stopping for food and gas.  This time he’s headed to the Texas panhandle to live with my sister and I needed to give her the benefit of my experience with her new roommate.  There is a very particular process for the care and feeding of the Redneck Man.

                When tackling a project of this scope, there are categories of likes and dislikes that are surprisingly specific for a man who will literally take a bite of anything you place in his hand and has been known to wear the same pair of pants for seven days.

                SMELL- He can smell bacon cooking 26 miles away, but cannot smell himself at any point in the say, regardless of level of ripeness.  You need Febreze.  Lots of it.  When you think you've bought more than you should, buy more.  When it gets to the point that people are pointing and laughing at your buggy in The Wal-Mart, buy two more bottles, just in case.  Her GoFundMe website should be up later this week.  I am not kidding.  Fortunately, he has no problem with anyone spraying his chair and, truly, being sprayed himself, unless the scent is Green Apple or Watermelon. 

                FURNITURE – He comes complete with the largest recliner manufactured in America today, a La-Z-Boy.  It will smell, regardless of covering.  His Old Man Smell will penetrate leather, y’all.  He also comes with a power wheelchair, a very fancy reading lamp, a TV and a special chair for Lulu, his Boston Terrier, to sleep in.  I informed the sainted Shontyl that she needs to decide where the chair will be located as that room will then become his bedroom as he sleeps in his recliner and only in his recliner.  Just like his European forefathers, when he plants his chair (instead of a flag) that is where he shall reside, henceforth and forevermore.  

                KITCHEN IMPLEMENTS – He will require a coffee pot; he doesn’t care if it’s fancy or not.  It simply must be able to brew his Folger’s Country Roast every morning.  He will also require a cast iron skillet.  It must be larger than the one you already have.  Regardless of the size of your skillet, it will be too small.  One roughly the size and shape of Oklahoma should suffice.

                FOOD – Fortunately, he will eat anything you put in front of him unless it is spinach, salmon or hummus, which he pronounces as ‘hoo-muss’ and truly believes that is a foodstuff that I invented in my efforts to be fancy.  He will require an extensive amount of red meat or pork, which is plentiful in Texas.  He prefers his steak rare.  Really rare.  And I quote, "Just cut the horns off and knock the 'moo' out."

                TOWN – He prefers a place that is almost not a town.  Somewhere small enough to where people often say, "Is that a real place?"  The boonies is where he wants to be.  He truly loves it when there is an end to a town and then several miles of nothing before the next town starts.  He disliked the Bay Area of California because “town never stopped.”  He was over-joyed to hear that there is just the one main street in Vega, on which sits my sister’s house, a Dairy Queen, a library and a truck stop.  There is a Baptist Church across the street from the Dairy Queen.  Odds are he will not venture there unless they have a potluck on Easter Sunday and even then he'd prefer a to-go plate.

                DOCTOR – He requires a doctor for his myriad ailments and prescriptions.  Fortunately, there is a VA Medical Center in Amarillo, less than 30 minutes down the road.  I may need to give them a heads-up that he’s coming.  They need to prepare.  I informed my sister that she would need to go with him to his first appointment to meet his Primary Care Team and let them know he is an unashamed liar who will only occasionally follow his Dr’s orders because, and I quote, “what do they know?”

                FAMILY –He doesn’t want to see everybody every day, but he wants you close by.  He doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, but he wants to be invited.  He doesn’t want to babysit, but he wants to see the great granddaughters; he now has two.   He is happiest in the boonies with kids and dogs and the occasional cow. 

                It’s going to be interesting to see how this goes.  When he lived with me, it was like Frasier.  Living with my sister will be more like if Uncle Jesse from The Dukes of Hazzard moved in with...well, the closest I can come up with would be Katie Otto from American Housewife.  

              I promise to keep you informed after gathering the pertinent info from my Saturday calls with Shontyl and the Sunday calls with The Dad.

              Somebody should throw up a prayer, or two.  Seriously.

Southern Baptist Side-eye: A Christmas Tale

Opening the passenger door of the maroon Jeep Cherokee, I yelled, “Hey Sissy!” to my sister.  She laughed and yelled back, “Hey Spencer!  Welcome back to the boonies!”  We are visiting Amarillo, Texas, for Christmas. Amarillo is a town I never lived in and it is so far north in Texas, that if states were actual squares, it would be considered part of Oklahoma.  However, do not say that to any of the residents of this part of the state. To say no les gusta, Oklahoma, would be an understatement. 

My sister moved here from East Texas when her daughter (Bailey) married a rancher (Rowel) who manages 50,000 acres just outside Channing, northwest of Amarillo. Since my mother died, I have considered wherever my sister lives to be “home”, as in I’ll be home for Christmas.  Of course, Amarillo isn’t really the boonies; it’s an actual town of almost 200,000, mostly cowboys.  My sister resides in a teeny-tiny town of about 900, situated about 30 miles west of Amarillo.  I joke that it’s about 15 feet from New Mexico, but it’s so close you can see the border as there isn’t much to block your view, the occasional six-foot tall tumbleweed notwithstanding.

                My husband (Tam) and I took the redeye from Los Angeles and we are more than ready to have breakfast at Cracker Barrel, something we don’t have in Southern California.  Sissy had promised queso, grits, iced tea, queso, shopping, then more queso and finally, buttermilk pie followed by just a bit more queso.  For me, home (Texas) is for visiting, eating and shopping, in that order, and the visiting had already commenced.

                Although I grew up in the South and spent several extremely influential years (ages 12-16) in East Texas, I haven’t lived in these parts for almost 20 years, so to say I am “from here” is inaccurate.  However, I would confidently say that I know these people and how and why they think and act as they do.  Tam does not and is somewhat apprehensive, although he visited the first time a year ago. 

Watching the news and hearing people talk about The South, he is concerned about racism as he is from the Philippines.  I have explained to him that Texas isn’t truly a Southern state, but that he shouldn’t worry.  Most small-town Texans don’t have a frame of reference for recognizing the ethnic gradations of Southeast Asia.  They recognize Black, White and Brown.  “If they notice that you’re dark-complexioned, they’ll think you’re Hispanic and other than possibly expecting you to clean something, they won’t give you a second look.” 

As we ate, Sissy reminded us that her little church (First, and only, Baptist) was having their Christmas Service tomorrow and that Victoria, her best friend and the preacher’s wife, was hoping we would attend.  I had assumed this would be the case and had planned our wardrobe appropriately.  I would avoid wearing my brightly colored chinos; not need to frighten the villagers.   Once we exhausted ourselves shopping, laughing and eating everything we can’t get in LA, including introducing Ben to the wonder that is a Fried Twinkie, we headed to Vega and crashed at Sissy’s new house, a scant half-mile from the Dairy Queen.

The next morning, after a breakfast of sausage biscuits (with mine dipped in cane syrup), we started getting dressed.  I had brought an argyle turtleneck in a very heterosexual navy, gray and winter white, with coordinated winter white chinos and grey suede loafers.  It was the least gay cold-weather ensemble I owned, purchased specifically for this trip. I didn’t want to startle the townsfolk at Jesus’ early birthday party.  While I was chatting with Sissy, Tam walked in and asked, “Which sweater, orange or pink?”

I turned to look and said, “I’m thinking orange is less gay than pink, but bright colors are always suspect.  What do you think, Sissy?”

“Oh, orange is fine.  No one is going to say anything.”

“True,” I said.  “Plus, you look great in orange.  And there is only one other person in America who looks good in orange and I feel pretty sure that Lupita Nyong’o won’t be at First Baptist.”

We piled into the Cherokee and made our way literally one mile down the street, traversing the entirety of the commerce in Vega, including the aforementioned Dairy Queen, Dollar General and Allsup’s gas station and deli.  We wheeled into the parking almost knocking down a woman with weather-defying hair, carrying a cake plate.  Bailey rolled down her window and said, “So sorry, Miss Vonda, I didn’t see you there!”  Miss Vonda laughed and said, “The Lord’s protecting me and this cake.  Don’t you worry.” 

We crossed the parking lot and Bailey’s cell phone rang.  She answered and as she talked, she rolled her eyes and said, “Well hurry up.  We’re going inside.”

Turning to me she said, “Bailey and Rowel and the girls are gonna be late.  They just left their house and it’s a 20-minute drive.”

Matching her eye roll, I said, “Good lord.  I thought Bailey was always on time, like me or Mother.”

“She’s a little slower these days, since she had Macy.  Don’t forget Olivia is just three and Rowel can only help with getting Olivia dressed in her gown for bedtime.  It’s one and done. Actual clothes with the hairbows and the leotards and the shoes are not his cup of tea.  Saddling a horse?  Sure.  Dressing a wiggly toddler, not so much. 

“Come on, I see Dakota’s Mom walking in the front door and she wanted to meet you.  She was sick last year when y’all were here.  She loves your books.”

“Oh yeah, I see her.”

“How do you know which one is her?  Y’all never met.”

“Well, that woman right there looks exactly like Dakota, but older.  That’s some strong DNA.”

We slipped into the sanctuary and sat on the next to the back row, on the end by the back door.  I always have an escape route; I don’t trust America.  We were right in front of Dakota’s mother and as I didn’t see anyone’s coat or Bible saving their spot, we appeared to be in the clear.

Victoria came over to say Hi, with her three kids (Nehemiah, Ariel and Noah).  She gave me a hug and said, “Why are y’all sittin’ so far back?”  Hugging her right back I said, “Once a Baptist, always a Baptist.”  Preacher’s wives have to sit on one of the first two rows as they are theoretically interested in what their spouse if preaching.  The wife of the Chairman of the Deacons sits on the next row back.  These are just the rules in a Southern Baptist Church. 

We turned around and said hello to Mom of Dakota (Marjorie).  Sissy said, “Hi, Miss Marjorie, this is my brother Spencer.”  Turning to Tam, she said, “And this is my…Tam.  Our Tam.”  She looked panicked as she almost said, “Brother-in-Law”.  I laughed and said, “Yes!  Our Tam is just the best” and gave him what I thought was a manly punch on the arm. 

We hadn’t discussed how to introduce Tam and we didn’t realize it until Sissy was in the middle of the introduction.  I know that we should have just been honest but there is no need to bring up all that stuff when we are only at their church for an hour every year.  You never know if people are open-minded or not, so I don’t feel the need to poke the bear, as it were.  However, I noticed Marjorie look at my wedding band and look at Tam’s matching wedding band and give herself that knowing nod and us a sweet smile.  No flies on her.

We sat down, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, what I thought was my mother.  I knew it wasn’t her as she died almost 19 years ago, but the woman looked so much like her that my breath caught in my chest. 

I turned to Sissy and said, “That woman looks just like Mother!”

“I know,” Sissy said.  “The first Sunday we were here, I hugged her before I could stop myself.  She was so flattered when I told her why, so she hugs me every Sunday.”

“I totally want to hug her, too.”

“Right?” Sissy said as she called her over.
                “Miss Libby, this is my brother Spencer, from California.  I just love your sparkly sweater.”

“Well thank you, sweetie.  I find that the older I get, the more glitter I need,” Miss Libby said, laughing.  “Turning to me, she said, “Do you want to give me a hug, darlin’?”  I really did and so I did.

Tam didn’t understand what had just happened and when I was trying to explain, he said, “Don’t most people simply say hello to someone they only just met?”

Sissy and I laughed.  I said, “If they’re not Baptists.” 

Once we sat down and the service started, we were treated to a Christmas song or twelve. I swear, I think everyone at the church besides Sissy, Tam and I either sang a song or played the piano.  Sitting between me and Sissy were Olivia (they had finally arrived with Olivia interrupting the preacher by yelling, “Hey GiGi!” as soon as they saw us) and Victoria’s daughter, Noah and their kiddie accoutrement, consisting of toys, books, snacks and other Sunday School debris. 

Once we sat down, they had passed out candles for the Candlelight Ceremony that would end the service.  Unfortunately, in a rookie move, I laid mine down with all the kid stuff, so when the lights were turned off, I had to go on a treasure hunt, just to be able to participate.  Church is like the movies, so I didn’t want to turn on my phone, so I started picking through the things on the bench and lifting them up to the little light coming from the narthex behind me.  It took me a few minutes to sort through a water bottle, coloring book, candy cane, toy horse, a second toy horse, the rider of the first toy horse according to Noah, a children’s Bible and finally my candle.

Right when they started lighting the candles, I remembered a service when I was in high school where one of the kids accidentally caught her hair on fire with her candle and my mother hurdled over two pews like she was Gail Devers in the Olympics, to put out the hair-fire.  As soon as she did that, all the kids handed their candles to their parents. 

For some strange reason I got the giggles and before I could stop myself, I let out one quick snort.  Although it was dark, I could feel Bailey cut her eyes in a very judgmental way, just like a Mom.  Nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus” like candlelight, stifled giggles and a dash of Southern Baptist side-eye.

Happy New Year, y’all.

"Footloose" was a Documentary, Y'all

                Just like Kevin Bacon’s character in Footloose, I have been dealt harsh punishments from good Christians related to dancing in a place thought to be inappropriate.  It was a cook-out at a lake.  Allow me to explain.

                My aunt and uncle had a ranch just outside the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population (allegedly) 1,100.  I’m unsure who or what was deemed as ‘population’, but based on my time living there, this included dogs, blackbirds and, when necessary to get up the numbers back up due to someone’s death, tractor tires. 

The specific location of the ranch was Rosalie, an even tinier community as far away from the Bogata Baptist Church as it takes for someone (usually me) to sing the country super-group Alabama’s hit “Love in the First Degree”, if you held the last note for a good 30 beats or so.  This must be done from either the open bed of a pickup (Ford or Chevy depending on your inclinations) or the open truck of a Lincoln Town Car, depending on who was driving.  Those who are surprised must not be familiar with my background as the lead singer of The Pine Branch Boys, when I was in the 8^th Grade.  I have carried the baggage of celebrity for a long time, y’all.

As there isn’t much to do in Bogata, much less Rosalie, there were often activities planned for the youth at church that included inventing new reasons to eat outside at night.  I don’t know if this particular cookout was to celebrate the fact that it gets dark at night or that it was summer or something equally mundane, but cookout we did, on the banks of Lake Providence West. The original Lake Providence was in Northeast Louisiana, where my parents grew up and met and I and my sister were born, after an appropriate lapse in time, thank you.  This body of water was much, much smaller but we were homesick, I suppose.

Once we started the fire, ate our hot dogs and s’mores (in which the chocolate never melted from the heat of the marshmallows, regardless of how hard those commercials try to convince you is possible), most of the adults retired to my aunt and uncle’s home, about a mile away, on the other side of the Irby Dairy Farm, possibly to escape the noise and Christian antics of a baker’s dozen Baptist youth.  I never saw an aerial view or drawing of my relative’s ranch but, based on the fact that we had to drive through the dairy farm to go from one side of the ranch to the other, the Irby’s land was the hole in the center of the donut of my extended family’s acreage.

Someone had brought their jambox that also had a radio (remember those?) and we found a station playing what we had been told was the devil’s music.  You may remember them as The Go-Gos. 

As heathens are wont to do, some of us started dancing, only two of us with any rhythm.  Baptists are not known for being rhythmic in any capacity and rarely use the word as it sounds ‘dirty’.  It was innocent fun and ended rather quickly due to God being omnipresent and, therefore, lurking somewhere nearby we assumed, but I had seen a new dance move by one of my cousins that intrigued me.  I saved her from recrimination then and I am steadfastly loyal even now.  As all innocents do, right before their undoing, I asked for and received a quick lesson and mastered the rudiments if not the dance itself. 

The next morning, after breakfast back at the house, the adults were in the living room chatting.  The teens and really tall 12-year-olds were in the kitchen performing some sort of child labor and singing, I assume, Hard Knock Life (from Annie) as you do when you are feeling overworked and underappreciated, when something came over me.  I don’t know if it was the devil himself or too much socializing with The Methodists, but I took my new dance step out for a test drive.  Any sin committed in the dark is quickly exposed in the light and I was caught red-handed or rather red-footed by one of my aunts.  When she asked, heatedly, what I was doing, I said, “Dancing” as ashamed as an Amish teenager on Rumspringa, y’all.

I was summoned before the tribunal, otherwise known as my mother, grandmother, other aunt and uncle.  They demanded I give a full account of the activities including, if possible, at which point we had headed down the path of unrighteousness, a demonstration of the sinful movements and a list of fellow sinners and/or witnesses.  My crazy aunt tried not to laugh; the other members were as serious as a spelling bee, people.  I felt like someone on trial, which I most assuredly was.    

Have you ever had to complete a brand-new dance move with no accompanying music, while crying, on a Saturday morning in the living room of a single-wide trailer in Northeast Texas?  No?  Trust me when I tell you this is humiliation on an epic scale, especially when there is the very Biblical wailing and gnashing of teeth inside your head.  Silent, internal flagellation will throw off your rhythm something fierce, y’all, especially when you are trying to modify the dance move into whatever is least likely to get you cast into the Lake of Fire. 

Apparently, I felt stomping my foot really hard in one spot, like I was either ‘pitching a fit’ or squishing a bug, was the least offensive move I could make.  The tribunal scoffed and peppered me with more questions, demanding to know if that was really all that happened and instructing me to reveal my co-sinners.  Tearfully, and with a confidence I did not feel, I lied; like the heathen that I was.  I started wondering what it would be like in the Outer Darkness, where I was about to be cast.  I hoped there would be at least a night light as I was scared of the dark, y’all.  For real. 

Based on every After-School Special I had ever seen, starring unknown British kids with bad haircuts, I knew I had only tasted the sinful freedom of dance.  My punishment was the tried and true ‘whooping and solitary confinement’, which in a single-wide trailer was more akin to ‘don’t you dare look at anybody or have fun in any way’.  Even though I was unused to much punishment, being as close to Jesus as one can be wearing Husky-sized Tuffskins and hand-me-down cowboy boots, I was able to cope with the repercussions of my mistake.  But, in my heart-of-hearts, where all my secrets were kept, I knew I had to keep dancing; not so much for the love of movement, but for the opportunity to excel.  If dancing was to be my ultimate downfall (as was verbalized by someone in the tribunal – I was too teary-eyed to make out who), I wanted it to be for something a bit more decadent and/or impressive than the Electric Slide.

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Definitely Fast, Not Necessarily Furious

              As we have previously discussed, on an average day the Light of Jesus shines from my face, y’all.  It’s true.  However, when you put me behind the wheel of a conveyance, be it automobile, moped, roller skate, bean truck, you’d be hard-pressed to believe I have ever entered a place of worship, much less have a relationship with God.  This is apparently genetic as The Dad and The Sister are aggressive drivers.  Even my sainted Mother, while never actually angry, drove with a heavy foot.  And I mean heavy; she once got a speeding ticket in Oklahoma on a highway with no posted speed limits.
                My recent trip to Red River County (TX) brought to mind an astonishing number of car-related memories with my sister considering she had her driver’s license for only the two years we lived in Paris.  In her defense, in those two years, we did commute 60 miles round trip from our home in Paris (TX) to the high school in Bogata, as my parents promised each of us that we could finish high school where we started, in direct conflict with our gypsy ways.  Let it be noted here that my sister was able to attend the same school for all four years of high school.  My brother was able to attend the same school for junior high and high school.  I, however, had to change in the middle of high school, even though I swear I’m not bitter or anything. 
                Once we had moved to Paris proper, I desperately wanted to go to Paris High; people there wore argyle and penny loafers; I had seen them at Mirabeau Square (or Malibu Square according to the Strawn Twins of Bogata proper), the local shopping center, home of Belk and JC Penney, where I was to procure my first pair of Reeboks, parachute pants and monogrammed button-downs. I was convinced there were many Blaines (from Pretty in Pink) at Paris High, knowing full well that I was more like a chubby Ducky than anyone else in that movie.  I preferred to think of myself as a male version of Molly Ringwald’s Andy, but we all know I used to suffer from delusions.
             My parents reply to my plea was, “Your sister wants to go to Rivercrest and you have to ride with her because it’s unsafe for a girl to drive that far alone.”  To Rivercrest we went, never once seeing the river or the crest for which the school was supposedly named.
              During those commutes, we had every sort of incident you could imagine while commandeering an array of used cars, which were replaced with alarming frequency.  I’m not sure if my parents accepted old cars as a form of payment for the apartments my mother managed, but we had a different car every couple of months, it seemed.  During this time, we drove a 1974 Buick Regal whose tailpipe would pop and spit flames if you punched the accelerator to pass someone, which happened every couple of miles as my sister’s goal was seemingly to be “ahead”; of everyone, I assumed. 
            This same car was what my sister was driving when we were pulled over for going 92 in a 55 MPH Zone and she cried her way out of a ticket, being told only, “Slow down, now.”  This will work only for women, dudes.  Trust me. I say that because I tried to cry my way out of a ticket once in Mississippi and the trooper accused me of being drunk and threatened me with arrest.  As it was 1989, I guess they didn’t have tasers, yet.  I’m sure he would have used his had the technology been available to him.
            Not long after that, we changed to a 1968 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with faulty brakes; a fact unknown to us at the time; at least until we tried to stop at that little store/lawn mower repair shop near Deport one morning.  When we attempted to slow down to turn, I was riding shotgun (in the front seat) while my sister drove, and my brother sat in the back seat.  
             I feel sure at least I wasn’t wearing a seat belt as, when the brakes failed, and my sister sailed through their little parking lot, skidding to a stop sideways, almost in the ditch, I sat up and found myself to be in the back seat with my brother as if we were being chauffeured to school.  I was lucky the Oldsmobile company had created a car so large you could host a Potluck Luncheon in the back seat and covered everything in thickly padded “leather”; I had no visible bruises other than to my ego as it was obvious that I was the source of the majority of the screeching sounds, not the brakes as you would guess, because my screeches didn’t stop as quickly as the cars.
             We also drove, at one point, a 1976 Caprice Classic Estate wagon, the size of which cannot be understated.  It was literally the size of a Winnebago or an 18-wheeler from JW Hunt.  You can Google it, I’ll wait.  We had no interesting adventures in this particular car, it was just embarrassing to own.  Really?  You’re expecting a mature attitude from a teenager in the 80s wearing three Swatches, parachute pants and a pair of double-tie Kaepa tennis shoes?  Ducky is dramatic, y’all.  It’s a thing.

Career Geography, Part 3

Once I made it to DC, I entered a world that was part old school boy’s club government and part cutting-edge government.  It was an interesting time.  My boss told me he wanted me to get married, buy a house and start a family, so I wouldn’t be tempted to leave.  He really did want me for the long haul. It made me feel secure, but I also made a joke about not realizing I was supposed to get married already and I apologized for the delay and promised to “get right on that”.  I was used to being in the closet and had no problem simply pretending that I was either too fat or too ugly to find a girlfriend.  It’s what you do, when you are of a particular persuasion.

My first task was to train my co-worker Neal in all things Prosthetics.  We spent the first month or so, in side-by-side cubicles (waiting for our offices to be remodeled) while I regaled him with my abundant knowledge.  Not really.  We did become fast friends, bonding over fried foods and Star Wars. At one point I sarcastically referred to him as ‘Junior’, since he was eight years younger than me.  He responded by calling me ‘Scooter’, for reasons known only to him.  I laughed, but when he introduced me to his girlfriend, Jenn, as Scooter, it became my official east coast nickname.  In DC, as well as Central TX and Central PA, I was (and still am) called Scooter.  So much so, that at their wedding in Savannah, GA in 2011, Jenn’s mother (the incomparable Toni Montgomery Grupp) heard someone call me by my name and asked me, “Who’s Dustin?”

I was suddenly thrust into a position where I was making presentations to large groups of people across the country as well as working directly with people who had been in the VA longer than I had been alive.  The speeches caused me no concern; however, I struggled with the one-on-one interactions with people who didn’t think I had “paid (my) dues”.  A talent for self-deprecating humor, while not necessarily great for my confidence level, gave me an edge over my fellow youth with these Baby Boomer, especially when it was coupled with my middle-aged body shape. 

During this time, I was diagnosed with sarcoidosis, the lung condition that had led to my mother’s death in 2000.  In my initial shock, I never questioned my doctor’s prescription of 60 mg of Prednisone (a steroid) per day.  It caused my physical state to crumble at an astonishing rate.  I began to gain weight almost daily.  The weight gain exacerbated my already painful arthritis.  I had flashes of heat (like I was experiencing menopause) and of anger.  My best friend, Christopher, was my roommate and de facto nurse, having changed his mind about a career as a chef in France, opting to move to DC instead of returning to Mississippi.  I also became diabetic but as my doctor had tested me before the steroids (and I was not diabetic), he didn’t treat it as he assured me it wasn’t diabetes causing my symptoms.  When I finally visited the emergency room after a particularly brutal day, they tested my blood sugar and it was 600.  To give you a frame of reference, Patti LaBelle went into a coma when her blood sugar was 500. 

I quickly switched doctors and he began to slowly wean me off the steroids, but he told me I needed to move somewhere with better air quality; less pollution.  He repeatedly told me, “DC is a tidal basin, swirling with pollution, Dustin, you’ve got to move.”  I mean, what do you do with this information?  I couldn’t just tell my boss, “Thanks for the life-changing opportunity.  Remember when you said you didn’t want us to be tempted to leave?  Well, I’ve got this doctor’s note…” 

But, you do what you have to do and when I explained to Mr. Downs the situation, he was very supportive and told me there was an available position in VISN 1, in New England.  VISNs, you remember from the last post, are like regions.  VISN 1 comprised eight medical centers in six New England states; the main office being housed on the campus of the Bedford, Massachusetts VA, about 25 miles north of Boston.  So, I traveled to Bedford, interviewed and was selected for the position of VISN Prosthetics Manager.  In between the five hour-long interviews required for the position, over the course of one day, I chatted (and bonded) with Marion Felix-Jenkins, who would become a very close friend.  Several people told me I should live in Nashua, New Hampshire, because they had no state tax and no sales tax. 

Nashua is called the “Gateway to NH” because it literally sits on the border, at Exit 1.  It is so close to Massachusetts that the southern-most section of the parking lot of Nashua’s Pheasant Lane Mall is actually in Massachusetts.  My commute would be about 15 miles each way, which took about 20 minutes, if you left early enough.  Much, much better than DC traffic to be sure, but as it was January in New England, there was snow; lots and lots of snow.  So much snow that a little over a month after we arrived, Valentine’s Day weekend, there was a blizzard. 

No one seemed to be bothered by what I considered to be very heavy snowfall.  I guess it was the trauma from the Lake Effect Snow in Cleveland, but when my car was almost covered by noon, I said, “I’m from Mississippi and this snow is crazy and I’m going home!”  The commute that normally took 20-30 minutes, took 3 hours that day, including the 10 minutes or so it took to loosen my fingers from the death-grip I had on the steering wheel as I was determined to avoid the ditch like so many others I saw. 

One of the things I have learned in my career is that if you want to find out how to improve things, ask the people who are doing the work.  So, I made a quick tour of the eight facilities, meeting my new staff and asking what they needed from me, what plans they had to improve their metrics (I had researched their data and knew there were significant challenges) and where they saw themselves in the next five years.  I listened and learned and let them try their ideas.  Most weren’t successful.  I had some ideas myself and introduced them at a joint meeting.  Not everyone liked my ideas, so I made them a deal.  I would give them one month to make improvements in their metrics using their ideas and if there wasn’t any improvement, they would agree to try my ideas for one month.

When only on facility showed any improvements, we implemented my ideas which I based on the reviews I had made at all facilities within my first month.  I put together a program that focused on standardizing work processes, redesigning their compliance systems and focusing on face-to-face training for the staff) and had immediate improvements.  We went from one of the worst performing VISNs to one of the best in a span of three months.  We even had one facility (Togus, Maine) that was selected as Prosthetics Service of the Year for the entire VA nationwide. 

These results caught the attention of my VISN’s leadership who selected my program as a Best Practice.  They submitted my ideas and results to Central Office and I made a presentation to a whole lot of important people via teleconference, including the Deputy Under Secretary for Health for Operations and Management, who named me a Best of the Best Practices for VA.  I then made another presentation to even more important people in DC.  While I was succeeding in my career, my health was continuing to spiral.  I was trying to manage my diabetes, but my weight had ballooned to 400 pounds and I developed neuropathy.  I also developed sleep apnea.  I was physically exhausted many days and would nod off each time I stopped at a red light when I was driving.  This was not going to end well.

Fortunately, a taping of 60 Minutes in the offices of the guys who accidentally invented the Segway, would change my life in unforeseen ways.

Through the Drinking Glass: My Trip to Heather Land-land

               Last weekend I had to the unique opportunity to attend a comedy show with literally every woman in Red River and Lamar Counties (in Texas) along with four or five of their inebriated spouses.  I say inebriated as they were selling beer along with sangria, margaritas and hurricanes.  I wasn’t surprised, I guess, people love a good drink at a concert.  The crowd was, in a word, lively.  And seeing as how Heather Land herself was wearing a head band, Def Leppard t-shirt and ripped jeans (an interesting look for a 42-year-old mother of two, said my inner old lady), it seemed to fit. 

                I am somewhat familiar with Ms. Land’s comedy.  I say somewhat when what I mean is I have seen one of her videos; you know the ones where her eyes and mouth are disturbingly large, and she complains about stuff and it’s funny.  And she always says her catchphrase, which was splashed across black t-shirts she was selling, “I Ain’t Doin’ It!”

                The doors opened at six and the show was supposed to start at 7:00 so by 6:53 the audience had started to get “tow up” and I had the time to take my eyes away from the magnificent hairdos all around me and noticed a keyboard on stage.  Does Ms. Land sing, I wondered aloud?  No one seemed to know.  Everyone was wearing flowy blouses, tight jeans, chunky jewelry and buying a disturbing amount of Ms. Land’s unimaginative “I Ain’t Doin’ It!” t-shirts.

                As the clock neared 7:15 I was hungry as we hadn’t eaten in at least two hours during this marathon weekend visit/book tour (buy my book ‘Almost Odis’ on Amazon right now, y’all) but the only option for food was the ubiquitous nachos often found in these venues.  I wasn’t in the mood, so I ate the contraband Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg I had stowed in the inside pocket of my sport coat.  I am prepared like a Boy Scout, people.  Well, more like Chunk from "The Goonies", but whatever.

                Finally, at 7:20, Ms. Land came out and she was truly funny.  I didn’t really know what to expect but I laughed a lot. She didn’t say her catchphrase, but she had great material, excellent timing and I was enjoying the show. One of the more elderly and intoxicated in the audience started talking out loud and disrupting the show and Ms. Land tried to intervene and stop her.  At one point this woman got down on the floor (to crawl? to faint?) and when some guy came to remove her, her friend (clothed in a nautical striped blouse with bell sleeves) abandoned her friend and decided to stay. 

At one point she mentioned her unsuccessful music career and I realized she was about to share with us a song or twelve.  I felt a little apprehensive, like when you go to see a one-hit wonder from the 80s and you expect them to play their one good song and they start with, “How about something from the new album”.  No, members of Yes, I don’t want to hear a 22-minute progressive rock song, I want to hear, “Owner of a Lonely Heart”.  

She begins to play piano and sing, and I was pleasantly surprised that she had a beautiful voice.  As she had been high energy in her routine, I was expecting something vaguely happy and/or bouncy.  What we got was a post-Lilith Fair Sarah McLachlan with songs so plaintive and haunting it made me want to go out and adopt a shelter puppy.  I mean, even with her obvious talent, this music was melancholy, y’all.  Then she played what she said was another song, but I couldn’t tell the difference.  Then she had an intermission.  At a comedy show.  Maybe she was overwhelmed from her own songs.  Who knows. 

                As this intermission was unexpected most people just stayed in their seats which gave me a clear path to the concession stand.  By this time, I was actually hungry, so I had resigned myself to eating nachos.  When I got to the stand, I discovered I could get a combo plate of nachos and meatballs and gravy.  On a paper plate.  Not in a nacho boat or a bowl.  Because that’s what you feed people at an event where there are no tables and they have to eat in their lap.  Do they think they are Ikea?

                After the intermission she returned for more comedy, this time it had a bit more bite as it was about her divorce and life afterwards, but it was also about church and Jesus.  I guess those things pair well in Heather Land-land.  Then there were more songs so heartrending it sounded like the soundtrack to a Nicholas Sparks movie, except, if possible, more sad.  Then she played a Christian song which I’m okay with but bookending Jesus with sangria didn’t seem very Evangelical, which this audience most definitely was.  But they were really into it.  

                At the first note, after Heather said the song was about God, Miss Nautical Bell Sleeves (friend of the removed drunk) immediately stood and raised her right hand in praise, having gotten The Spirit mixed in with the spirits.  It was a bit much to take but I was too weighed down by the meatballs to protest.  At the beginning of the second verse, a foursome of friends drunkenly stood, arms linked in an awkward cheerleader/sorority Jenga fashion and it apparently inspired Sister Bell Sleeves to go full on touchdown for Jesus with both hands in the air, in praise or for balance, I wasn't sure.

                At this, one of our companions (I won’t say his name but it rhymes with Tim Wood) abruptly stated, “I’m outta here” and left.  I concurred and followed as the show came to a close.  My first foray into Heather Land-land will be my last.  I have no issue with alcohol, sad music or a little bit of Jesus, but I’d rather have them individually, not grouped together.  I mean, what am I, The Grand Ol' Opry?

It's about to get real up in here, y'all

                As many of you know, I have been blogging about my Dad living with me for almost two years.  I can’t believe it’s really been that long but it has.  Twenty one months to be exact.  Now, I didn’t really know what to expect when he arrived but I figured it would be blog-worthy, hence the blog; thank you Liz Shellman for planting that seed.

                Now, it has not been an easy transition as regular readers have learned but it also hasn’t been as bad as it could have been.  Granted my Dad is not the easiest person to live with and while I understand that he is still, after 13 years, grieving the loss of my mother, there are personality quirks that he possesses that I get and there are those that continue to confound me week in and week out.

                In full disclosure, I have admitted some of my own quirks like the all-consuming need to have a house that smells ‘pretty’ and feels ‘fancy’; two phrases to which my father likes to roll his eyes ever so sarcastically.  He reminds me of a dramatic teenager.  He reminds me of, well, me when I was in my mid-to-late teens.  My early teens were much more about being loved by all and sundry and I was more obsequious than anything.

                My 15 years in federal healthcare has given me insight into what many veterans of his generation think, feel and expect.  But it wasn’t until recently that I even considered that his life-long anger may have been undiagnosed PTSD.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is something that you read about, hear about on TV with those returning from war in the now and even the subject of a couple of movies, mostly on Lifetime and usually starring Meredith Baxter-no-longer-Birney-now-a-lesbian. 

                It had never occurred to me that he might have a legitimate reason to be angry and distrustful.  I never really gave much thought to why he is almost agoraphobic and seems scared of the world in general.  I always assumed he was just a chip off the old block as his father was someone who, for the longest time, was my frame of reference for cruel and hateful.  And I never really stopped to even think of why he would be so unhappy; that he truly hated himself, as he admitted me to me one evening.  When I asked him why he hated himself, he seemed confused and asked me, “don’t everybody hate themselves?”  To which I answered, “No, they don’t.  I don’t.  And you shouldn’t”.  What I didn’t say was, I did until I turned 40 and finally decided that I was who I was and if people didn’t like me, I was far too old to care about that.  Jesus understands me and that is all I needed to know.  That Jesus understands my Dad was something that I really put no effort into broaching as a subject.

                I know that some have asked if I feel I make fun of my Dad in my blog and I initially was defensive, stating that I was simply reporting facts, not trying to make fun of him.  When in all honesty, there was an edge to the humor; a need to distance myself from him and who I thought he represented.  For so long I didn’t want to be from where I was from.  I didn’t want to be from a family that was lower-middle to middle-middle class, depending on the job situation.  I didn’t want to have so many relatives who had been to jail, who lived in trailers, which I did and still refer to as pre-fabricated housing because it sounds funny and I can then laugh at ‘those folks’, not realizing I was hurting people who are good people in difficult financial straits.  As if money is any indication of the quality of a person.

                I always wanted to be somebody other than who I was.  I never saw what was so great about me; what was so special.  I never put much thought into whether I was smart or funny or ambitious or loyal or any of those traits that I have come to appreciate.  I was only focused on what I didn’t have, which was money, looks and self-esteem.  Truth be told, I wasn’t aware of self-esteem enough to know I didn’t have any.  Like my father, I thought everyone hated themselves.    Awareness of this destructive mindset came much later upon inward reflection due to the honesty of friends from high school and college.  You know who you are and I love you very, very much.

                Growing up gay (and so far in the closet I was almost homophobic) in a Southern Baptist family in Texas and Mississippi wasn’t the easiest thing to do, to be sure.  But when I told my Dad at the ripe old age of 24, he said he already knew and he didn’t care.  It was not the reaction I expected and for some reason I never really appreciated how hard that must have been for him.  I already wasn’t the son that he expected as his oldest; his namesake (loyal readers already know how close I came to being Terryll Odis Thompson III).  As I’ve previously discussed, I was the plaid koala bear in my family and after a childhood of trying to fit in, I have spent most of my adult life trying to not fit in with the countrier of my relatives, to the point that my nieces and nephews are apparently under the impression that I spent my childhood at boarding school or some other elsewhere and want to show me how to ride a horse or drive a four-wheeler.  When I remind them that I actually knew how to do all of those things, they seem confused as if a member of the royal family had suddenly appeared next to them at the Dollar General, buying generic aspirin and Little Debbie snack cakes.

                June is Gay Pride month, for those of you who don’t know.  And I attended the parade and festival in San Francisco, with some friends.  My surprisingly supportive father asked why I had never attended Pride and I told him, half-jokingly, that in order to attend a Pride event, one would need to be proud.  And until very recently I was most certainly not proud.  I wanted to be gay even less than those members of my family who are still not supportive and those who until this very moment didn’t have confirmation.  I apologize for springing this on you, although to be fair, how surprised could you be?  You’ve met me before.

                From the ages of 12 through 40, I was your typical self-loathing Southern Baptist homosexual the likes of who publish painfully narcissistic, poorly realized coming of age memoirs with prodigious efficiency.  This disclosure also helps explain why I talk and dress ‘like that’.  I won’t go into any memoir-y reflections today (you’ll have to wait for the publication that you know is forthcoming).  Suffice it to say, I had spent so much time thinking about my issues I never really gave any thought to anyone else’s; especially my Dad’s.

                And I realized that as much as I expected him to hate me, he didn’t.  And I never gave him credit for that.  Unfairly, I gloss over the fact that my mother went to her grave devastated and convinced that I was wrong about my orientation.  So desperate for her “sweet, precious boy” to be normal, she tried to find me a girlfriend, in the form of her nurse, as she lay dying in the hospital.  It took me more than 10 years to find it within myself to feel as if I wasn’t a walking disappointment and to actually think I was worth something.   

                 And the whole time my Dad was steadfast in his support, constantly saying he loved me and didn’t care that I was gay.  And for some reason I didn’t care that he didn’t care.  He had his role, written in my teenaged mind, and I refused to allow him to re-write it.  I took all my hurt out on him.  How do you apologize for something like that?

                As much as I expected him to toe the line when he moved in, he didn’t.  He also didn’t try to get on my nerves and has been exceptionally accepting of the changes I have forced upon him.  He eats what I cook, he voluntarily washes dishes and recycles with the fervor of a dyed-in-the-(fair trade)-wool tree hugger.  He even acquiesces to my request for him to wear something other than his house shoes (slippers to my Yankee friends; scuffs to my friends in Lafayette County) to the Wal-Mart when, truth be told, who cares what he wears?  I should just be happy he’s still around.  And I am. 

                What I wouldn’t give for one more minute with my mother.  And I am keenly aware that I have a limited amount of minutes with him as he approaches his 72^nd birthday later this month.  Why can’t I just enjoy what he wants to do?  Why do I have to put so many parameters to our relationship?  I know we aren’t what the other necessarily wanted in a father/son, but we are what we have.  And I am grateful that I got his sense of humor and his generosity.  I am less thankful that I got his temper, short legs and lack of posterior.  On another note, why can’t I just say butt?

                For better or for worse, I am what I am and before someone bursts into song, I will say that although I have sometimes begrudgingly cared for him these last two years, I hope that it still counts as love.  We’ve discussed how God doesn’t have a last nerve and I hope my Dad doesn’t either; if he does, I haven’t found it yet.  Should I one day find his or he mine, we have coping mechanisms in place.  He has Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  I have great friends, thrift stores and the location of said Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  And I don’t really think I need to say anything else.

Ever wondered about the title of my blog?

             I just sat through the documentary “Bully”.  The message is important; the quality of the movie is beside the point.  I wanted to see the kids they were talking about to see if anything had changed since I was growing up in myriad middles of nowhere like Burns Flat, OK; Bogata, TX and Tylertown, MS. 

Anyone who knows me is aware that I am a unique individual.  More quirky than out and out strange but I always felt out of place in those tiny towns because I wasn’t like anyone else in those towns.  Had I lived or gone to school somewhere more urban would I have found people like me and not felt so outside the norm?  I think so, but it’s a moot point at this juncture.

It wasn’t that I had any particular peculiarities.  I liked Legos, Hot Wheels, reading and air conditioning.  I did not like getting sweaty or dirty.  I realize that a community held together by the blue corduroy of an FFA jacket is not quick to embrace someone seemingly against all manner of farm happenings.  Bu I did try to do what was expected like joining the 4-H (a pre-FFA) and owning a cow, sheep and horse, not necessarily in that order.  It didn’t help my cause, I’m sure, that I was a hard to miss chubby, poor, overachiever, determined to be the best. The best what I hadn’t quite figured out at that point.

Now, I don’t want anyone to think that I was bullied throughout my life.  I only remember certain instances of actual physical attacks; it was mostly name calling and then only from specific people.  Prior to sixth grade I truly don’t remember anyone ever saying anything negative about me other than the basics like, “My Millennium Falcon is better than your Land Speeder”.  But as puberty sneaked ever near, things would begin to change.

The first instance of someone actually singling me out for torment was a guy in my 6^th grade class in Oklahoma.  He did not embrace the spirit of kindness of the man for whom my elementary school was named, Will Rogers.  While Mr. Rogers may have never met a man he didn’t like, this guy sure did and that man, so to speak, was me.  It started, like so many coming of age movies, on the dodge ball court.  He decided that I had committed some unpardonable sin and told me he would “take care of” me after school.  What I could possibly have done to him during this dodge ball game is beyond me.  I was more known for my embracing of the wall than any sort of aggressive stance.  Dodge ball is the personification of sweat, y’all, and I was having none of it.

Wouldn’t you know that day was the one time I missed the bus home and my friend Kristin and I set out for the four-block walk home swinging our trusty trumpet cases as we were full-fledged members of the band.  Having completely forgotten the threats of this behemoth, I was startled when he stepped out from behind a tree about 2 blocks from my house.  Taking in his size, much taller than my wishing-I-was-5-foot-tall self, and his moustache (I may be mis-remembering that), I did what any red-blooded band member would do.  I screamed, swung my trumpet case at his head and ran like a gazelle that has been startled by a lion.  I leapt and ran and screamed and forgot all about my sweet friend Kristin.  Loyalty is one thing, self preservation is an all together different animal.  Unfortunately that animal is usually more fainting goat than grizzly bear.

One thing that I think had the most effect on my self-esteem wasn’t so much that this particular guy didn’t like me it was what he called me.  ‘Fat ass’ and ‘sissy’ were frequent monikers my father attached to me.  Hearing those words from someone at school made me think that maybe my Daddy wasn’t wrong.  Maybe that guy wasn’t just being mean, well, except for that whole wanting to beat me up thing.  They called me fat and I was fat, maybe I was a sissy, too.  Having no real reference for manly behavior expected of an 11 year-old, I looked to my Daddy and I was most definitely not like him.   Just when I started to be aware of the need for self-esteem, it became painfully obvious that I had no place to actually get a good one.

Moving to Bogata, TX that summer was not something I looked forward to with anything other than trepidation.  It may have been necessary for my family as my Daddy had lost his job and we were moving to be near relatives, but I had never experienced a feeling of not fitting in before our settling into the Red River Valley.   Talk about being the odd man out.  I was just going through puberty which isn’t kind to anyone.  I also got glasses for the first time.  Nothing says junior high success story like a chubby weirdo unless it’s a chubby weirdo with glasses who doesn’t like boots.  And it didn’t help that I was the only boy on the honor roll in my grade; scholastic achievement in the classroom won’t get you a free pass with cowboys, believe you me.   

Was everyone mean to me?  Absolutely not.  But it only takes one person finding a specific interest in making you feel less than spectacular about yourself to ruin any otherwise decent days.

I hated every blasted minute of it but I went out for every sport they offered, hoping against hope that something I did would make my Daddy like me just a little bit.  But it never seemed to be good enough.  All As?  Done.  4-H Officer (for the District no less)?  Done.  Football team?  Yes.  Track team? Yes.  Basketball team?  No, but only because I was so laughably bad at it the coach just told me to have a seat.  When you get lapped by the kid with a club foot while running, you may not have any athletic skills.   

The next time we moved (to Tylertown), I didn’t have a problem fitting in.  I seemed to have found my place.  I had plenty of friends and had as much fun as you can in a town with one red light and no Wal-Mart.  But there was always one guy.  No matter what.  Even in junior college.  And it only takes one person to make your life miserable.  It’s easy to say, “Don’t let them get you down” or “They are just unhappy” or “They are projecting”.  I would like to believe that but it’s not necessarily true.  Do I really think the guy calling me a faggot is himself gay and projecting?  No, I do not.  We’d graduated to that term by then as our vocabularies in high school and college are much more sophisticated.   He is being mean because that’s what he has been taught.  Hatred is learned.

Was this verbal abuse constant?  No, but that didn’t soften the blows when it happened.  Did my Dad still call me names?  No, but it’s hard for a kid to forget the bad stuff.  You can get used to a certain level of self-hatred that’s almost impossible to recognize much less address.  Don’t get me wrong, I knew my Mother loved me and I had to believe deep down my Daddy did; it’s a rule when you are a parent.  You have to love your kids.  Of course, I figure, you don’t necessarily have to like them.

By my sophomore year in college, I had pushed myself to be anything and everything I could.  At the time I was Student Body President and had been elected Campus Favorite.  I should have felt on top of the world, but I didn’t because there were several guys on the football team that called me faggot and queer for reasons known only to them.  It was not lost on me that there was a pattern developing.

Expecting a teenager to perform psychotherapy on themselves is ridiculous at best and dangerous at worst.  However, as an adult I realized (about two years ago) that my Daddy just doesn’t know how to show affection other than through buying people things.  And he is incapable of apologizing for anything.  He just doesn’t know how.

The summer after my freshman year in college, he and my Mother saved up and bought me a brand new car.  I had wrecked my first car driving to Vacation Bible School commencement at my church.  (I feel the need to establish Jesus-adjacent context).  My previous car was a ’73 Mustang II; you know the one that looks like a Pinto?  But this new car was awesome.  It was a Nissan Sentra and I thought it was the most awesome gift in the history of gift giving.  Growing up in various stages of lower and middle class, my Dad had gotten a job off shore and we were doing pretty well.  I had always exaggerated our wealth as I was embarrassed to be poor.  I know people saw right through me, but I was naïve enough to believe they believed me.  And I was so proud of that car.  I felt just like everybody else.  The lies were becoming true, at least some of them. 

One of the things that my family does not discuss is my stent as a Basketball Cheerleader in college.  I understand it was not something they considered manly, but they were more than the opposite of proud that I chose to do this.  By this time I realized that I was not the son they had necessarily wanted and felt lucky that my brother had showed up four years after me with superb athletic skills and I could just go be my allegedly weird self.  But being that person had its costs.

After a basketball tournament, I was about to leave campus when I stopped by the dorms to get an assignment from one of my friends.  I had moved home and commuted my last semester due to the harassment from the aforementioned footballers.  By the time I got back to my car, someone had carved the word FAG in the hood with a broken beer bottle.  First of all, who would do something like that?  Second of all, how could I let my parents see that?  CSI and all those shows were not on the air in 1990.  If this happened now, I’d save the bottle they carelessly left behind to test for fingerprints.  Murder, She Wrote didn’t really address vandalism.

I had to take the rest of that bottle and assist this bully in destroying the nicest thing I had ever owned.  That remains one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do.  Since we could barely afford the car, I had no insurance or money for a paint job.  I had to drive that car for another two years with the constant reminder that there was apparently something wrong with me.  Something so bad it drove others to vandalism.    

Why am I telling you all this?  I really don’t know other than to remind you that since the world is such a scary, mean place, your home should be a safe haven.  Even if your kid is the weirdest person in recorded history, they are still your kid and they deserve to feel loved at all times.  And even if you think you show them how much you love them, say it out loud, just to be sure.  And if they want to wear penny loafers to a rodeo, let them. 

Hatred is learned.  Be very aware of what you say and how you say it.

I am 41 years old and despite a life that has known its share of successes and its share of failures, it took me until my 40^th birthday, a strong faith in Christ, supportive friends and a stent in anger management counseling to actually like myself and let go of the past.  I had carried anger around with me like a favorite messenger bag for many years.  Anyone who has ever ridden in a car I was driving can attest to the rage that resided just under the surface.

  Those of you who know me from various stages of my life may be surprised I had self-esteem issues.  Especially those who always thought I was an arrogant so-and-so; and there are many I feel quite sure.  Those of you who really know me are well aware of my self-esteem and self-loathing issues.  I should get an Oscar for my life; I am that good at faking happy.  Because I felt I had to be.  And the fact that it took me this long to be truly happy should be proof that just because everything looks okay on the outside doesn’t mean your son or daughter isn’t slowly dying on the inside.  Take the time to talk to them.  And really listen, especially to the things they aren’t saying.

The only thing that kept me from committing suicide is a low tolerance for pain and the need to live long enough to be skinny, rich and cute; or at least my version of skinny, rich and cute.  You have to understand, when I was growing up, if your house was brick and had a bay window I thought you were rich.  And anyone that weighed less than I was considered skinny.

My current house is stucco (close enough) and I have a visible jaw-line (for the first time ever) so, in my world, I am rich and skinny.  And the fact that I can walk straight into the Brooks Brothers Outlet and purchase pastel chinos in my size makes me smile. 

And if no one else thinks I look cute, I (and Jesus) do and for the first time that’s enough.