As children we had our brother utterly convinced that we had another brother before him. It wasn’t hard, really. We just said “we had another brother once” and he bought it.
Other brother always died horrible deaths and was buried in a variety of places around the country. If we were driving down a back road I would turn to my sister Vicki and say “does this look familiar to you?”. Without skipping a beat or changing the direction she was looking she’d reply “This is where we buried our other brother”. At this point our mother would step in and inadvertently help us out.
“You two stop telling him that! he already gets nightmares!”. We’d be quiet for a few minutes then whisper “See, she’s mad that we told you … because you’re next”
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Leaving San Diego 16
I was out doing some writing at one of my favorite, soon to be former haunts. When a couple I know came in and we started talking. I brought up that I would be moving to Atlanta in a couple of weeks. When I said this they both perked up. “Are you getting rid of anything?” They asked almost in unison. I recognized the request and remembered they had a truck. My turn to perk up.
I told them I was clearing out my storage unit and trucking it all over to Goodwill knowing they would offer to help to have first grab at my treasures. I wasn’t disappointed and three days later I was loading boxes in to a truck with one of them sifting through the boxes to decorate their apartment.
Two loads went to donation and a third went to their home. The third contained a brass teapot I bought in Turkey, a black and gold vase from Athens, a walnut bowl from South Carolina. Various cookware and glasses, a Play Station 2 with a few games, African masks, carved gourds from Peru and a DVD player. A set of three stone obelisk each from a a different country in South America. All of the things I had used to decorate my homes and offices over the years were going to decorate someone else’s home or to sit in someone else’s storage. I’m a little sad and I remind myself that they are just things and I don’t need things. But these were things were bought instead of the stupid travel t’shirts with logos of cruise ships and slogans like Viva Italia or Pura Vida for souvenirs. These items were more like trophies brought back from foreign lands and proof that I escaped Missouri and even the country more than once.
I took the lock off
the storage unit door and handed it to the rather manic little man in charge of the rental company and went home with only three artifacts with me. A brand new journal that I don’t remember where it came from, a small cut glass bowl from Italy and a black wooden treasure chest about the size of a brick and filled with coins from all over the world. I didn’t feel like I could throw these things out or just donate them so instead I was going to find them another home.
I told them I was clearing out my storage unit and trucking it all over to Goodwill knowing they would offer to help to have first grab at my treasures. I wasn’t disappointed and three days later I was loading boxes in to a truck with one of them sifting through the boxes to decorate their apartment.
Two loads went to donation and a third went to their home. The third contained a brass teapot I bought in Turkey, a black and gold vase from Athens, a walnut bowl from South Carolina. Various cookware and glasses, a Play Station 2 with a few games, African masks, carved gourds from Peru and a DVD player. A set of three stone obelisk each from a a different country in South America. All of the things I had used to decorate my homes and offices over the years were going to decorate someone else’s home or to sit in someone else’s storage. I’m a little sad and I remind myself that they are just things and I don’t need things. But these were things were bought instead of the stupid travel t’shirts with logos of cruise ships and slogans like Viva Italia or Pura Vida for souvenirs. These items were more like trophies brought back from foreign lands and proof that I escaped Missouri and even the country more than once.
I took the lock off
the storage unit door and handed it to the rather manic little man in charge of the rental company and went home with only three artifacts with me. A brand new journal that I don’t remember where it came from, a small cut glass bowl from Italy and a black wooden treasure chest about the size of a brick and filled with coins from all over the world. I didn’t feel like I could throw these things out or just donate them so instead I was going to find them another home.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Leaving San Diego 15
I still have to deal with the storage unit and now the days are ticking away. It’s official and the one way plane ticket to Atlanta is bought and paid for. It’s the large stuff from my old bedroom from when I lived with the agoraphobic roommate that is the biggest problem right now. A bed, two night stands, two large book shelves and a desk. It was from Ikea but has been sitting in storage for half its life. It's still good furniture but by just sitting there it was costing me money. Well in reality it’s been costing me money for a couple of years but now it was serious.
I have had luck before giving things away via Craigslist and so I had to turn to that now. I placed an ad at 9 am and by 12:30 had 45 emails. Some begged on behalf of children and some offered money but I answered the first one that sounded like a guy. He said he was a student just getting started in life at school. It tugged at my heart so I made arrangements to meet him at the storage unit at about 4pm and then kicked myself for not doing this months ago and saving a fortune in rent.
At 3:30 I got a call asking for directions. That call was followed by another call at 4:14 for directions then again at 5:00. I thought this guy must really be new to the area and I was really doing him a favor. What a great guy I am. Now he won’t have to sleep on the floor after studying like crazy to get through school.
He finally pulled up in a brand new truck followed by his father who was also in a brand new truck both with Mexican license plates. This stuff wasn’t for a poor college student after all. It was most likely for a shop in Tijuana or the weekend swap meet in San Diego. I was being taken advantage of but I still needed to get rid of this stuff so I bit the bullet and helped them load up both trucks and didn’t say a word.
After they pulled away I locked up my now half empty storage unit, walked over to the dumpster and threw away all the carefully labeled bags containing the hardware they would need to reassemble the furniture.
I have had luck before giving things away via Craigslist and so I had to turn to that now. I placed an ad at 9 am and by 12:30 had 45 emails. Some begged on behalf of children and some offered money but I answered the first one that sounded like a guy. He said he was a student just getting started in life at school. It tugged at my heart so I made arrangements to meet him at the storage unit at about 4pm and then kicked myself for not doing this months ago and saving a fortune in rent.
At 3:30 I got a call asking for directions. That call was followed by another call at 4:14 for directions then again at 5:00. I thought this guy must really be new to the area and I was really doing him a favor. What a great guy I am. Now he won’t have to sleep on the floor after studying like crazy to get through school.
He finally pulled up in a brand new truck followed by his father who was also in a brand new truck both with Mexican license plates. This stuff wasn’t for a poor college student after all. It was most likely for a shop in Tijuana or the weekend swap meet in San Diego. I was being taken advantage of but I still needed to get rid of this stuff so I bit the bullet and helped them load up both trucks and didn’t say a word.
After they pulled away I locked up my now half empty storage unit, walked over to the dumpster and threw away all the carefully labeled bags containing the hardware they would need to reassemble the furniture.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Leaving San Diego 14
I have a surprising number of lapel pins. Besides the hundreds I have from a business I let die during a particularly nasty break up I have some from various businesses and organizations I’ve had relationships with.
Member pins from the San Diego Zoo..
Toastmasters pins announcing various positions I’ve held in District 5. Club president, Area Governor and one for a position I never held but must have picked up somewhere.
I have two pins shaped like soldiers carrying feathers from a booth at Comic-con promoting a movie I don’t think I ever saw and now can’t even remember the title.
Sarasota School of Natural Healing Arts still in the plastic.
Three small pins with a big R on them for Realtor.
San Diego Gay Rodeo pin was given to me when I was a back up dancer for a drag queen.
Mini badges from law enforcement officers I befriended on planes. These I used. I would put them my coat while walking through the Tenderloin in San Francisco keeping the homeless from approaching me. (I better keep these).
Membership badges from The Golden Triangle Chamber of Commerce, the San Diego Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, The San Diego Chamber of Commerce and the El Cajon Chamber of Commerce.
A lapel pin announcing that I was a Junior Rotarion. I’ve never been any kind of Rotarion maybe this was left over from a costume party.
Last, but not least, a rainbow striped Mickey Mouse silhouette from gay days at Disney in Anaheim.
I’m finding it hard to throw away these pins for some reason. Maybe because collectively they look like jewelry. Maybe they because of a value I never really believed in even when I was in the organizations they represent. I’m not about to wear them on a sash like some crazed girl scout drag queen or pin collecting Disney enthusiast but I do have a backpack. I realize they’ll come loose and fall off somewhere. Finding a pin from San Diego might be interesting to someone in Florida or Atlanta.
Member pins from the San Diego Zoo..
Toastmasters pins announcing various positions I’ve held in District 5. Club president, Area Governor and one for a position I never held but must have picked up somewhere.
I have two pins shaped like soldiers carrying feathers from a booth at Comic-con promoting a movie I don’t think I ever saw and now can’t even remember the title.
Sarasota School of Natural Healing Arts still in the plastic.
Three small pins with a big R on them for Realtor.
San Diego Gay Rodeo pin was given to me when I was a back up dancer for a drag queen.
Mini badges from law enforcement officers I befriended on planes. These I used. I would put them my coat while walking through the Tenderloin in San Francisco keeping the homeless from approaching me. (I better keep these).
Membership badges from The Golden Triangle Chamber of Commerce, the San Diego Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, The San Diego Chamber of Commerce and the El Cajon Chamber of Commerce.
A lapel pin announcing that I was a Junior Rotarion. I’ve never been any kind of Rotarion maybe this was left over from a costume party.
Last, but not least, a rainbow striped Mickey Mouse silhouette from gay days at Disney in Anaheim.
I’m finding it hard to throw away these pins for some reason. Maybe because collectively they look like jewelry. Maybe they because of a value I never really believed in even when I was in the organizations they represent. I’m not about to wear them on a sash like some crazed girl scout drag queen or pin collecting Disney enthusiast but I do have a backpack. I realize they’ll come loose and fall off somewhere. Finding a pin from San Diego might be interesting to someone in Florida or Atlanta.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Leaving San Diego 13
My stack of letters hasn’t shrunk noticeably so I decided to pack them up and take them on the train with me up to Los Angeles to see Joseph. Thinking about him and my life in Sarasota has sparked a writing binge. Of course I have something more pressing to do which is also a good motivator.
As I’m packing them up I noticed a letter written on green construction paper. The signature is a capital H and a smile. The H is for Heidi and the green because she was born on St. Patrick’s Day. I have several great stories that involve Heidi. I recruited her as a fag hag when I was working at an ice cream store and she was in sales at Lane Bryant. We ravaged the French Quarter and even lived together in a mini retirement home for a short time. The letter was in response to me moving in with someone I was dating.
I had such good luck finding Joseph I decided to put my skills to finding Heidi. My luck didn’t hold though. The closest I found was a posting on a hurricane Katrina “Looking For” website dated September 2005. It said “Heidi, try to call home we want to know if you’re alright”. Nothing else showed up on any of my searches.
As I’m packing them up I noticed a letter written on green construction paper. The signature is a capital H and a smile. The H is for Heidi and the green because she was born on St. Patrick’s Day. I have several great stories that involve Heidi. I recruited her as a fag hag when I was working at an ice cream store and she was in sales at Lane Bryant. We ravaged the French Quarter and even lived together in a mini retirement home for a short time. The letter was in response to me moving in with someone I was dating.
I had such good luck finding Joseph I decided to put my skills to finding Heidi. My luck didn’t hold though. The closest I found was a posting on a hurricane Katrina “Looking For” website dated September 2005. It said “Heidi, try to call home we want to know if you’re alright”. Nothing else showed up on any of my searches.
Leaving San Diego 12
Among my personal correspondence were my awards. Three were large impressive looking documents I always meant to have framed but never seemed to get around to it. One was signed by the former Mayor of San Diego, One signed by the former Governor of California and the third presented to me by the San Diego City Council.
Mayor Dick Murphy stepped down after being referred to nationally as “The Worst Big Ci
ty Mayor”, former Governor Grey Davis was recalled to be replaced by The Terminator and one of the men who signed my document from the city council died of a heart attack before he went to trail for accepting bribes from strip club owners. History has lessened my initial pride in receiving these documents.In the trash next to the thick paper and gold seals went a crystal award for business speaking. This honor was bestowed on my be the Golden Triangle Chamber of Commerce at a banquet in honor of me and the other recipients for “Outstanding Contributions to the Business Community”. I used to have it displayed in my office with the sun shining through it. That way clients couldn’t help but see how outstanding I was.Of course if they visited any other chamber members offices they’d see we all had them and our outstanding contributions were actually just paying our membership dues on time.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Who's Your Daddy?
excerpt from Raised By White Trash
It’s not thought about often but “Father” should be a pretty straight forward concept and easily defined. That’s in theory anyway. In the rural white trash towns of the plains states it’s a little more complicated. For example legally in Missouri the word Father refers to the man married to a child’s mother at the time of his or her birth.The child’s birth not the mans birth. It’s a roundabout way of saying that your wife’s kid is your responsibility no matter who the sperm donor was.
At face value it sounds barbaric but in pre-paternity test times it was a way to keep men from avoiding child support and parental responsibilities just by saying “not my kid”. I have my doubts that this created any responsibility for anyone. At least the kids of cheating moms with resentful husbands had some financial support promised to them once a month.
When you’re young it just doesn’t occur to you to question your own parentage. Mom is mom and Dad is dad and between worrying about what time Scooby Doo is on and who is going to get to the cereal prize first it just never comes up in conversation.
The topic didn’t come up for me until I was around eight or nine years old. After an evening of randomly driving around town with my mother and siblings. I was sent on an errand to get my dad from the bar at the VFW.I was dropped off to go inside and let him know it was time to come home. It was a dirty trick on my mothers part now that I look back. He would be forced to come home once I was there since I was now in his care and probably shouldn’t be in a bar. It was also a testament to her superb parenting skills abandoning me at a bar in the first place to be driven home by someone in an unknown state of intoxication.
I never called child protective services because at the time I didn’t see it that way. I was on an important mission and got to go someplace my younger brother and sister didn’t. I marched to the front door of the place and found it locked so I knocked. A little shot of fear went through me when there was no answer and the tail lights of our station wagon were already shrinking into the night. I didn’t have a chance to panic. Moments later a little sliding door higher up the door than I could immediately see slid open and a gray face appeared. Smoke and country music poured out the face and the bluish light behind it gave a slightly otherworldly look. This was just like the scene out of The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her friends are trying to get into the Emerald City. This was so cool.
“I came to get Jim” I told the face. I was proud of myself remembering to say his name instead of just saying “my dad” since “dad” could be anyone.
“No Jim here” said the voice.
“But his truck is here!” I pleaded quickly. I knew it was there since the only reason we were out and driving around in the first place was to find his truck.
The face retreated and the door cracked open. “JD is this your boy?” Said the face that now had a body.
“Yeah, that’s my stepson” Said one of the four people smoking in the otherwise empty bar. Nothing was quite registering but I saw my dad and I remembered my mission. I ran up and said “Mom says it’s time to come home”.
He took a long drag on his cigarette. He was an expert at smoking and could communicate through his exhales. This exhale was in the tone of resignation. “Ok, tell her I’ll finish this beer and be right home”.
“She’s gone already I’m supposed to ride with you.” I don’t remember exactly how I said it. Excited I got to stay? Smarmy because I knew he didn’t have a choice? Probably smarmy.
He knew he was trapped and I knew he wasn’t going to waste a beer so I sat on the barstool. He ordered me a sprite with a cherry in it while I waited for him.
“Who’s JD?” I asked him. Mimicking the hunched over bar pose he and the other men had and trying to look like a grown up.
“That’s what my friends call me. It’s my initials” He was always so boring at home this secret identity idea started to make sense.
I wanted to ask him what a stepson was but I didn’t want to sound like I was dumb. After all I was practically a grown up.. How else could I have gotten in the bar? I thought about it though. “Step” was like stairs and since I was the oldest I was like the top stair. That must be it right? like the oldest is the ‘step’ because it’s higher up. It made sense to me.
It’s not thought about often but “Father” should be a pretty straight forward concept and easily defined. That’s in theory anyway. In the rural white trash towns of the plains states it’s a little more complicated. For example legally in Missouri the word Father refers to the man married to a child’s mother at the time of his or her birth.The child’s birth not the mans birth. It’s a roundabout way of saying that your wife’s kid is your responsibility no matter who the sperm donor was.
At face value it sounds barbaric but in pre-paternity test times it was a way to keep men from avoiding child support and parental responsibilities just by saying “not my kid”. I have my doubts that this created any responsibility for anyone. At least the kids of cheating moms with resentful husbands had some financial support promised to them once a month.
When you’re young it just doesn’t occur to you to question your own parentage. Mom is mom and Dad is dad and between worrying about what time Scooby Doo is on and who is going to get to the cereal prize first it just never comes up in conversation.
The topic didn’t come up for me until I was around eight or nine years old. After an evening of randomly driving around town with my mother and siblings. I was sent on an errand to get my dad from the bar at the VFW.I was dropped off to go inside and let him know it was time to come home. It was a dirty trick on my mothers part now that I look back. He would be forced to come home once I was there since I was now in his care and probably shouldn’t be in a bar. It was also a testament to her superb parenting skills abandoning me at a bar in the first place to be driven home by someone in an unknown state of intoxication.
I never called child protective services because at the time I didn’t see it that way. I was on an important mission and got to go someplace my younger brother and sister didn’t. I marched to the front door of the place and found it locked so I knocked. A little shot of fear went through me when there was no answer and the tail lights of our station wagon were already shrinking into the night. I didn’t have a chance to panic. Moments later a little sliding door higher up the door than I could immediately see slid open and a gray face appeared. Smoke and country music poured out the face and the bluish light behind it gave a slightly otherworldly look. This was just like the scene out of The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her friends are trying to get into the Emerald City. This was so cool.
“I came to get Jim” I told the face. I was proud of myself remembering to say his name instead of just saying “my dad” since “dad” could be anyone.
“No Jim here” said the voice.
“But his truck is here!” I pleaded quickly. I knew it was there since the only reason we were out and driving around in the first place was to find his truck.
The face retreated and the door cracked open. “JD is this your boy?” Said the face that now had a body.
“Yeah, that’s my stepson” Said one of the four people smoking in the otherwise empty bar. Nothing was quite registering but I saw my dad and I remembered my mission. I ran up and said “Mom says it’s time to come home”.
He took a long drag on his cigarette. He was an expert at smoking and could communicate through his exhales. This exhale was in the tone of resignation. “Ok, tell her I’ll finish this beer and be right home”.
“She’s gone already I’m supposed to ride with you.” I don’t remember exactly how I said it. Excited I got to stay? Smarmy because I knew he didn’t have a choice? Probably smarmy.
He knew he was trapped and I knew he wasn’t going to waste a beer so I sat on the barstool. He ordered me a sprite with a cherry in it while I waited for him.
“Who’s JD?” I asked him. Mimicking the hunched over bar pose he and the other men had and trying to look like a grown up.
“That’s what my friends call me. It’s my initials” He was always so boring at home this secret identity idea started to make sense.
I wanted to ask him what a stepson was but I didn’t want to sound like I was dumb. After all I was practically a grown up.. How else could I have gotten in the bar? I thought about it though. “Step” was like stairs and since I was the oldest I was like the top stair. That must be it right? like the oldest is the ‘step’ because it’s higher up. It made sense to me.
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