When my twin brother and I were growing up, most of the advice we got from adults was bad , even harmful. Many poor examples were set.( I could open a can of beer before I could tie my shoes-this was before the advent of pull-tabs and pop-tops) The world that my first adults lived in was a dangerous and unpredictable place; utterly unsuitable for children and "grown-ups" alike.Chaos reigned. Cars crashed.
LSD and stupid Maoist hippies.
PBR and homicidal Confederate bikers.
There was also a war being fought overseas, which made life even more perilous for the adults, who sometimes just disappeared and stayed that way. One kid I knew in first grade lost his dad but wouldn't admit it-he just said his daddy "was so" coming home. The adults told me otherwise, so one day at recess I told him that everyone knew his daddy died in the war, so he should stop lying. That was the first time I'd ever seen someone destroyed by grief.
I've hated myself ever since then.
I don't even remember the kid's name, just the sight of him- curled up on the playground asphalt with his arms around his knees; his mouth so impossibly large and red that it seemed to swallow his face- as if his entire skull were opening and closing noiselessly, just a barely audible strangling "aaaaaaaaaaaa" sound. It was the death-cry of his lost, last desperate hope, the agonized end of his innocence, of everything in his not-a-kid's-anymore world.
It was my fault.
A pair of teachers ran over, looking worried. At first they thought I had hit him ( he was at least twice my size) but soon realized that something was seriously wrong. One teacher carried him inside. I never saw him again. Maybe no one did.
I told one of the teachers what happened. She looked angry, then very sad, sad looking like people on TV, except she was right there, big and scary sad.
She started crying and hugging me.
I didn't know why. It wasn't her daddy after all, and I wasn't her kid. I just stood there.
I've hated myself ever since then.
Looking back, I try to understand her sad-beyond-sorrow pain. Was she crying because she had also lost someone in that war? Was it empathy for the stricken child? Or was it horror that I, at the age of five, knew exactly what KIA meant, yet had absolutely no idea of what death does to the living? I'll never know.
I don't remember when it started, but at some long ago point I started feeling a lot like that broken boy. I didn't look like him or act like him, but inside I was a deafening, silent scream; crying for all reasons and confusing it for no reason, or worse, the wrong reason. Or something. Don't ask me to explain the parts of me that are so dark that even I can't see them. Some things are better left hidden.
More recently, I feel more akin to the weeping teacher than to the grieving child. Maybe there doesn't have to be any ONE thing that sets off the tear bomb, maybe it's just a long, cumulative process and a sudden calamitous result, like long years of snow and one transient, transcendent moment of avalanche.
But snow can also be beautiful and it never really melts forever, so I keep going on, season after season, because I know that while each day may very well be my last, tomorrow may also be the first day of Spring, regardless of what the calendar says.
I hope it snows this winter.
3 comments:
Thank you for writing this post Allan. I always enjoy posts that share an experience and the writer's perspective.
Experiences like this one that stay with a person obviously stay because of its impact. What is interesting though is how that impact may change over time as one learns and grows. As the five year old you may have just seen great sadness for the first time, but as you aged you probably realized more what happened and the nuances of your actions, etc. I think it's a sign of a person's character in what they remember, think upon, and learn from past experiences. You often write of yourself as dark and worthless and hating yourself. But you often show through your writing a person who does care very deeply, especially about those you care about. Perhaps you wish you could take that moment back, but since you can't, perhaps look at the fact that you took note of it rather than ignored it as some would have done, and remember that you have learned from it to affect those in the future of that moment. You are not worthless.
PS - What was before pull tabs? I'm wracking my brain to remember.
Thank you, Susanne, for reading and understanding. I don't know why I wrote about that. I almost deleted it instead of posting it, but now I'm glad I didn't erase it.
P.S.- You used to have to use a can-openner to punch holes in the top of the can (Schlitz was the brand, I belive), or just punch an oil-can funnel into it, punch a "shotgun" in the bottom and let 'er rip. By the time I was old enough to drink (12), the pop-top had arrived.
Nostalgia is some weird shit.
I'm so glad you didn't delete it. =)
I didn't have much experience with cans - my parents didn't let us drink soda, due to cost not cavity prevention. My dad occasionally had a beer, but I never really played with cans. Perhaps that's why I don't remember the older ones. I think I was old enough, not sure. I'm 36.
Old enough to drink, 12, hehe. The first time I got drunk I was 6. Our next door neighbors had a backyard bbq and I remember going around and draining open beer cans - though I can't remember the openings! I also remember walking really funny back to the house at the end of the party, feeling dizzy. The heaviest I ever drank was when I was first in the military - omg I know I abused my liver. What's weird for me is that sometimes I think it would be real easy to drink A LOT. I can totally see myself doing it. It kind of scares me. I don't believe there has to be a "time" before you can start drinking, and I know that makes me a bit odd compared to most. Of course, many of my ways are probably considered odd by most hehe. I have no idea why I went onto that tangent, it just popped into my head. No, I haven't been drinking lol. =)
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