Father Say, Mother Do

I was trying to remember some stories from my childhood today. I came across a few that kind of helped me out in my perception of my life as it is now. Hope you enjoy...

1. What Mothers Do.

I remember being really poor as a child. It's not like anyone expected any different. 7 children and a father who is self employed, while his wife has given up her career to home school their children. That was my upbringing. We had no right to complain. This is the lifestyle my parents wanted. 

I should say that they had  no right to complain. As an involuntary member of this family establishment, I saw it as my right and sacred duty to complain as often as I could. Of course I only had to deal with being poor. I wasn't responsible for making it look like 10 year old handmedowns were only five year old handmedowns, or for smiling politely at the grocery store when total strangers informed mother that condoms were cheaper than children. 

Who would we have not had though, now that we were all here? 

Maybe Timmy. 

Anyway, Dad moved his business home in the wake of some slow business, and was without work for about 6 months. Mom had been without work since she started making babies (work that paid, anyway). They like to think that they didn't let us kids in on how bad it really was, but we were more tuned in than they thought. 

I remember one dinner in particular, when Dad wasn't home yet, because he was out trying to collect money from some work he had done. We were holding diner until he got home. What we didn't know was that if Dad didn't come home with some money, there might not be any dinner. I was complaining to Mom. It was 7:00, I hadn't eaten yet, and complaining was just sort of my art form at the time (kind of still is). Anyway, I asked Mom (in my whinny voice) what we were having for dinner. She had had enough of my whining, so she told me the truth.

"I don't know."

Do you remember the first time as a child that you realized that adults don't always know everything? I do. Right then. Mom didn't know what we were having for dinner. She didn't know if we were even going to get dinner. 

I threw a fit. I was tired of not knowing, when everyone else got to eat three times a day, and never questioned where it came from. Why doesn't God take care of us the way he takes care of them?

"We're gonna starve!," I screamed.

Mom didn't even flinch. She looked me in the eye, and with the faith that I am only to this day beginning to understand, she responded, quieting me for good.

"When have you ever starved? When have I not taken care of you? I tell you, we are going to eat when your Father gets home. You are not going to go hungry, because I am taking care of you."

We did eat that night. It wasn't a feast, but it was enough. We did not starve. She took care of us. 

I think that today, I can still paint a pretty mean masterpiece of complaint. I want to know why I don't have the job that I want, why the girls I like are always just out of my reach, why I have to live so far away from my family, and why, oh why, there are about $12.00 in my bank account, and I have to think twice before buying toilet paper. I am at the bottom every time. I've been okay so far, but how much longer can my luck hold out?

I keep forgetting that it's not luck.

I hear the words of my mother in my head. The voice is familiar, but it's not hers.

"When have I not taken care of you?"

2. What Fathers Say.

I don't always get along with my dad.

(understatement of my life)

Dad and I have had issues from the start. I guess he always though that his more sensitive children would be his daughters. Oh well, at least he got two normal, mannish boys. 

Then there's me.

Dad always said that I was lucky to have him as a father, considering what he had for a father. I can't help but agree (Grandpa once threatened to shoot me when I was 7). Even still, I always thought that he just used that as an excuse, and never really tried too hard. I think fathers need to try hard. When I'm a father I'm going to try hard.

When I was in high school, I got this weird virus that made it really hard to go to the bathroom. I was in bed sick all day. I fell asleep at about 7 in the evening, then woke up again at 4:30 the next morning. I decided to try going to the bathroom. I hobbled down the stairs to the living room which had an entrance to the bathroom. I was still in a lot of pain, but feeling a bit better.

"Are you feeling any better?"

I actually screamed out loud. I did not expect anyone to be awake at 4:30 AM, and especially not someone with such a deep voice. It took a few moments for me to realize that the voice was my father's, and after my eyes adjusted to the room, I saw him there, sitting in the corner with his Bible.

I would like to say he scared the shit out of me, but the circumstances of my sickness prevented such an outcome. 

"I-I'm feeling a little better. Why are you awake at 4:30 in the morning?"

Dad took a sip of his coffee and a deep breath. 

"I'm awake at this time every morning. So I can pray for my children."

I always thought I would be a great Dad. That my children would always love me and that they would turn out wonderfully. Never doubted that until I found out that my dad gets up at 4:30 every morning to pray for his children. I'm ungrateful for, and ignorant of the amount of work it takes to even be an okay Dad. And the prayer. I have a good dad. God only knows what I have been saved from by him waking up at 4:30 to pray for me. God only knows.

Love at Five Dollars a Day

A cop gave me five bucks yesterday.

It's been a severely frustrating couple of months. I've decided that I should be a writer. Further than that, I've decided to be a good writer. Since I am not currently among the better writers in the world, and don't know any really rich people I could mooch off of, this means I will be a very poor writer. Not a writer. A very poor person. 

The point is, I barely have enough to make it through the day, and when an unexpected expense comes up (like a $75.00 parking ticket) I really have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to make it. I keep telling myself that I'm making the right decisions, or that at least it won't always be like this. Someday, I'll be doing better.

But what if it is? Like this all the time, I mean.

Me and God, we have trust issues. I have trust issues with him, I mean (even though I'm usually the one who breaks trust). I know I should trust him, and I know he's come through for me before, but I look at that empty bank account, and I just can't help but wonder when things are going to change, and why not now? He says that he has plans to prosper me and not to harm me, but I'm broke all the time, and living just barely below my means, constantly in fear of what would happen if, say, my car broke down, or I got another parking ticket, or someone even less fortunate than me needs my help, and I can't help them. A woman on the street asked me the other day if I had any money she could use to buy her children some food. All I had was a dollar. She looked at it like I look at myself in the mirror sometimes. not enough.

So, God has said that he would always take care of me, as long as I can trust him. What I'm finding out is that it's more of a day to day trust than a ten year plan trust. 

Long story short, I need to get fingerprinted for my new job, which I think might help me a bit in the money department. We'll see. anyway, I was told to bring a photo ID and $15.00 to the Police station, so that my forms could be processed. I went to get some money out of my bank. I had a balance of $17.00. Barely made it. When I got there, however, I was told that the processing fee was actually $20.00. I though maybe I had some money left in my savings account (which was slowly being cleaned out). I asked where the nearest ATM was and bolted out the door.

I got lost looking for it. I always get lost when I'm looking for something. It's like my brain gets bored and decides to do something else, while the rest of me is left to continue on without it. So, I needed to find my brain, and an ATM. I finally found it (the ATM, that is) and checked the balance in my savings, hoping to be surprised. $0.00. Can't say I wasn't surprised, but it wasn't exactly the type of surprise I was looking for.

I had to go and borrow some money from someone. I really didn't want to, but what else was I going to do? I walked back to the police station with my head hung as low as that time I had to tell my Grandma that I had kicked a soccer ball through her window.

These are the times I talk to God, and make sure that I'm doing the right thing. Or, perhaps just to see what exactly he is doing. I mean, he promised, right? 

"You're going to help me out, aren't you? You said you were going to be there, for whatever I needed, right? Now would be a good time to help me out."

I guess I was almost hoping a 5 dollar bill would come blowing down the street as I turned the corner to the police station. No such luck. I walked through the door.

I've never been a really big fan of the police. I guess it's my punk rock days. I'm just used to being harassed rather than being served and protected. Not that I've had a whole lot of run ins with the police. Just enough to not trust them.

I explained my situation to the officer behind the desk, and I said that I needed to reschedule my appointment. She looked at me for a second. I just wanted her to help me reschedule so I could get over this embarrassment and go home. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a 5 dollar bill. "You look like you could use a hand, and I could use a good deed for the day," she smiled.

"good Samaritan deed" she said, actually.

I walked home with what I needed. Exactly what I needed, and no less. I think it's part of God's weird sense of humor that He seems to reserve especially for me that I got my help from a cop. These were the people I demonized for so long, because of a few negative experiences. Good Samaritan, she called herself. Weird sense of humor.

I still don't have the next few steps figured out. I just have this promise, this weird promise that he's going to take care of me. I've always thought that the hardest part of being in any relationship is moments like this, when nothing is sure. When I could just as easily spend all my time worrying about the future, those are the moments I need to love those around me.

"I love you."

I said it out loud, as that phrase always deserves to be spoken. As the light on my gas meter turned on, I choked back a tear, not because I had another thing to worry about, but because I was, despite all other things, in love.

Of course, I didn't really cry.

Men don't cry.

1...2...3... Time To Jump

I used to swim all the time. 

Like, literally all the time. Every weekday, in fact. This was when I was in Jr College in Salinas. It was cold, and it rained. You could smell the ocean sometimes, on a foggy morning. I didn't always want to go swimming. It wasn't always the weather for it. Every morning though, every morning, I would look into that pool. Hesitating for just a moment, I counted to three, took a deep breath, and jumped in. The water was freezing at first, but then I got used to it, and could swim all day. 

That was all it ever was. A deep breath, count to three, and then jump. I always got used to whatever it felt like. 

I've been standing at the edge of the pool for quite some time now, looking in. I haven't been swimming so much. I'm not used to the abrupt change. The cold, the fog in the air surrounding me.

It's time to leap in.

I don't want the change. It scares me. I'd rather be dry, and have the same old things surround me. Why can't I wrap a towel around myself and go inside, without ever getting wet? It's been so good up here, on the deck. I knew I couldn't stay up here forever, but why does it have to end now? I guess I'll never know the answer to those questions. All I can know is that my body needs exercise, and I already dressed up for a swim. There is only one step left now, and I know what it is.

 Count to three. Deep breath. Jump.

I'm moving. To a place where it's not always the weather for swimming. Where you can smell the ocean in the air sometimes.

Things I See That Make Me Wish I Lived In Canada

 

Eight year old boys

with sunglasses

sipping on Starbucks coffee.

 

Morbidly obese women

Chattering

Gossiping

ordering

a double

cheeseburger with large

French fries

and

a

diet coke.

42 ounces, of course,

to make sure

that greasy burger slides

all the way down their throats.

 

Fat people

Who think that

Those in

Undeveloped countries

Are

starving because

They don’t work

as hard

as we do,

Otherwise they’d have

As much food

as we

have

access to.

 

People passing by

homeless, hungry

men on

the street,

muttering quietly

about the downfall of

the economy,

while on their way

out of the

toy store,

or,

Starbucks coffee.

 

Forever 21

and

Limited

Too, producing

increasingly

sluttier clothing

while

everyone else is

desperately

trying to find

a way to reduce

teen

pregnancy.

 

A woman

talking on her cell phone,

smoking,

holding

an umbrella

while

trying

to ride

her bicycle.

Sipping on Starbucks coffee.

Safety Pins and Mismatched Socks

I had a meeting today with Cathy. Cathy works for an advertising agency in Fullerton. Cathy thinks I'm a videographer and audio technician, because I told her I was one. This week was about putting up a false front. "Fake it 'till you make it," as Sean would say. Or, "Act as if," As Sean's brother Mike would say. 

Step one: pretend you've got your shit together.

Step two: get your shit together.

My shit, this morning, was held together loosely, if at all. I sat in the meeting room of DSYL Advertising, intimidated by the ornately carved Buddha in the corner, and giant print on the far wall displaying a quote by T.S. Eliot.

I am one of the lesser known Elliotts. There's T.S. Eliot, then Pete's Dragon, followed by that kid from E.T., then my father, my uncle, my older brother, my cousins, and me. I'm sure there are some others that fit in between, but I'm definitely near the bottom at this point. I hear there's a writer named Stephen Elliott in San Francisco. He writes erotic political fiction. I hope Cathy hasn't heard of him. I might not be erotic enough for her.

I'm here because of my false front. I know I don't belong. I made up a business, and printed up fake business cards with materials I bought at office max. I drew a little picture of a polar bear leaning up against a brick wall, and put it on there. I stayed up until three AM to do that. Loosely held together. I wondered if Cathy would notice that all my clothes were from the Goodwill. Or that one of my socks was black and the other white. I prayed against the cuff of my pants riding up at all to reveal my secrets. My false front. I've always been somewhere between black and white. D id anyone know that my sweater was too big, and that I had hemmed it with safety pins last night? Professionals don't do that. Professionals spend more than 5 dollars on a sweater. Professionals buy sweaters that fit them.

I don't belong here and I know it. I'm living on pins and mismatched socks. It's like the prayer I said this morning. If I succeed, it is because God has blessed me to go forward. If I fail, it is because he has cursed me in that direction, and wants me to go somewhere else. I'm nothing but a false front, but today was bigger than me, today was about someone who knew me to be false from the start, and loved me into legitimacy. To this great love that surpasses all hate, that gives peace that surpasses all understanding, I am indebted. I owe it my life, and even that is insufficient, but we'll start there. We'll see if art can be made from my loosely held together shit.

You know me better than I know myself. To know you is all I want.

"For I know the plans I have made for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future."

-I am ashamed for all the times I doubt his ability to provide for me.

I Want To Be Somebody's Bitch

My friend Terence has a dog. Itzy is her name. 

He brought her to Bible study tonight. 

It's interesting to see how people love on pets. Everyone was petting her, scratching behind her ears, letting her sit on their lap. Terence even picked her up and hugged her, holding her right up to his face. She was licking him, and she even bit a few people (lightly) on the hand. No one cared though. It was as if her behavior had no bearing on how much she was loved. 

What if we treated human beings like that? It's not like we're any less lovable. Less hairy maybe, less cute, definitely, but not less lovable. 

I wish I was a dog, and people smiled at me and scratched me behind my ears when they saw me. I think I would eat dog food for that.

(edit two days later): 

I've changed my mind. Humans aren't that loveable. I just wish I could find someone who's not loveable, who would love me right back, even though I'm not so loveable myself.

Mild Mannered

My seventeen year old brother is quite popular with businessmen and prostitutes.

I was home this weekend for my sister's wedding , of which I can say with a slight bias, it was one of the most beautiful ceremonies I have ever seen. I had to read a poem in the middle of it, and I was afraid I would start to cry. You all can ask me about that later (It's not what I'm here to talk about). The best part about Sarah's wedding was getting to go home, and see my family. Especially my brother, Timmy. It was not easy growing up with Timmy as a little brother. He can be quite the pain in the ass from time to time (By "ass," of course, I mean democrat). I love him though, and he grew up to be quite an interesting person. He's got a great life in Salinas. A great relationship with his family, an awesome girlfriend, the ability to drive stick shift, and has the distinct honor of being one of the top 50 rock climbers in the nation. 

There's more to him than that though.

My father went to one of the meat markets he designed the day I got home. He needed some meat for the rehearsal dinner we were having at our house the next day. The man who owned the place was having difficulty paying for my father's services, so he was taking his payment in chicken and steak. Dad grabbed Timmy before he left and said that the butcher wanted to meet him.  Timmy just shrugged it off, and went along. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. When Dad and Tim arrived at the meat market, the manager emphatically shook Timmy's hand and gave him his business card. "I've heard all about you, and what you're doing," he said. "If you ever need anything, give me a call. I want to help."

I've always thought my brother could do anything. I felt like his dreams for himself were too small. He doesn't want to go to college. He wants to join the police academy, so that he can fulfill his lifelong dream of being a police officer. Maybe it's just my own personal feelings about the police, but I just always thought my little brother could do better than that. Like, he could probably be the real Batman. He's passionate about justice, he's got good eye-hand coordination, he's good at climbing walls. All he need is funding. If we could somehow get him to a planet with a weaker gravitational pull than our sun, he could probably be Superman. He would make a good Superman, flying around in circles, picking up people that fall off of buildings, pulling cats out of trees and the like. I still don't understand why my little brother wants to be a cop when he could be Superman.

As much time as he spends there, you'll never catch Timmy in the rock climbing gym on a Monday night. On that night, he, his girlfriend, and another kid from their high school youth group are in downtown south Salinas, in one of the most dangerous areas to be. They spend their night at Dorothy's Kitchen, a local soup kitchen, preparing a custom meal for the people in the women's shelter that is housed there. It's just the three of them. They were brought to Dorothy's by some adult leaders in their church, trying to "teach the kids how to serve the poor." The adults are long gone. Only the three of them remain. They know these women that come in by first name. They know what kind of food they like, and what their dietary needs are. Each week, Timmy and his friends prepare a meal for the homeless the same way a mother prepares a meal for her children. With those who are eating it in mind. They sit, they cook, and eat with them like family. I think Tim really gets what family is. I just don't know how to put it any other way.

You can't walk the streets of Salinas without seeing somebody that Timmy knows personally. The people we try to ignore. He knows their names. He waves back to them, and says "See you Monday." 

That's the thing I forget about dreams.

I have often thought that success was having a good job, a well adjusted family, a good relationship with God and ...being creative. I don't know, something like painting as a hobby. Given that definition, you can't be very successful as a Cop in Salinas. I didn't realize that that's not what my brother is. He is like Jesus, in more ways than I can say with good conscience that I am.

A few weeks ago, my brother was talking about what he does with one of the elders of my church. "Oh yeah, Dorothy's Kitchen," he said. "My wife and I used to go there, but I can't handle it anymore. I got propositioned by a prostitute the last time I was there." With one sentence, Timmy turned the world upside down and turned this elder, this church leader, this great teacher, into a student, while he became the teacher. "Yeah," he smiled. "Those people are my friends."

My brother. Mild mannered high school student. Jesus to the prostitutes and butchers of Salinas. Superman.