The End of Being Personal

...a continuation of 'College: Concussions with Doc McStuffins',

Also, this is the final part of my Personal Narrative. To anyone who made it this far, I am sorry you have nothing better to do with your time. I feel you. But really, thanks for reading along.

Mandatory shout-out to my parents before I close it out. Those two Astorian sweethearts might just be the most influential figures in my life—well, they at least crack the top 30—but I pretty much neglected them throughout this personal narrative. That isn’t right.

I fell into support anywhere I needed it when I was growing up. It was like living in a padded phone booth, but it fit more people and had more fresh air. I realize this. It is crucial I recognize how rare and fortunate this is—to be raised in a padded telephone booth. My parents were always there for me, to catch me, should I fall. What a tremendous blessing.

I do not think compassion is a skill I was born with. I think some people are, but I’m not one of them. I have always been kind, but naturally selfish. In the old family videos we dust off around the holidays, I am always ripping stuff from my sister’s hands and showing no remorse when she begins to cry. I wasn’t born with compassion, and didn’t find it through a book or a poem. I found it in Mom and Dad. It is by constantly absorbing their love that I learned how to use it myself. Their compassion was a lot like the sun in that way—insidious and always burning, regardless of whether or not I thought I could see it. But the chronic exposure to their compassion gave me a great gift instead of skin cancer.

I watched my parents live the way they did, and slowly started to realize how good it was. I thought they came up with that way to live, then I started to learn about God. I realized he was the one who came up with it, and that parents were just very good at being God for their children.

My mom and dad had my oldest brother when they were 19 and 20. Since then, their lives have been ours. Sometimes I forget my dad is a real person. I am always in a bit of shock when I remember he pees and poos. And that’s not just because of an ever so slight resemblance to Kim Jong Un. My father is a rock. He has strived for what he thinks is the best for his family since that young age—growing quite a bit in the process. He started with very little, but he always believed he had a lot. I think that's the way to do it.

My mother is not a rock. She feels every little pebble on the road, and will cry if a strong breeze hits her at just the right angle. This always causes quite a scene. I like to think I am a healthy combination of my mom and dad. Even in appearances, people say I am a pretty solid hybrid. So that’s me, just a living casualty of the chromosomal battle fought between paternal and maternal gametes—a battle that ended as a stalemate. I am a rock that feels bumps and breezes.

I wish I had paid more attention to my mom and dad when I was growing up, and less attention to everything else. If I had done this, it probably would have saved me from pretending to be a lot of stupid shit that I am not. It could have kept my head from being tormented by so much nonsense, leaving room for the more useful stuff—the stuff that would lead me to peace and happiness. Instead of being moved by the forces of society, peers, and myself—all telling me I was weird if I didn’t drink, or a failure unless I skinned a clementine with only one peel—I should have just been moved by my parents. All they ever told me was that I was worthy of being loved. They were incorrigible when it came to delivering this message. I should have listened more closely.

Also, I owe a few words of acknowledgement to my nephews Nicholas and Julian*. My brother Chris made me godfather for his first son, Nicholas. That changed my life. It probably means a lot more to me than it should, and more than it was ever meant to, but I love that kid so much. I can’t be certain it is one of those unconditional types of love, because he also happens to be really adorable. This makes it hard to know for sure. Sometimes I wish he was ugly and annoying, just so I could know for sure. Regardless, he has brought so much light to my life. I can look at him in times of doubt, when I hear someone call another a faggot behind the keys of a message board, and know that the universe isn’t a bad place because it allowed for the creation of Nicholas. When I see really awful and confusing things, I can always go back to this. I thank God for my godfathership, and for my nephew.

I have nine cousins who I love a lot. I also had a golden retriever named Sadie. She died when I was 11 years old. I didn’t care much for Sadie, but I loved her anyway.

I don’t love museums, but I don’t think I need to.

*Written before the birth of my niece, Madyson. Love you too, Mad Dawg.

#personalnarrative