Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Daddy's Weakness Continued: The “Daddy” Trilogy
The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside...
Slowly, my father's layers began to unravel. He was handicapped in more ways than one. My father merely brought home the bacon. My mother did everything else. She wrote the money orders and checks, she withdrew the money from the bank, she prepared all the meals, she washed the clothes for the entire household, she was the true backbone of the family.
My father was handicapped without my mother. She was still alive but visibly weak and incapable of carrying out her daily routine. On several occasions, she asked me to tend to my father. He wasn’t the type who would willingly turn to his children for aid (though he believed that his kids were obligated by blood to be of assistance).
As I walked into the apartment, I saw my father sitting at the dinning room table with a frustrated look on his face. The cause of his frustration lay in front of him. I asked what he was filling out and if he needed help. He barked at the gesture, so I kept it moving and proceeded to walk toward the bedroom where my mother rested. After confirming that she didn’t need anything, I informed her about what dad was doing. She asked me to go look over his shoulder to make sure that he was filling out the paperwork accurately, and I did.
My father was sitting at the head of the dinning room table. I figured that he had already made a mistake. I spotted a bottle of whiteout near him. It wasn’t on the table when I had entered the apartment. The microwave was on top of the cart behind my father, so I proceeded to heat up some leftovers while glancing over my father’s shoulder. He noticed that I was looking and asked what I wanted. I replied by shacking my head to say nothing and then ate my dinner in my room.
When my mother was hospitalized, my father had no choice but to ask for help. I do recall a degree of reluctance at first, but eventually he was able to ask without hesitation. He needed help using the microwave and the washing machine. He didn’t know how to use either one. He really didn’t.
During that time, my father made a point of expressing his affection for my mother at every opportunity. I wasn’t accustomed to these displays of love. My father was never an emotional person, especially not emotional toward my mother. As he did with most things, my father took my mother for granted, but once her illness began to take a toil on her physically, my father’s perception changed. He actually saw my mother. He knew that she was there all before but he never really saw her! It took cancer to open his eyes, if only slightly, to the fact that life is fleeting and that no person or moment should be taken granted.
Do not get me wrong. I’m in no way denying the fact that my father loved my mother. After all, love is only as good as the lover. I strongly believe that a person can deeply love someone yet betray the subject of his or her affection. The greater the person, the greater is the quality of his or her love and the greater is the manifestation of that love.
My father’s only remaining layer unraveled right before my mother died. The rock, the alpha-male who ruled his brood with an iron fist, broke down on his recliner as reality engulfed him. He was losing his wife of 44 years, losing the mother of his four children, losing the person who had fulfilled his every whim without question, losing the subject of his innumerous insults, losing the only woman who would be able to bear his demeanor. He was losing and because of that acknowledgment of loss all that remained was regret.
Slowly, my father's layers began to unravel. He was handicapped in more ways than one. My father merely brought home the bacon. My mother did everything else. She wrote the money orders and checks, she withdrew the money from the bank, she prepared all the meals, she washed the clothes for the entire household, she was the true backbone of the family.
My father was handicapped without my mother. She was still alive but visibly weak and incapable of carrying out her daily routine. On several occasions, she asked me to tend to my father. He wasn’t the type who would willingly turn to his children for aid (though he believed that his kids were obligated by blood to be of assistance).
As I walked into the apartment, I saw my father sitting at the dinning room table with a frustrated look on his face. The cause of his frustration lay in front of him. I asked what he was filling out and if he needed help. He barked at the gesture, so I kept it moving and proceeded to walk toward the bedroom where my mother rested. After confirming that she didn’t need anything, I informed her about what dad was doing. She asked me to go look over his shoulder to make sure that he was filling out the paperwork accurately, and I did.
My father was sitting at the head of the dinning room table. I figured that he had already made a mistake. I spotted a bottle of whiteout near him. It wasn’t on the table when I had entered the apartment. The microwave was on top of the cart behind my father, so I proceeded to heat up some leftovers while glancing over my father’s shoulder. He noticed that I was looking and asked what I wanted. I replied by shacking my head to say nothing and then ate my dinner in my room.
When my mother was hospitalized, my father had no choice but to ask for help. I do recall a degree of reluctance at first, but eventually he was able to ask without hesitation. He needed help using the microwave and the washing machine. He didn’t know how to use either one. He really didn’t.
During that time, my father made a point of expressing his affection for my mother at every opportunity. I wasn’t accustomed to these displays of love. My father was never an emotional person, especially not emotional toward my mother. As he did with most things, my father took my mother for granted, but once her illness began to take a toil on her physically, my father’s perception changed. He actually saw my mother. He knew that she was there all before but he never really saw her! It took cancer to open his eyes, if only slightly, to the fact that life is fleeting and that no person or moment should be taken granted.
Do not get me wrong. I’m in no way denying the fact that my father loved my mother. After all, love is only as good as the lover. I strongly believe that a person can deeply love someone yet betray the subject of his or her affection. The greater the person, the greater is the quality of his or her love and the greater is the manifestation of that love.
My father’s only remaining layer unraveled right before my mother died. The rock, the alpha-male who ruled his brood with an iron fist, broke down on his recliner as reality engulfed him. He was losing his wife of 44 years, losing the mother of his four children, losing the person who had fulfilled his every whim without question, losing the subject of his innumerous insults, losing the only woman who would be able to bear his demeanor. He was losing and because of that acknowledgment of loss all that remained was regret.
The Daddy' Trilogy
Monday, August 23, 2010
Daddy's Weakness: The “Daddy” Trilogy
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but I do recall my father saying that he didn’t want to catch me watching his television and that I had, “better just watch that sh@t back there in my room.” He was referring to my computer. I found his “logic” amusing since I had actually bought the television that he was referring to and that he sat daily on the couch that I had bought for my mother and ate at the dinning room table that I had also bought for my mother.
Again, I saw my father’s insecurity, in addition to his selfishness. Not once had he even asked if my mother was okay or if she needed medical assistance. Granted her bruises were minimal but I would still have expected some degree of concern. My father was concerned but about himself.
Daddy’s Weakness
My father is several different entities wrapped up into a compact package. I thought that he had hit an all-time low when he told me that my mother wanted to abort me. The fact that my father had made it seem the way he did, like my mother wanted the abortion, is what really upset me. He knew that my mother was no longer alive to explain herself. Little did he know, my mother had already told me the story. The fact that I was expected to be “a little person” who was def and mute. She explained to me that the doctors mentioned abortion as an option. My mother and I were very close. She didn’t withhold much from me.
I spoke to my sister about what my father had said and she wasn’t remotely offended. She was actually indifferent. “Well, he once told me that he should have just jerked off,” she responded. What he said to me paled in comparison to what he had said to my sister. Despite the circumstances, I actually felt better after speaking to my sister.
Though his tongue could pierce like a knife, he sometimes used it in the most approving manor. His accolades were rampant when things went his way. They were grand and pedestal boosting, so much so that the subject of my father’s momentary affections naively assumed that the praises would usurp all perceived injustices. I cannot speak for my other siblings; we all grew to know our father, and mother for that matter, differently. Our experiences are not the same, but my experience/observation has proven that his praises can be and are often short lived. Granted when a child disappoints his parents, that child should expect that the disappointment will be expressed. However, the articulation of that disappointment shouldn’t serve as a catalyst for future letdowns. I have watched as my eldest brother, for example, has attempted to live up to some standard that he hasn’t yet been able to achieve, primarily due to my father’s continuous expression of sheer disappointment.
Despite it all, I do believe that neither myself nor my siblings ever perceived our father as weak. He always embodied the alpha-male persona. Even when my mother was diagnosed, he still embodied that male bravado. This was due largely to the fact that he really didn’t understand the severity of my mother’s condition: stage three colon cancer. Also, as I describe in greater detail in "And We Write: Surviving Cancer", my mother was a trooper. It wasn’t until her operation, in which her surgical oncologist told us that she would only have about 5 years to live, that I saw my father’s persona change. The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside.
To be continued...
Again, I saw my father’s insecurity, in addition to his selfishness. Not once had he even asked if my mother was okay or if she needed medical assistance. Granted her bruises were minimal but I would still have expected some degree of concern. My father was concerned but about himself.
Daddy’s Weakness
My father is several different entities wrapped up into a compact package. I thought that he had hit an all-time low when he told me that my mother wanted to abort me. The fact that my father had made it seem the way he did, like my mother wanted the abortion, is what really upset me. He knew that my mother was no longer alive to explain herself. Little did he know, my mother had already told me the story. The fact that I was expected to be “a little person” who was def and mute. She explained to me that the doctors mentioned abortion as an option. My mother and I were very close. She didn’t withhold much from me.
I spoke to my sister about what my father had said and she wasn’t remotely offended. She was actually indifferent. “Well, he once told me that he should have just jerked off,” she responded. What he said to me paled in comparison to what he had said to my sister. Despite the circumstances, I actually felt better after speaking to my sister.
Though his tongue could pierce like a knife, he sometimes used it in the most approving manor. His accolades were rampant when things went his way. They were grand and pedestal boosting, so much so that the subject of my father’s momentary affections naively assumed that the praises would usurp all perceived injustices. I cannot speak for my other siblings; we all grew to know our father, and mother for that matter, differently. Our experiences are not the same, but my experience/observation has proven that his praises can be and are often short lived. Granted when a child disappoints his parents, that child should expect that the disappointment will be expressed. However, the articulation of that disappointment shouldn’t serve as a catalyst for future letdowns. I have watched as my eldest brother, for example, has attempted to live up to some standard that he hasn’t yet been able to achieve, primarily due to my father’s continuous expression of sheer disappointment.
Despite it all, I do believe that neither myself nor my siblings ever perceived our father as weak. He always embodied the alpha-male persona. Even when my mother was diagnosed, he still embodied that male bravado. This was due largely to the fact that he really didn’t understand the severity of my mother’s condition: stage three colon cancer. Also, as I describe in greater detail in "And We Write: Surviving Cancer", my mother was a trooper. It wasn’t until her operation, in which her surgical oncologist told us that she would only have about 5 years to live, that I saw my father’s persona change. The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Father Knows Best? The “Daddy” Trilogy
It was bound to happen. I knew that I would eventually have to discuss Mr. Lewis. I think that I was purposely avoiding the topic. I actually planned on writing about something else, about what my mother told me about relationships (platonic and otherwise) and not considering everyone my “friend.” I had actually written a few paragraphs on the topic and had titled the piece “Friends, Associates and Foes,” but something else needed to be said, something else has been clawing at the back of my neck while holding on with hind legs. It is time to shake it off And I write…
When my mother was alive and well my father, Mr. Lewis, ruled his brood with an iron fist and piercing tongue. My father was an old school disciplinarian. As long as we abided by his rules, which weren’t always the most diplomatic, all was well. Don’t get me wrong. My father was incredibly strict but also very loving. He just needed to be in constant control.
The financial decisions, the dinner we ate, the television shows we watched, the vacations or weekend getaways we took, were all pretty much made at my father's discretion. My mother's input was minimal at best.
I remember when we visited a cousin who lived in Harlem. It was winter and I had to be about 10-years-old. My father was a drinker (he has since given up the yack) and so was his cousin, Johnny. Johnny must have hit the bottle rather hard by time we had arrived. Shortly after we had taken off our coats and made ourselves comfortable, Johnny began to recount his encounter with the devil. Yes Ol' hoofed foot visited Johnny. I remember my father asking jokingly as he lounged, one leg hanging over the arm of the couch, what did the devil look like? Johnny replied that he had a head shaped like a motorcycle helmet with two huge bulging, glossy black eyes and he was as black as coal (blame it on the al..co...hol).
Noticing how comfortable my father was as he lay on the couch, I couldn't help but comment, Dad, you must think you're at your house, sitting with your leg up like that. Everyone laughed at the remark, including my father. It wasn't until the ride home that the I learned of my error.
As we rode toward our house, my father looked at me from the rearview mirror. He informed me that I shouldn't have said anything about him lounging in the chair. I didn't understand what I had did wrong, so I asked why? At that moment, I recall that my mother, who was sitting in the front passenger's seat, looked across at my father. With a farrowed brow he stared at the rearview mirror, his eyes locked with mine.
He spoke softly but with clear intent. Because it is embarrassing. I was a smart kid and knew that I shouldn't purposely embarrass anyone, or hurt anyone’s feelings. I had not meant to embarrass him and if I had embarrassed him like he claimed, then why did he join in when everyone laughed? My mother could tell that I was confused and turned her head slightly to the left so that she could clearly see my face as she looked over the headrest. She smiled at me and that was the end of it.
I learned something about my father that night that is just as true today as it was then. My father is insecure. I didn't really know how to describe it then but time has helped to name it. His insecurity is what caused him to bolt into the apartment when my mother had fallen in front of the building. She wasn't diagnosed at the time but had broken a bone in her foot and had to use crutches. My father could walk like a speed demon and he “forgot” that my mother was on crutches. In her haste to keep up with him, she fell. She scraped her knee, elbow and ego. He was more concerned about how embarrassed he was and didn't even bother to help her up, from what my mother later told me.
When I heard the key unlocking the door, I proceeded to open it. My father walked across the threshold, ranting about how my mother had fallen and how embarrassed he was. She's out there fallin' on the ground. She doesn't understand how embarrassing that is? I disregarded his questions. I scanned my mother's body as she stood, defeated, on crutches. I noticed a few scrapes and bruises. I told her to come in and have a seat while my father still complained about the episode in the background. When I had gotten her into a chair, I asked if she was alright. She said she was and I then went to get some alcohol and cotton balls to clean up the scrapes and bruises. My father was still ranting and raving in the background. Once I was informed of what had happened: my father had walked ahead of her toward the car, leaving her behind on crutches. She said he was walking quickly and she tried to keep up and subsequently hit the pavement. There were a bunch of folks in front of the building non-of-whom came to her aid (Bastards ).
My father made the God awful mistake of admitting that he had walked ahead of her while she was on crutches. He mentioned that he turned around when he noticed that she wasn't behind him and saw her in the distance on the ground and had to walk back to where she was stretched out on the ground. I was no longer 10-years-old. Needless to say, Ms. Lewis went in...
"Where were you? Why were you walking so far ahead of her? You knew that she's on crutches. What husband does that?" I calmly asked while still tending to my mother’s wounds.
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but...
To be continued...
When my mother was alive and well my father, Mr. Lewis, ruled his brood with an iron fist and piercing tongue. My father was an old school disciplinarian. As long as we abided by his rules, which weren’t always the most diplomatic, all was well. Don’t get me wrong. My father was incredibly strict but also very loving. He just needed to be in constant control.
The financial decisions, the dinner we ate, the television shows we watched, the vacations or weekend getaways we took, were all pretty much made at my father's discretion. My mother's input was minimal at best.
I remember when we visited a cousin who lived in Harlem. It was winter and I had to be about 10-years-old. My father was a drinker (he has since given up the yack) and so was his cousin, Johnny. Johnny must have hit the bottle rather hard by time we had arrived. Shortly after we had taken off our coats and made ourselves comfortable, Johnny began to recount his encounter with the devil. Yes Ol' hoofed foot visited Johnny. I remember my father asking jokingly as he lounged, one leg hanging over the arm of the couch, what did the devil look like? Johnny replied that he had a head shaped like a motorcycle helmet with two huge bulging, glossy black eyes and he was as black as coal (blame it on the al..co...hol).
Noticing how comfortable my father was as he lay on the couch, I couldn't help but comment, Dad, you must think you're at your house, sitting with your leg up like that. Everyone laughed at the remark, including my father. It wasn't until the ride home that the I learned of my error.
As we rode toward our house, my father looked at me from the rearview mirror. He informed me that I shouldn't have said anything about him lounging in the chair. I didn't understand what I had did wrong, so I asked why? At that moment, I recall that my mother, who was sitting in the front passenger's seat, looked across at my father. With a farrowed brow he stared at the rearview mirror, his eyes locked with mine.
He spoke softly but with clear intent. Because it is embarrassing. I was a smart kid and knew that I shouldn't purposely embarrass anyone, or hurt anyone’s feelings. I had not meant to embarrass him and if I had embarrassed him like he claimed, then why did he join in when everyone laughed? My mother could tell that I was confused and turned her head slightly to the left so that she could clearly see my face as she looked over the headrest. She smiled at me and that was the end of it.
I learned something about my father that night that is just as true today as it was then. My father is insecure. I didn't really know how to describe it then but time has helped to name it. His insecurity is what caused him to bolt into the apartment when my mother had fallen in front of the building. She wasn't diagnosed at the time but had broken a bone in her foot and had to use crutches. My father could walk like a speed demon and he “forgot” that my mother was on crutches. In her haste to keep up with him, she fell. She scraped her knee, elbow and ego. He was more concerned about how embarrassed he was and didn't even bother to help her up, from what my mother later told me.
When I heard the key unlocking the door, I proceeded to open it. My father walked across the threshold, ranting about how my mother had fallen and how embarrassed he was. She's out there fallin' on the ground. She doesn't understand how embarrassing that is? I disregarded his questions. I scanned my mother's body as she stood, defeated, on crutches. I noticed a few scrapes and bruises. I told her to come in and have a seat while my father still complained about the episode in the background. When I had gotten her into a chair, I asked if she was alright. She said she was and I then went to get some alcohol and cotton balls to clean up the scrapes and bruises. My father was still ranting and raving in the background. Once I was informed of what had happened: my father had walked ahead of her toward the car, leaving her behind on crutches. She said he was walking quickly and she tried to keep up and subsequently hit the pavement. There were a bunch of folks in front of the building non-of-whom came to her aid (Bastards ).
My father made the God awful mistake of admitting that he had walked ahead of her while she was on crutches. He mentioned that he turned around when he noticed that she wasn't behind him and saw her in the distance on the ground and had to walk back to where she was stretched out on the ground. I was no longer 10-years-old. Needless to say, Ms. Lewis went in...
"Where were you? Why were you walking so far ahead of her? You knew that she's on crutches. What husband does that?" I calmly asked while still tending to my mother’s wounds.
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but...
To be continued...
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Oh No, Not the Nails!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Cancer Risk at Your Fingertips?
The rules of summer tell us to cover ourselves from head to toe with hat, sunscreen, and clothing so we won’t fall victim to harmful UV rays.
But if you’re a regular at the nail salon, danger may be lurking closer than you think. According to a recent story in the New York Times, that UV nail light used to dry freshly polished nails acts like a mini-tanning bed, making the device especially questionable for those in the nail-tech industry who use it every day.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
There is Progress
The book is currently in the interior and book cover design stage. It has already been edited and is a good read, ya'll. The publisher will send me a few cover design mock-ups based on the purpose of the book and a few of my ideas. I cannot believe that it is almost done, ya'll. Well close to done. From my understanding, I will receive a PDF of the book for review, which I should peruse several times before I say "it's done." Nevertheless, there is progress. Now, book release ideas... Hmmmm. I want to do something, a book release party or something along those lines.Any ideas?
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Are You a Skutter Butt?
For the past few weeks, I've watched as folks have been inconsiderate, rude, nasty etc, and I wonder where the devil they've picked up such shameful habits? My mother made sure to teach myself and my siblings how to say “thank you” and to be polite and mindful of others' space and time.
I hate to say it, but some New Yorkers can be disgusting, just really nasty; these folks are skutter butts, (skank + gutter + @ss). Are ... you ... a ... skutter ... butt?
Don't get me wrong. No one is perfect. I too at times am guilty of not saying "thank you" amongst committing other social offenses. I am fully aware of the oversight(s) and am making every effort to extend my gratitude when the situation calls for it, but I really wonder if folks are conscious of their mishaps.
Can one be such a skutter butt that he isn't even aware of his skutter butt ways?
Consider the middle aged woman who resides in my complex. For the past couple of weeks, we have both taken the same bus home from the Staten Island ferry terminal and have both exited the bus at the same stop, walking almost with the same stride toward the complex's back gate. Once we have neared the gate, she has proceeded to take out her keys and has swiped herself in, holding the door for me. Naturally, out of common courtesy, I have said, "thank you." She has merely let the gate go and has proceeded to walk toward her building not even looking back to acknowledge my comment.
I was almost certain that she disliked me, but it just so happened that the next day one of my neighbors (Jan) happened to get off the bus as well. Jan too said "thank you" only to receive no response.
The guilty party is a chronic repeat offender. I have watched as she has committed the same offense over and over again. Is she aware that she is a skutter butt? Given the frequency in which she neglects to say "thank you," it is fair to say no.
On countless occasions, I have observed some of the females from the company that shares office space with the organization that I work for use and then exit the bathroom without washing their hands. Someone from the company even brings what appears to be a washcloth into the stall and when she is done leaves the damp cloth balled up on the floor directly underneath the toilet. Highly unsanitary, ya’ll and simply gross!
All of them may not fit the description but a select few are, without a doubt, skutter butts who are repeat offenders. Again, are they aware of their skutter butt ways? Hmmmmm...
There was an attractive young Asain girl riding on the same Manhattan bus as myself in route to the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan. When the bus had reached her requested stop, she began to make her way through the crowd, her cardigan dropping to the floor in her hast. A kind passenger picked up the cardigan. With a warm smile, he handed it back to its rightful owner who snatched the cardigan from his hands, turned around, and proceeded to exit the bus.
She is a skutter butt.
Please be sure to thank the person who, despite the early morning weekday rush, is kind enough to place a hand or foot in front of the door so you can board the train.
If a young man or woman compliments your hair, clothes, even your toes (compliments them in a non-offensive manner), smile and say “thank you.”
If a random stranger, smiles or attempts to strike up a conversation, do not assume that the individual is a nut who is up to no good. You may very well be looking at your future husband or wife. Do not be rude.
Do not be a skutter butt.
I hate to say it, but some New Yorkers can be disgusting, just really nasty; these folks are skutter butts, (skank + gutter + @ss). Are ... you ... a ... skutter ... butt?
Don't get me wrong. No one is perfect. I too at times am guilty of not saying "thank you" amongst committing other social offenses. I am fully aware of the oversight(s) and am making every effort to extend my gratitude when the situation calls for it, but I really wonder if folks are conscious of their mishaps.
Can one be such a skutter butt that he isn't even aware of his skutter butt ways?
Consider the middle aged woman who resides in my complex. For the past couple of weeks, we have both taken the same bus home from the Staten Island ferry terminal and have both exited the bus at the same stop, walking almost with the same stride toward the complex's back gate. Once we have neared the gate, she has proceeded to take out her keys and has swiped herself in, holding the door for me. Naturally, out of common courtesy, I have said, "thank you." She has merely let the gate go and has proceeded to walk toward her building not even looking back to acknowledge my comment.
I was almost certain that she disliked me, but it just so happened that the next day one of my neighbors (Jan) happened to get off the bus as well. Jan too said "thank you" only to receive no response.
The guilty party is a chronic repeat offender. I have watched as she has committed the same offense over and over again. Is she aware that she is a skutter butt? Given the frequency in which she neglects to say "thank you," it is fair to say no.
On countless occasions, I have observed some of the females from the company that shares office space with the organization that I work for use and then exit the bathroom without washing their hands. Someone from the company even brings what appears to be a washcloth into the stall and when she is done leaves the damp cloth balled up on the floor directly underneath the toilet. Highly unsanitary, ya’ll and simply gross!
All of them may not fit the description but a select few are, without a doubt, skutter butts who are repeat offenders. Again, are they aware of their skutter butt ways? Hmmmmm...
There was an attractive young Asain girl riding on the same Manhattan bus as myself in route to the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan. When the bus had reached her requested stop, she began to make her way through the crowd, her cardigan dropping to the floor in her hast. A kind passenger picked up the cardigan. With a warm smile, he handed it back to its rightful owner who snatched the cardigan from his hands, turned around, and proceeded to exit the bus.
She is a skutter butt.
Please be sure to thank the person who, despite the early morning weekday rush, is kind enough to place a hand or foot in front of the door so you can board the train.
If a young man or woman compliments your hair, clothes, even your toes (compliments them in a non-offensive manner), smile and say “thank you.”
If a random stranger, smiles or attempts to strike up a conversation, do not assume that the individual is a nut who is up to no good. You may very well be looking at your future husband or wife. Do not be rude.
Do not be a skutter butt.
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