Inhabiting Different Worlds (With No-Fault Assurance!)
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Had an epiphany recently. Hit on why it has been so difficult at times to relate to some people. The answer lies in the worlds we inhabit. My world is one of academics and domesticity, of sacred time with the family (of choice), of challenging study, of home improvement, of quiet moments of relaxation, of work seen as a career, as well as a calling, of rememberance of all the past hardships endured, leading to this time and place, of the need for appreciation of all things, great and small.
The past was not too bad, but certainly not ideal. What I consider to be normal, others consider to be attrocities. When I was a kid, the method of punishment was "the beating". This involved wooden spoons, belts, hairbrushes, slaps across the face, and the pulling of hair. Insults were hurled freely, and often were meant to express love and admiration. I was told I would be a "ditch digger", that I was a "little prick". "Hello dick-less wonder" was a common greeting my best friend often used. It was all normal.
I had to avoid fights every day in school, avoid being thrown in the "spit pit", a truly horrible place at the bottom of a short staircase leading to a basement door of the elementary school I went to. It always had at least an inch of spit and god knows what other filth in it. If a student got thrown in, others stood gawking, horrified for the victim, but too afraid to help lest they be thrown in next. Poor Westly Kline, that kid lived in that nasty place for most of the fourth grade.
Junior highschool was even worse. Testosterone amped up the violence. My dad's teachings came in handy. I had to use my meager martial arts skills to get myself out of more than one tight spot. I even beat the "toughest kid" in the seventh grade. And that kid had "beat up 'Chopper', and 'Chopper' was the toughest kid in Lynn!" I still maintain that I did not stomp that kid's balls. He faked it because he knew I had beaten him. (I was actually trying to stomp his guts, which, I admit is pretty bad too -kicking a guy when he's down. But I was taught to "beat the shit" out of someone to "teach them a lesson". --"And when yaw done, an' he's lyin' theyah on the ground, you grab a fistful of his hai-ah, pull it tight and whisper intuh the guy's eah, 'next time, Ah'll kill ya!!") The eighth grade kids were so pissed off that a nerd had beaten the tough kid that they descended upon me like a bunch of rabid soccer hooligans, stabbing me with a pencil at one point, right in the abdomen. The next day, in a rage, my dad ended up storming into Pickering Junior High and threatening the lives of every person in that school: students, teachers, administrators and all of their families! Nuts though it may have been, it kept me safe up until high school.
Highschool came and, memories being short, I once again had to watch out. But by this time I had finally found my rage, and just the look on my face backed a lot of kids down. (Thankfully!) But, because I had inadvertantly shattered a stranger's windshield with a Ziplock freezerbag full of water, I had to pay off my debt/crime by getting a job delivering newspapers for 12-hour stretches every weekend, rain, snow, sleet or hail. It was once so cold the weather man warned people not to go outside, for their "flesh would freeze in seconds". We "piss-boys", as we referred to ourselves, jokingly shouted that ridiculousness across the street at each other as we delivered to every street in Salem, Beverly , Nahant, Peabody, Danvers and Lynn.
Yeah, I remember the hard times when blisters were the norm. Freezing your ass off was common. Working for minimum wage. Putting up with the idiotic petty tyrants who got useless jobs as managers of places like Childworld and Sears. Some of the guys I worked with are dead or in jail. So are some of the supervisors I suffered under. I remember those times because they make me who I am today, and remind me of how far I have come. I am proud of those struggles. I am proud of my heritage. I come from a blue-collar, working-class family that sometimes ended up on welfare. Everything I have, had to be fought for. I would not wish it on anyone, but I went through it and I came out stronger.
Nowadays though, the people I know now cannot fathom my life's founding experiences. They look at me as though I were lying to them. They never knew hardships like mine and would never consider them normal. In their eyes I was abused, neglected, and mal-treated. My parents should have been jailed, my teachers fired and my fellow students sent to juvenile hall. My father's actions the day after the eighth grade attacked me would be considered terroristic threatening. By today's standards, I would be considered the most vicitimized of people. Indeed, one of my friends has said that I "should be much more messed up" than I am.
But for me it was all normal.
Of course, I don't think of it as normal for this day and age, but I don't necessarily judge it from today's standards either. I think it is important to acknowledge what was gone through, learn from it and be proud of surviving it.
But here, and now, my pride is not seen. My stories eclipse it entirely. The looks on people's faces are those of shock, horror, abhorrence and even pity. I feel shame when I see their uncomprehending reactions. And this can be very unsettling.
Back home, my story is typical. I am a regular kid from Lynn who had it no worse than so many others. But here, I am misunderstood at a very fundamental level. Though there is no blame in it, it's frustrating all the same. Just as someone from Fiji has no real concept of snow, many of the people I have met since Lynn will never really understand my worldview and where it came from. I suppose this is a life lesson I never knew was out there to be learned. Most of my family has not ventured out to live in totally "other" places, so for them, this break from the familiar is as unknowable as is my story for the uninitiated.
So many people can't truly understand where it is that I am from, and so many people where I am from cannot really understand where I am.
As my friend J. once said, "I feel like a man without a country."
"Truah wewds wuh nevah spoken!"
Had an epiphany recently. Hit on why it has been so difficult at times to relate to some people. The answer lies in the worlds we inhabit. My world is one of academics and domesticity, of sacred time with the family (of choice), of challenging study, of home improvement, of quiet moments of relaxation, of work seen as a career, as well as a calling, of rememberance of all the past hardships endured, leading to this time and place, of the need for appreciation of all things, great and small.
The past was not too bad, but certainly not ideal. What I consider to be normal, others consider to be attrocities. When I was a kid, the method of punishment was "the beating". This involved wooden spoons, belts, hairbrushes, slaps across the face, and the pulling of hair. Insults were hurled freely, and often were meant to express love and admiration. I was told I would be a "ditch digger", that I was a "little prick". "Hello dick-less wonder" was a common greeting my best friend often used. It was all normal.
I had to avoid fights every day in school, avoid being thrown in the "spit pit", a truly horrible place at the bottom of a short staircase leading to a basement door of the elementary school I went to. It always had at least an inch of spit and god knows what other filth in it. If a student got thrown in, others stood gawking, horrified for the victim, but too afraid to help lest they be thrown in next. Poor Westly Kline, that kid lived in that nasty place for most of the fourth grade.
Junior highschool was even worse. Testosterone amped up the violence. My dad's teachings came in handy. I had to use my meager martial arts skills to get myself out of more than one tight spot. I even beat the "toughest kid" in the seventh grade. And that kid had "beat up 'Chopper', and 'Chopper' was the toughest kid in Lynn!" I still maintain that I did not stomp that kid's balls. He faked it because he knew I had beaten him. (I was actually trying to stomp his guts, which, I admit is pretty bad too -kicking a guy when he's down. But I was taught to "beat the shit" out of someone to "teach them a lesson". --"And when yaw done, an' he's lyin' theyah on the ground, you grab a fistful of his hai-ah, pull it tight and whisper intuh the guy's eah, 'next time, Ah'll kill ya!!") The eighth grade kids were so pissed off that a nerd had beaten the tough kid that they descended upon me like a bunch of rabid soccer hooligans, stabbing me with a pencil at one point, right in the abdomen. The next day, in a rage, my dad ended up storming into Pickering Junior High and threatening the lives of every person in that school: students, teachers, administrators and all of their families! Nuts though it may have been, it kept me safe up until high school.
Highschool came and, memories being short, I once again had to watch out. But by this time I had finally found my rage, and just the look on my face backed a lot of kids down. (Thankfully!) But, because I had inadvertantly shattered a stranger's windshield with a Ziplock freezerbag full of water, I had to pay off my debt/crime by getting a job delivering newspapers for 12-hour stretches every weekend, rain, snow, sleet or hail. It was once so cold the weather man warned people not to go outside, for their "flesh would freeze in seconds". We "piss-boys", as we referred to ourselves, jokingly shouted that ridiculousness across the street at each other as we delivered to every street in Salem, Beverly , Nahant, Peabody, Danvers and Lynn.
Yeah, I remember the hard times when blisters were the norm. Freezing your ass off was common. Working for minimum wage. Putting up with the idiotic petty tyrants who got useless jobs as managers of places like Childworld and Sears. Some of the guys I worked with are dead or in jail. So are some of the supervisors I suffered under. I remember those times because they make me who I am today, and remind me of how far I have come. I am proud of those struggles. I am proud of my heritage. I come from a blue-collar, working-class family that sometimes ended up on welfare. Everything I have, had to be fought for. I would not wish it on anyone, but I went through it and I came out stronger.
Nowadays though, the people I know now cannot fathom my life's founding experiences. They look at me as though I were lying to them. They never knew hardships like mine and would never consider them normal. In their eyes I was abused, neglected, and mal-treated. My parents should have been jailed, my teachers fired and my fellow students sent to juvenile hall. My father's actions the day after the eighth grade attacked me would be considered terroristic threatening. By today's standards, I would be considered the most vicitimized of people. Indeed, one of my friends has said that I "should be much more messed up" than I am.
But for me it was all normal.
Of course, I don't think of it as normal for this day and age, but I don't necessarily judge it from today's standards either. I think it is important to acknowledge what was gone through, learn from it and be proud of surviving it.
But here, and now, my pride is not seen. My stories eclipse it entirely. The looks on people's faces are those of shock, horror, abhorrence and even pity. I feel shame when I see their uncomprehending reactions. And this can be very unsettling.
Back home, my story is typical. I am a regular kid from Lynn who had it no worse than so many others. But here, I am misunderstood at a very fundamental level. Though there is no blame in it, it's frustrating all the same. Just as someone from Fiji has no real concept of snow, many of the people I have met since Lynn will never really understand my worldview and where it came from. I suppose this is a life lesson I never knew was out there to be learned. Most of my family has not ventured out to live in totally "other" places, so for them, this break from the familiar is as unknowable as is my story for the uninitiated.
So many people can't truly understand where it is that I am from, and so many people where I am from cannot really understand where I am.
As my friend J. once said, "I feel like a man without a country."
"Truah wewds wuh nevah spoken!"
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