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I once read that no person had ever done anything wrong, ever. Not you, not me, not anyone. Hitler’s henchmen, McVeigh, Manson, and every other evil person you have met have never done anything wrong. The thing is who decides? There have been times when I could choose between wrong and right…there never was a wrong. There was only “more right”. Sure, I knew it was wrong to steal food, but at that moment, it was more right than wrong. The justification for what is right at a single moment in any ones life is the thing that makes one famous, infamous or just like you and I…human. There has been a point in all of our lives; I would venture to say every day that we choose what society and its morays that it inflicts on us. This could be as simple as running a red light, speeding, lying to your wife about the ice cream that you swear you didn’t have at lunch, and for some, even murder, rape and if you can imagine – worse. I am not sure who I can credit this theory to; I recall that it was in a college sociology book I had read.
My tent was my home. That is where for the first time in a long time I felt safe, at peace. I did not consider myself homeless anymore, I had a home and though this would not be considered a nice home by many in the current time, if it was 1820 I had it great. I read and read…any book I could get my hands on. I really preferred text books and college level books on economics and literature. I knew that just because I was missing school, there was no reason to not get an education – I knew as my dad had told me – knowledge is power. Education is power.
Dad…ahh, there is a place for dad. That is what confuses most people in the story – dad. I had a dad, he was my dad. He tucked me in at night, taught me to catch, ride a bike, read, play…I had a pretty good dad. Sure, that was the rare occasion that he was not drunk on Vodka and water…but none the less, what I judge as a good dad. I was proud of my dad…what boy isn’t? Sure, he was not perfect I could accept that. As I grew older my father was more and more distant. When we lived in New Jersey is when I noticed the pull out. His family, a catholic family from the Bronx was every bit the stereo typical New Yorker Italian Catholic crew you would imagine…TV is about as close as you can get. His mother died when I was about 8 or so, can’t remember the funeral at all, not one bit…but I was there. She died of cancer of the cancer or something like that. At 11 her widowers room still had her dirty clothing in it, he had not cleaned the room a bit since her death, I think really since her diagnosis. It seemed odd to me that my dad’s four sisters kids all called this man “poppy”…and I was told to call him “Walter”…but that young I did not know why, hell if I could put things together. This man wanted nothing to do with me; he was not like my other grandpa.
Back to the confusion…when I was in court, learning that I was going to foster homes is when I found out. I had spent a week or so in Juvenile jail, not because I had done anything wrong, but because Dept of Children and Family services did not have a place at that time to send a 15 year old boy from a “troubled home”. There was a fight, my parents were getting a divorce, and the battle was on, I was a kid, I was leverage. Well, my two younger brothers, they were his real DNA kids and he wanted them, I think in my heart maybe he wanted me too…and my mother pulled out her Ace of Spades, I was not his. He never adopted me. He had no legal right to me as I was not an adult, and not his child. Off to foster homes I went, thinking now, he didn’t want me though. I was in court when I learned my real name…I was a person who did not exist, I was someone new now. That is when my other “dad” came into the picture.
I have to give my mother credit; she did well on either account when it came to the bank accounts. However, when I came to being a good man, my mother failed miserably both times.
So, I say “dad” no one knows who in the hell I am talking about, I have a DNA donor, and a dad, no father I guess, or maybe a father and no dad. Any man can fuck a woman and make a baby, not any man can be a father or a dad however.
In the time after the after the divorce, after I live in Florida, after I hitch hiked with my bike from Florida back to Illinois…the time that I lived with my mother and her new boyfriend (this was a total of less than a month mind you). There was a night that I will never forget. I would often walk around the apartment complex that she was living in; I would leave as my mother would smoke, drink and go to her room to do her cocaine. I think that by this time she was injecting it. My mother was an instigator; she liked to fight and was not happy unless she was mad. She got into a fight this night with her new boyfriend. I was out walking as I saw police cars fly by and go to her building – I knew where they were going. The neighbors had called them again, they were in another fight. This one was special. When I got there an ambulance was passing me – police taking out her boyfriend in hand cuffs. He had beaten her with a fishing pole, a fishing pole with a lure on it. Treble hooks had torn into her face and arms as he ripped the pole like a whip into her. She was bleeding from tears in her face and arms. I looked at my mother as she was being taken away in shock, and was at that moment grabbed by police and cuffed.
Police were arresting me; they had told police that I had done that to my mother. My mother was more concerned with her cocaine addict boyfriend who beat her (and supplied her habit) than her own son. I know now that the police knew the entire thing was a damn scam. That night the police treated me better than any cops had ever before. Before we left they took off the cuffs and put me back in the car. They asked me when the last time I ate was (happened to be the day prior as my mother had no food in the apartment). On the way to “down town” the police stopped at a Burger King and got me a Whopper and fries with a chocolate shake. I won’t say the officer’s name, as I am sure that is not allowed. (I have since paid him back with a free dinner for he and his wife at a very nice local restaurant – gave the place my Visa number and he and she got a free dinner, as well as a night in the hotel attached). I ate that Whopper like it was no other. To this day that is what a Whopper tastes like to me, and they never compare.
When we got down town the officer told me that they did not have enough evidence to charge me and they drove me back to DCFS office where they kept me up all night and the next day took me to another foster home, on a farm 30 miles outside of town. With out my bike. This was yet another farm this was the place that I found out that what people can do to you physically can be almost as bad as what people can do to you emotionally. (This I have never said anywhere, so I post it on the internet for the entire world to see, can’t take this back I guess) I woke up in the morning with an odd feeling. I did not know exactly what was going on. I had gotten to the foster home late, had a brief introduction to the foster father and mother, given the basic rules and sent to bed. It was before sun up that I awoke with the foster “father” pulling my pants down and putting my flaccid penis in his mouth. I did not know what to do, and pretended I was sleeping. The uncontrollable reaction was that I would get an erection, and I did…but that was all. Nothing further than that. I am not sure how long it took him before he gave up and whispered to me that I had better become a man soon or I was not going to get along on his farm. When the sun rose, began on of the proudest days of my life.
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What if the Hokey Pokey is what it is all about?
I once read that no person had ever done anything wrong, ever. Not you, not me, not anyone. Hitler’s henchmen, McVeigh, Manson, and every other evil person you have met have never done anything wrong. The thing is who decides? There have been times when I could choose between wrong and right…there never was a wrong. There was only “more right”. Sure, I knew it was wrong to steal food, but at that moment, it was more right than wrong. The justification for what is right at a single moment in any ones life is the thing that makes one famous, infamous or just like you and I…human. There has been a point in all of our lives; I would venture to say every day that we choose what society and its morays that it inflicts on us. This could be as simple as running a red light, speeding, lying to your wife about the ice cream that you swear you didn’t have at lunch, and for some, even murder, rape and if you can imagine – worse. I am not sure who I can credit this theory to; I recall that it was in a college sociology book I had read.
My tent was my home. That is where for the first time in a long time I felt safe, at peace. I did not consider myself homeless anymore, I had a home and though this would not be considered a nice home by many in the current time, if it was 1820 I had it great. I read and read…any book I could get my hands on. I really preferred text books and college level books on economics and literature. I knew that just because I was missing school, there was no reason to not get an education – I knew as my dad had told me – knowledge is power. Education is power.
Dad…ahh, there is a place for dad. That is what confuses most people in the story – dad. I had a dad, he was my dad. He tucked me in at night, taught me to catch, ride a bike, read, play…I had a pretty good dad. Sure, that was the rare occasion that he was not drunk on Vodka and water…but none the less, what I judge as a good dad. I was proud of my dad…what boy isn’t? Sure, he was not perfect I could accept that. As I grew older my father was more and more distant. When we lived in New Jersey is when I noticed the pull out. His family, a catholic family from the Bronx was every bit the stereo typical New Yorker Italian Catholic crew you would imagine…TV is about as close as you can get. His mother died when I was about 8 or so, can’t remember the funeral at all, not one bit…but I was there. She died of cancer of the cancer or something like that. At 11 her widowers room still had her dirty clothing in it, he had not cleaned the room a bit since her death, I think really since her diagnosis. It seemed odd to me that my dad’s four sisters kids all called this man “poppy”…and I was told to call him “Walter”…but that young I did not know why, hell if I could put things together. This man wanted nothing to do with me; he was not like my other grandpa.
Back to the confusion…when I was in court, learning that I was going to foster homes is when I found out. I had spent a week or so in Juvenile jail, not because I had done anything wrong, but because Dept of Children and Family services did not have a place at that time to send a 15 year old boy from a “troubled home”. There was a fight, my parents were getting a divorce, and the battle was on, I was a kid, I was leverage. Well, my two younger brothers, they were his real DNA kids and he wanted them, I think in my heart maybe he wanted me too…and my mother pulled out her Ace of Spades, I was not his. He never adopted me. He had no legal right to me as I was not an adult, and not his child. Off to foster homes I went, thinking now, he didn’t want me though. I was in court when I learned my real name…I was a person who did not exist, I was someone new now. That is when my other “dad” came into the picture.
I have to give my mother credit; she did well on either account when it came to the bank accounts. However, when I came to being a good man, my mother failed miserably both times.
So, I say “dad” no one knows who in the hell I am talking about, I have a DNA donor, and a dad, no father I guess, or maybe a father and no dad. Any man can fuck a woman and make a baby, not any man can be a father or a dad however.
- -
In the time after the after the divorce, after I live in Florida, after I hitch hiked with my bike from Florida back to Illinois…the time that I lived with my mother and her new boyfriend (this was a total of less than a month mind you). There was a night that I will never forget. I would often walk around the apartment complex that she was living in; I would leave as my mother would smoke, drink and go to her room to do her cocaine. I think that by this time she was injecting it. My mother was an instigator; she liked to fight and was not happy unless she was mad. She got into a fight this night with her new boyfriend. I was out walking as I saw police cars fly by and go to her building – I knew where they were going. The neighbors had called them again, they were in another fight. This one was special. When I got there an ambulance was passing me – police taking out her boyfriend in hand cuffs. He had beaten her with a fishing pole, a fishing pole with a lure on it. Treble hooks had torn into her face and arms as he ripped the pole like a whip into her. She was bleeding from tears in her face and arms. I looked at my mother as she was being taken away in shock, and was at that moment grabbed by police and cuffed.
Police were arresting me; they had told police that I had done that to my mother. My mother was more concerned with her cocaine addict boyfriend who beat her (and supplied her habit) than her own son. I know now that the police knew the entire thing was a damn scam. That night the police treated me better than any cops had ever before. Before we left they took off the cuffs and put me back in the car. They asked me when the last time I ate was (happened to be the day prior as my mother had no food in the apartment). On the way to “down town” the police stopped at a Burger King and got me a Whopper and fries with a chocolate shake. I won’t say the officer’s name, as I am sure that is not allowed. (I have since paid him back with a free dinner for he and his wife at a very nice local restaurant – gave the place my Visa number and he and she got a free dinner, as well as a night in the hotel attached). I ate that Whopper like it was no other. To this day that is what a Whopper tastes like to me, and they never compare.
When we got down town the officer told me that they did not have enough evidence to charge me and they drove me back to DCFS office where they kept me up all night and the next day took me to another foster home, on a farm 30 miles outside of town. With out my bike. This was yet another farm this was the place that I found out that what people can do to you physically can be almost as bad as what people can do to you emotionally. (This I have never said anywhere, so I post it on the internet for the entire world to see, can’t take this back I guess) I woke up in the morning with an odd feeling. I did not know exactly what was going on. I had gotten to the foster home late, had a brief introduction to the foster father and mother, given the basic rules and sent to bed. It was before sun up that I awoke with the foster “father” pulling my pants down and putting my flaccid penis in his mouth. I did not know what to do, and pretended I was sleeping. The uncontrollable reaction was that I would get an erection, and I did…but that was all. Nothing further than that. I am not sure how long it took him before he gave up and whispered to me that I had better become a man soon or I was not going to get along on his farm. When the sun rose, began on of the proudest days of my life.
----------------------------------------------------------
What if the Hokey Pokey is what it is all about?