A Day in the Life, Part VIIIEmpathy for the Living

My mind is a cacophony of words; images; thoughts.


It is silence, and then a terrifying mess of sounds.

It is awash with ideas and experiences, old and new, many now too lost in time to ever be communicated or understood.


For example: everything you see here is three months old — a single two days plucked from the early summer — though the words are a bastardization of every moment since.



But let us work backwards, for a moment. The unordered order of the recent past.


Yesterday I skipped the post-work workout and drove directly home; tired and unmotivated for anything other than sleep.

When I pulled up to my apartment, I was first greeted by a neighbor (don't worry, I like this one) and his dog. A short conversation and a minute or so later, and I was unloading my car when a man on a bicycle pulled up behind me and said:

"Excuse me, miss. You speak English?"

"Yes," I said, turning around to find a face as vaguely familiar as those words.

And then it hit me. Again and again, as he continued to speak.

He was exasperated and out of breath; a wad of cash in one hand and an inhaler in the other.

And then his story — as familiar as the cash, the inhaler, the bike — began:

He just needed a few more dollars (he said, showing me the wad of tens and twenties) to get his inhaler filled at the Walgreens down the street. He isn't going to hurt me, he said, he just needs a little help so he can get his asthma medication.

"I gave you 10 bucks for your inhaler a couple months ago," I said truthfully, realizing his plea was as likely a ruse before just as it was then.

"I know, I know," he said. "But I just need a little more. It's for my daughter," he said, gesturing to the invisible no one over his shoulder after repeating a story to me that was otherwise identical to the one before.

"I'm sorry," I said, shutting my car door, angry with myself for having ever given the ten dollars in the first place.

"God bless you anyway," he said, pedaling hurriedly on to his next victim.

I looked at my car and sighed, wondering if he'd return later to "bless me" (and my vehicle) for our lack of alms.


And three days before:


His face crinkled and flushed into a melancholy red as he let out a painful sigh.

"The sun is going down," he said, looking out of the window. "The sun is going down and I haven't seen my mom all day."

The inflection at the end — coupled with his keen observation of the rural horizon — was what killed me, my body filling with a sort of empathy that, these days, is reserved especially for him.

He's only six, after all. Going to school all day for the first time in his life, leaving his mom at home alone with his infant brother. Spending three nights a week refining his martial arts skills, and every other weekend with his grandparents.

But that wasn't all I thought about then, putting my hand on his shoulder and telling him I'd let his Papaw know it was time to take him home (it wasn't our weekend, after all).

Secondary to my concern for him, it bothered me that it's seldom his father he misses (or at least: that he talks about missing). That he's become so used to that absence in his life, it's hardly worth mentioning. It is, after all, his father who swims in the same gene pool as I, and it pains me to think our role in this little boy's life could be in any way amiss.

But I shake off the thought, reminding myself that this attachment between a mother and child is historic. An inevitable fact of life, really. It's the mother they so often cry for; seldom the father.

Why is that?


"But I can't go yet," he said, sniffling and wiping his eyes. "I need to bull ride Papaw first."

I informed my father of this change of events and stood by, amused, as my nephew threw on his favorite cowboy hat and hopped onto my father's back.

He was smiling and laughing in seconds.


It was the same smile I saw three months ago when I opened my apartment door to find him on the other side.

He marched in, hands on his hips, and rattled off a list of things he wanted to do during his weekend visit.

And, boy, did he keep my parents and I busy. Museums


and aquariums

and sculpture parks


and hatcheries


(just to name a few).


I had fun, really. All of us did.


But one thing really struck me on that trip, something that was solidified this past weekend:

There's no denying he resembles both of his parents, but it's particularly interesting for me to see him now: he's the same age his father was when I was born.


And now when I look at him, I see the beginnings of the boy I first remembered.

And Then There Were None

She looked around the table, recognizing that though there were only three people gathered --including herself -- to celebrate her father's birthday, as recent as four months ago that count would've been in excess of ten.

Three home sick. One in war. Another three lost to bad weather. And another, well... another one, simply... lost.

But she tried not to think about that, picking up one of her nephew's toy pirates and engaging him in battle, dueling over broken nachos and spilled salsa.

"You'll be six soon, won't you?" she said, lightly jabbing him on the shoulder with a short, flexible spear.

"Yes," he said, laughing. "I'll be six. And then I'll be seven. And then I'll be eight. And then I'll be nine..."

He continued to count, pausing again at "18" to remind his aunt that when he turned 18 he'd be "able to drive" (he then went on a brief tangent to reveal that he'd even be so kind as to let his girlfriend ride in his car so he could take her out on dates, perhaps even driving so far as to visit his aunt in the big city).

He then resumed counting, picking up his pace the further along he went, half-bored with a process he'd mastered ages ago.

He stopped at 101.

"And then I'll be dead!" he said cheerily before turning somber.

"I won't be able to see you any more," he added.

She looked at him, pausing for a moment, sorting through a million thoughts in an instant. She wondered, half-sick, if she should tell him that she'd be gone long before his 101st birthday.

But she didn't say a word, opting instead to commend him for his long life.

Of Tradition & Learning

Sometimes traditions — habits, if you will — are passed from generation to generation in much the same way priceless heirlooms weave their way through the bonds of nucleic acid, outliving their original owners ad infinitum.

Take, for example, a small child — a ten-month-old boy in the nascent stages of developing language skills.

He says words like "Ma" and "Da da" and refers to all varieties of animals as "gogs" as he pats them on the head (OK, so it's not quite "dog," but it's close). He'll say "no" while shaking his head to whirled peas, and he'll say "down" when he's feeling restless in someone's lap.

All in all, a cute little boy who's ahead of the curve in this regard, stunning nurses and caregivers alike with an early grasp of language that his parents insist actually started at six months.

Now imagine the pride a first-time father must feel as his son crawls towards him, smiling and saying "Da Da," dragging his sippy cup along the floor.

The little boy sits at his father's feet, laughs, lifts his sippy cup to the world and bangs it on the floor — not just once or twice, but over and over again, yelling a single word with each hit:

"Beer!" he says. "Beer! Beer! Beer!"

The boy's father looks down at him, beaming, just as his grandfather had once done to him.

The Only Thing More Difficult than Being a Genius is Trying to Reason with One

I used to know a guy who received an all-expenses paid pass into a Ivy League graduate program when he was only 20.

He had previously earned a perfect score on his SATs, as well as perfect marks on his GREs.

He seldom left his apartment, never listened to music, and had a difficult time relating to people and animals.

***
Bobby Fischer was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1943, the son of a Jewish immigrant. He taught himself to play chess when he was 6 years-old, was a chess champion by the age of 13, and in 1972 he became the first American to win the world championship in over a century.

He died yesterday in Iceland, where he lived in a sort of self-imposed exile: emerging only to occasionally offer anti-American and anti-semitic remarks, even responding to the September 11 attacks in New York City by terming the event "wonderful news."

His IQ was purported to be upwards of 180. That is to say: off the charts.
***
My five-year-old nephew enjoys reading, writing stories, playing cowboys and Indians, and watching Sponge Bob.

He's a well-rounded little boy with an active imagination: acting out stories he makes up as he goes along, and insisting that he be referred to only by that day's alter ego (Lone Ranger, Flash, Mr. Incredible, Deerslayer, etc.) whenever it's play time.

He cracks jokes with his grandparents, leans down to button up his little step sister's winter coat, and kisses his baby cousin on the head, asking to hold him.

Necessity all but forced him to learn to pronounce "Afghanistan" when he was two-years-old, and by the age of four he was taking on his Papaw in Bobby Fischer's sport.

And my nephew always won: but then again, he was playing by his rules, moving every piece in whichever direction — and for however many spaces he saw fit.
***
"Hey, T, do you want to play chest?" he asks me just about every time I visit home.

[He thinks "chess" is actually called "chest."]

"Sure," I say. "But how 'bout if this time you let me win?"

He laughs, running towards the hand-carved board my parents keep near the bay window of their small, Midwestern home.

Why Am I Upside Down

When my nephew asked the question, he meant literally — in the spoon.

I don't know how old I was when I started asking that question metaphorically of the world. I just know I haven't stopped asking since.

Parents These Days

So there I was hot on the prowl for laundry detergent when I hear a tiny little voice say "f*ck you!" over my shoulder.

As I turn to see the source of this otherwise innocent sound, another much older voice responds with: "No, f*ck you!"

At about that point I realize this is an exchange between a young boy (about 2 years-old) and his father, who is pushing a shopping cart alongside a woman I assume to be the boy's mother.

The father smiled at his son, poking him gently in the belly.

"No, f*ck you!" the boy screamed back, laughing.

This repetitive parley continued as I rounded the corner and thought about what I'd seen.

***

Meanwhile outside a 10-year-old boy rides his bike several feet ahead of his friends, demonstrating just how deft he was at cycling without the aid of hands.

He proved this by raising both to shoulder level, palms pointing in and squeezed to a close.

On each hand, his middle finger was raised to the world, serving as a stark reminder to passersby of just how important it is that every child have a parent who teaches them — what else — but the vulgarity of cool.

Conversations with My Five-Year-Old Nephew

Him: So I'm back to walking again.

Me: Really? Where are you walking to?

Him: Everywhere. But I need a walking stick.

Me: Why do you need a walking stick?

Him: Because I'm an old man now!

Me: What? You're just five! How can you be an old man?

*CLICK*

[He hung up the phone.]


Post Script: I haven't been reading and commenting on your blogs this week as much as I would like. With the car buying and such, it's been crazy these past few days. Hope to catch up with everyone by early next week.

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XL)

apparently you've not caught on to the fact that when i get sick, i get really sick

i don't want your germs
but you're intent on sharing
when you cough i wince

---

thoughts concerning commercial hype

part i
call the police fast!
someone stole the "super" out
of "super bowl ads"

part ii
fear and violence
depression, sadness and booze
common thread for all

---

while i'm thinking of it

that game was boring
like watching pawns clear the brush
for a bloodless coup

---

i sure hope that's not a fire hazard

super space heater
shoved under a cabinet
blood pressure rises

Pariah

This Christmas was a proverbial comedy of errors, replete with mistaken identities, clogged toilets and — as is generally the case in my family — unintentional (but altogether hilarious) innuendo.

There were presents, too. Food with family, and friends. The usual array of festivities you need to make any holiday complete. But the one memory that seems to cast a shadow over everything else — the thought that enters into my head every time I catch myself laughing about the rest of the weekend — is a 150 word obituary.

***

I was at a friend's home when she turned to the obits in the local paper, pointed at a picture, and said "Do you know anything about this?"

I recognized him right away, before my eyes even had a chance to graze his name. The same features I'd last seen in a pudgy 12-year-old boy had become more defined as he thinned out, but were otherwise undeniable.

"Jesus," I said. "What happened?"

No one seemed to know. And the usual "passed away / survived by" closing remarks didn't offer any clues either.

***

I was a "move in" at a rural elementary school in the second grade, and — anxious as I was — I was lucky insofar as it didn't take me too long to make a couple friends. It also didn't take me long to determine the hierarchy of "coolness" that governed this particular playground. Part and parcel of that is determining the kids at the lower rung of the monkey bars.

At this particular school, and in my grade, there were at least 4 kids that were taunted without mercy — terrifying odds when you consider there were only about 80 kids in the mix. But of those four, there was one in particular that suffered the blunt of the ridicule. He was the overweight kid who wore sweats and tattered t-shirts every day. The kid with grease stains around his neck, and an indiscernible odor that prompted much of the taunting.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a playground pariah.

At least the other three kids came to school clean, and in freshly washed clothes. At least they had one or two friends to talk to. But this kid... well. I don't recall seeing anyone ever really talk to him. Teachers included.

Even the ridicule was ridicule by exclusion. You know what I mean... he was the last one picked in gym class. The kid no one sat with at lunch. The kid no one talked to, but the kid everyone made fun of.

"Don't sit there!" kids would yell in the cafeteria. "That's [his] chair!" or "[He] sat there yesterday!"

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the cafeteria, he was sitting alone, huddled over his school lunch.

This went on for days. Weeks. Months. Years, even, until finally he just... disappeared.

***

Rumor had it his parents finally caught wind of this torment, and so moved him to another school for junior high. Rumor also has it the agony continued at his new school, with the teasing culminating in actual pushing and shoving (if he was ever physically bullied at our school, I never heard about it).

But these are just rumors and, the truth is, I haven't the foggiest idea what became of him. But I'd be lying if I didn't say I often wondered. I thought of him a lot, actually, often recollecting that blank stare on his face as he waited for his name to be called (dead last) by a team captain. Or that look on his face when someone would say something about his smell just loud enough for him to hear as he'd walk past. Or the way he'd wait dead last in the line at the drinking fountain, knowing what a hubbub it'd be if someone had to use it immediately after him.

***

And where was I in all of this? Was I one of his tormenters? Did I sit around and watch? Did I ever step in to help?

Did anyone ever step in to help?

I didn't do much, that's for sure. I can recall shrugging my shoulders and sitting promptly in "his" chair after someone told me not to. And I tried talking to him on occasion, but with no success. He'd just... stare back at me, his eyes hinting at suspicion that any conversation was prelude to a cruel trick.

I don't blame him, really. He had no reason to trust me, or anyone. None of us really went out of our way to help him and so, by default, everyone was to blame.

Students, parents (his and everyone else's), teachers, school administrators. No one really gave him a chance.

***

I mean, if my eight-year-old brain could rationalize that a kid coming to school dressed like he was probably had even bigger problems at home, where were all the adults in all of this? I'd like to think he was getting more help behind-the-scenes, but there was certainly nothing that I could see — aside from free school lunches and reduced book rent, I mean.

Beyond that... where was this kid going for relief? Who was encouraging him to set goals? What made him laugh?

It's a question that has long bothered me — but even more so these past few days.

That was, as you've likely surmised, his obituary in the paper.

***

And as my friends and I read it, one recalled how his name continues to be a legend at our former school (she has reason to frequent there). Kids still antagonize one another by proclaiming that "he" once sat in the same chair, and that now they have "his" cooties (yes, apparently the word "cooties" is still in style).

That same friend has also found out that "he" most likely killed himself. Or at least, that's the word around town. He lived and died in another state, so everything is speculation. I think that was everyone's first suspicion, really. Not cancer, not a house fire, not anything else that would've come to our minds for someone else. Rather, for him, our thoughts turned to "suicide" in unison. That that was our immediate assumption speaks volumes.

But no matter how you look at it, he's dead... after less than three decades on this planet.

I can but hope he had some moments in his life that were far better than those I'm sorry to have witnessed.

Hero

"And that's your father when he was a police officer," she said, pointing to a newspaper cutout of her son.

"Why was he in the paper?" the four-year-old asked.

"Well, you see that girl?" She points to the teenager standing awkwardly next to her son, decked out in his blue uniform.

"Yeah."

"Well. Her house was on fire, and your daddy got there before the fire department. So he climbed the tree outside of her window, pulled her out of the window and carried her down the tree."

The four-year-old gasps, smiling so big his eyes almost shut. He sucks in a gutful of air and tries to speak.

"My dad's a SUPERHERO!!!"

He jumps up, does his best Mr. Incredibles impression, and then sits back down, putting his hand on his grandmother's knee.

"Show me more pictures, Mamaw."

The Naming of Children

A conversation between my 4 1/2 year-old nephew and my sister, as relayed to me by the latter.

Nephew (Leaning onto a Counter): So. What are you going to name the baby boy?

Sister: We don't know yet. Do you have any ideas?

Nephew (Deep in Thought): Well, I'd say "Luke," but that's what I named my lion. So that's definitely out of the question.

Sister: Yeah, I suppose so. Any other ideas?

Nephew (Deeper in Thought): How about "Obi Wan"? That's an honorable name.

Sister: That is a very honorable name, but I'd worry the other kids might make fun of little Obi Wan.

Nephew (Sighing): I guess you're right. Some kids make fun of little babies.

Conversations with My (Almost)Four-Year-Old Nephew

on that game with rooks and pawns
"do you want to play chest?"

on baseball
"do you want to be the pitcher... or the fetcher?"

on spraying others with silly string
"this is fun!"

on being sprayed with silly string
"that's enough!"

on the clark kent/superman effect
"T! you look like a very different girl!"

on hearing me sing as a toddler
"can you stop that please? it's hurting my ears."

(It's only a matter of time before he says the same thing about my writing.)