The Book of Hope – Written For a Young Man

I suppose this one is not for everybody.
Then again, that’s the thing about art
or maybe this is more about me,
or subjectively,
I suppose this is how it goes with the written word.
When it comes to the word,
anything and everything can be relative
and to me, or to some
I have come to realize that in my desire to reveal
or to expose a need, a thought, a want, or hope
and to honor the drive within my heart;
I have to come here—as in right here,
to open up
and let myself go.

I suppose this entry is due to something I saw,
which reminded me of a time, long ago
when I was young, of course,
and I was lost, of course,
and
I was trying to find my way;
but I was lost to a science
and losing to a battle that comes
with a chemical reaction
and a sickness that is more common
than the so-called common cold.

To be clear, I have my own history;
whereas, I understand the word abuse
and I understand the words unwanted attention.
I understand what it means to be violated
or touched
or to have someone take advantage
of a young boy,
namely me
and then be discarded afterwards
like some untold, cheap or dirty secret.

I was living at a place where young people
look to find a way to clean themselves up
or, if at all, at least find a way
to look pretty for the judge
or to look good for the courts
to keep out of jail
or to dry out,
or to “kick” so-to-speak.

I met a young man
who was tall and big and strong.
Yet, he envied me
for who I was
which was hardly half his size.
He envied me
and I envied him.

I was small. . .
Then again,
I was always smaller than most of the kids
who were my age.
I was little, and he was big.
He envied my mouth
and my ability to speak up for myself
and I admired his strength, yet
no one told him
that he was capable
or big and strong.

He was abused and beaten
so badly, in fact,
that one of his eyes had gone crossed
and his face was misshaped.

I remember asking him,
Why didn’t you fight back?
You’re bigger than him now
stronger
and tougher too.

He told me,
I tried that once,
and then he pointed to his face,
meaning his eye and the damage
that was left behind.
His physical ability was limited
by his emotional limitation
or an otherwise weakness.

But I used to remind him
that he wasn’t little anymore.

I remember him well
and I remember his overprotectiveness
because
there was someone in the facility
who tried to bother me
and my friend
cornered the young man in a dorm room
and then he warned him,
and with no questions of his intention
and no mistakes, or misunderstandings,
“do it again,” he said,
“and I promise that I’ll come see you!”

No one ever stood up for me like that.

I remember there was weekend visitation day.
I remember his father came through the door.
He looked at me.
And this was the last time I saw him –

Ever . . .

I saw the look in his eye.
I knew it was about to jump off.
I saw my friend, as he ran at his abuser
and then he opened up.
He started throwing punches after punches
and he repaid every beating, every scratch
and every scar right there
in the lobby of an adolescent rehab.

I went running to help him.
I’m not sure if I wanted to stop him
or help kick his father around
but the counselors stopped me
and they held me,
and I could hear my friend screaming
with the kind of vengeance
that makes the word rage
sound like an understatement.

He was my friend . . .
I knew about the beatings
and his story.
He knew about me
and my story.

Friends  . . .
There is something about this word.
Or, “boys,” because yes,
he was my boy.

I think about the words,
I got you,
as in, this is what you say
when a friend asks you
for something.

Hey,
can I borrow this?
“I got you!”
I need to get out of here . . .
this place is making me crazy.
“I got you!’

I think about my friend.
I think about the kid who tried
to bully me . . .
My friend told me,
Don’t worry . . .
I got you.

I knew what it took for him to fight back
against his own father.
I knew what he had to overcome,
and I also knew that because he fought back
his “good boy” time in a drug rehabilitation center
turned into jail time.

The State Troopers came for him later,
and they took him away.

He never knew his own strength,
And the funny thing is –
He used to tell me
that I never knew mine.

His name is one that is kept in my heart
but since anonymity is precious
and since my entries
change the names and places
to protect the identity of the less-than innocent,
I will simply call him,
my friend.

I watched them take him away . . .
my friend –
He nodded at me,
as if to thank me,
and with all of my heart, and even decades later,
I always wondered what could have happened
if he stayed the course.

He would ask to talk,
just the two of us
and I’d tell him,
I got you. . .

I got you . . .
This is what friends say.

I don’t know if he is well or not
or alive
or dead.
Besides, statistics never say good things
about people with substance abuse disorder
nor do stats show a warm possibility
for people with multiple arrests.

But, wherever you are, kid . . .
I remember you well.

I got you.

And I bet one thing for sure,
which is that no one ever bullied you
after your time in re-direction.
But, and I’m sorry,
I have to say it, even though this was 34 years ago,
. . . did you know that you were my friend
or that I needed you too?
Did you know that sometimes, life is a lonely place?

What I mean is,
there are few protectors and fewer friends
who can say, “I got you”
and stand behind it.

I wonder . . .
All the punches you landed
to your father’s face . . .
Did they make up for the years
of pain?
Was the onslaught short-lived
and it was good enough just to see him
picked up off the floor?

I remember the counselors picking him up
after your beating was stopped.

I remember the sound of your war cry,
and here I am, 34 years later
and wherever you are,
you are still
my hero.

I just wanted you to know that.

I wanted you to know that wherever you are,
Albeit small and humble
and perhaps not the cleanest pad in town,
but either way,
my door is always open to you,
my brother
my friend
my hero . . .

And, I think it’s like we said to each other
all those years ago:
I got you.
Always.

Side Note:
It is a morning that is closing in on a new beginning
and my past is still echoing from before.
I am seeking to find
a new way of thinking
and looking to adjust myself
so that I can keep my hope intact.

I’m thinking about my friend who was one of the biggest and strongest people
I ever knew.
Yet, for some reason
he told me,
“You don’t know your own strength.”
“But don’t worry,” he said.

I got you.
I could use something like this,
some kindness or compassion,
or a friend
or a shoulder
or an ear to listen.

I could use a laugh
at times
and I could use the love
from someone
who says,
Don’t worry.
I got you.

Today comes with its own problems
and tomorrow will have its own as well
and so will the next day,
and so on.
But, today,
I’m going to figuratively raise my hand
and wave to a young man who never knew
his own strength.

Be well, C
Wherever you are.
You are remembered.