I was young. I was inexperienced. Then again, I was just a kid.
I had no idea about the meaning behind the word “manhood.” And yet, I posed and postured, and I played and I would pretend. Yes, I acted like I knew or like I was unafraid.
But what else could I do?
I pretended to be cool and steady, to which I have grown enough to realize that most people are scared. Most people are frightened of something and afraid to lose, or to appear weak. No one wants to be vulnerable and there is a common fear of being exposed, used, or humiliated.
At this point in my life, I can say that I am not a kid, by any means. I might not know who or what I want to be when I grow up. But I know that I have lied in my skin long enough to understand my fears, or most of all, my biggest fear, which is to live, be, and to die alone.
This is a possibility, which means I have to make changes in the way I live and the way I see or do things.
If I am proud of myself for anything, I am proud of my levels of realization. I am fortunate too because I have had the benefits of experience. While I grant that some of my experiences are sad and some are wild, and some of my experiences are inexcusable, and some are unfortunate; I am grateful to notice that every experience comes with a fair share of benefits.
I remember when I was young. I remember sitting in a work truck and thinking about the other kids or the fortunate ones. I was thinking about the smart kids and the good kids and then there was me. I had failed out of school, and aside from my home tutoring so that I could at least or minimally achieve the benefits of a high school diploma, I started working a real job and experienced real sweat, and real pain.
I worked with real men who had to save money and care for their household. They brought their lunch with them to work each day, and each day they came to work because, of course, no work means no money and no money means no food or rent, no bills can be paid, no healthcare for the family, nor clothes for their backs and no lights for their rooms.
I worked with men who grew up in hard times and came from hard places with no softness or love from the hand. To them, life was hard, which meant that they had to be hard, —otherwise, life can become overwhelming and so can debt, and so can the details of personal, emotional, and financial bankruptcy.
They used to tell me to smarten up. But I swore that I knew what I was doing.
They used to tell me to get an education.
But I was done with that kind of history.
I remember sitting in classrooms. This was on the rare occasions when I agreed to go to class, and I remember thinking to myself about how great it would be to be out of that place.
No more teachers. No more bullshit rules.
No more listening to some asshole in orthopedic shoes and a bad necktie with a terrible comb-over haircut and coffee breath from the teacher’s lounge. No more sitting in a class with a teacher, who is positioned as some kind of authority to me. If I could get out, or if I ever found a way to escape from this so-called learning institution, I would never have to sit in a classroom again.
I’d never listen as someone tries to teach me about something that I’ll never have to use or worry about in real life situations.
In my best estimation, I thought life would be easier.
I never realized that everyone has to do their time in one way or another. If you don’t spend your time in a classroom, then you’ll have to do your time somewhere else; but either way, life has a way of collecting its dues. Everyone does time. Some choose to do their time wisely, and others find that their time is unfortunate.
I was a kid.
And more than that, I was wrong.
I worked on filthy machines. I worked inside oil burners. I worked inside sewage ejector pits, which smelled so bad that the odor would linger inside of my nostrils for days. As for the soot from the old burners, you can wash for weeks, and the soot would still be caught in the indentations of your fingerprints.
The men I worked with grew up with very little. Some of them came to this country with nothing, and they worked hard, they saved, and they flourished.
They faced adversity.
They faced poverty.
They faced life and death. They faced the world as it was, or as it seemed to them, and no matter what, they showed up to work the next day, sick, tired, hurt, or otherwise. They showed up, nevertheless because no work meant no money, no food, no lights, no heat in the winter, and more, no work meant that their family would suffer.
The men I worked with knew this to their core; so, no matter if they were beaten or hurt, bloodied or tired, I watched these men work through their pain or anguish, and watched them eat the leftovers from their home-cooked meals the night before.
These men were my first experiences with real-life heroes.
Only, I never told them.
I learned about different foods and different cultures. I recall listening to the stories from men who grew up in different countries.
I learned how to curse in the Spanish language because, of course, everyone teaches the bad words first.
I learned how to decipher between their broken English and their Spanish language to understand when they needed tools, like a hammer, or a screwdriver.
They made me work. Yes, they did.
They worked me hard, but they fed me well. I learned about different foods. I learned about life and while I was still too young to understand the benefits of my surroundings, I learned that toughness has nothing to do with physical might or the ability to beat someone up. But more, being tough means that you have value to show up, each day, no matter what.
I have to say this – it’s tough to face life. It’s tough to face life alone or to be without family, and it’s tough to sit home, alone, and eat by yourself and cook for the week.
I never thought that this would be me.
But this is me, at least for the time being.
I saw the young man at work again. I love this kid.
I showed him some more things that take place at work and taught him different things that he will have to know when he starts to swing wrenches, just like me, or just like the men who taught me.
This young man lost his Mother and his Father yet, somehow, he still holds everything down and he shows up to work, every day, and he smiles, and he is respectful and pleasant.
I told him that I see him. I see him trying to get into my union and do the same work that his Father did before him.
I told this young man that he is a hero, and that I will not stop until he reaches the next level.
I watched him pull back and tear up when I called him a hero.
He said he isn’t (and I get that).
I get that because my answer to that would be “if I was a hero both my Mom and Old Man would be here right now, but they’re not!”
I asked him, who told you that you are NOT a hero?
But I answered the question for him.
You told you that!
But you’re wrong, son.
I told him, “you ARE a hero.”
“You’re a hero to me.”
I told him I will stand in the face of anyone who tells him differently.
I miss the men I worked with.
I think they would tell me that I finally learned.
I think they would like some of the food I cook.
I think they would see this young man too, and as hard as they were, they would weep also. They would take a stand next to this kid, the same as I have, just so he knows that he’s not alone.
They would want him to know that he can learn, that he can build, and when given the chance, this kid will get all the tools he needs to rebuild his life, and make things fair again.
Thank you, son.
Thanks for letting someone like me in your life.
See that?
I told you, you’re a hero . . .
and you’re more of a man than I’ll ever be.
Trust me . . .
To Rigo, Carlos, and Marcos and Joe
Que Dios te lo pague, brother.
I miss you all.
The Written Addiction 