Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

This was inspired by you

Last afternoon—
I watched a scene I have not seen in way too long. It was beautiful though. Innocent too.
I saw little kids playing on the playground outside of an elementary school. I thought to myself about this. I thought about the bliss of youth and the glory of things, like say, a ride on the swings or learning how to climb across the monkey bars.
I suppose yesterday was like our first real taste of spring.
At least, I can say this was so to me.
And yesterday?
You should have seen what I saw.
it was beautiful.

All the flowers decided to bloom without notice. It seems as if I didn’t realize how they began to bud.
And just like that, spring had sprung.
Life can be this way sometimes,
This only proves that yes, it pays to notice the little things because little things grown and bloom into something huge and beautiful.

I would never dare to say things like this in my past. I would never dare to show my soft side in fear that my flesh was too weak to take the blades or the knives of my surrounding insults. And, so finally, I decided that my skin is tough enough and at last; I realized that I am fine to be weak enough to say that yes; I do feel.
I do have emotions and should anyone deserve to see this, then let me show you.

The playground.
It’s been years but I know there were playgrounds when I was a kid.
I noticed that all the kids seemed to enjoy themselves.
All of them laughing, playing, and all of them were smiling and having fun until, of course, playtime was over.
It was time to go back inside and head back to class.

The teacher gathered the children and then led them together in a single file to head back to the classroom.
It’s nice to see these things.
It’s nice to notice the youthful side of life is still alive and well.
It’s good to see kids are vibrant and real.
It was nicer to watch the scene and notice that that not every kid was attached to some kind of technology.  
No cell phones. No smart technology.
Just playtime.

I wonder if anyone knows what it means to play.
Do people understand the feeling of being on a swing or going down a slide?
Or does this vanish once you age beyond a certain point?

I don’t know if I remember the first time I ever played in a playground.
I don’t know if I remember my first trip on the slide or on the see-saw.
I hardly remember the first time I learned to play catch and throw a ball with my Old Man.
And now, that would be a nice thing to do.

I have tiny images of memory from my early youth, to which I can neither confirm nor deny if the memories are polite or joyful. I know that bullying was real to me. I remember being picked on and how this started in kindergarten.
I remember they pushed me in the bathroom that was in the back of the classroom.
I remember that I could not get out and a few kids leaned on the door to keep me in.
I suppose I can say this was my first panic attack (on record.)

I kicked the door, over and over.
I was wearing my new boots too, which were like my Father’s work boots, —and I wore them because they were like my Father’s boots too.
I broke a hole in the bottom of the door.

I remember the kids involved told me how I was going to be in trouble, —and I was in trouble.
“oooooh, look wat YOU did!”

I didn’t rat though.
I just took the yelling from the teacher’s aides and said that I couldn’t open the door.
I do recall some of the playground fights.
Those happened to me more when I was younger than when I was older and, say, greasy, like a cast member from a movie on troubled teens and rebellious youth.

It is I, I said
Send me, I pretended.
Watch me bleed in color to show my contempt
and see me feel pain to mask my sadness
and let me show rage because rage is the counterfeit of bravery
and bravery is what it takes to shake the bullies from my tail.

I am the God of Hellfire, I said, same as Arthur Brown sung.
And I bring you, —Fire!
I’ll teach them all to burn, I swore.
But it was me who felt the heat.
No one else.

It was I, the thief and the ant villain and antihero.
It was I, the plot and the premise and the main character.
It was me who acted like the knife in the sheath; and yes, it was my posture and my own cuts that poured blood in the soil of suburban folklores; and yes, above all else, yes.
It was I, still alive and well and missing chapters from my memory because of buried truths that deterred me from my destiny.

I have, of course, the recollections of denim jeans and concert t-shirts and music that was mad enough and sung with enough angst and enough aggression to make us crazy.
And yes, I was crazy.
Absolutely.
What else could I have been?
Drop the match, they said.
Step away from the arsenal, they told me.
See the flames, I said.
feel the heat, I told them.
And maybe now . . .
maybe now you’ll know what it means to be hurt
or to live as a burden
(with pain)

I was born with a misperceived idea.
I was born to a deception.
And it was I. Yes, me.
I am the one who subscribed to the wrong choice of two masters.

Was I young.
Of course.
Were the ideas of my youth a contradiction of truth?
Was I too caught up in the past?
Was I too determined to believe the predictions against me?
Of course.
Was I crazy?
Yes.

I was also Crazy and free to be detained by misinformation, which I hid and concealed, like the other teenage weapons of my own self-destruction.

I am the result of him, the young man who preceded my very being.
And so, I am and I was and for the rest of my life; I will forever be this.
I am the combination and miscalculation of lifetime events.
I am an aftermath of thoughts and a search for something joyous, which I knew existed, —yet, in my youth, I contested and detested the fact that there was something worth dreaming about. Maybe there was something worth laughing about too and there was something to celebrate and enjoy. But I would never dare to let myself experience the joys of hopefulness because hope to me was dangerous.

I know there were times when I was that boy, walking together with the rest of the class, and holding hands in single file.
I was him too.
I was young enough or youthful enough to sing along to songs like, “the wheels on the bus go round and round.”

Maybe I was a fan of the itsy-bitsy spider.
Or maybe I was not a fan of the rain that came down to wash the spider out.
But out came the sun and dried up all the rain, and like the itsy-itsy spider, maybe I was that one who wished I could crawl up the spout again.

Send me, I said
I’ll go
let me face the fire.
Let me take the wind in my hair and cast the fears out like a flame from the dragons mouth.
Or better, let me spread these dreams I’ve had for years and send them out to sea
Let me troll the depths of my imaginary ocean and let me brave enough to dare, or to “just be me.”
I know. I know.
I make no sense.
Either way, let me go.

Let me have another night where I could believe in the innocent things like the Tooth Fairy, or the Man on The Moon.
Send me.

I’ll go.
Let me face the firing squad and handle the social butchers who filet the souls of those who just want to be real or pure.
I’ll go.
I’ll face them like an enemy.
I’ll bleed more this time and for good reasons too.

I had a light once
Small, it was.
Perfect, it was too.
Mine, it was. All mine.

The base of the light was like that from the bow of a ship, one side red and one side green. And this stood beneath a lightbulb and a lampshade.

This light was physical representation of the bow to the ship aboard my boyhood dreams.
This was the manifestation of a hope that one day, somehow, and somewhere, I would be out at sea with all the freedoms at my command. The Old Man, and I would be working the ocean for fish the size of giants.

I am him.
I am the one.
I am the son they sent.
Choose me, I said.

It was not so and nor was this supposed to be so and yes, this is what it is, and I am what I ama and thus; this is what I have become.

I never dared to play pretend.
I never dared to play hide-and-go-seek.
I never dared to dance in fear that I might make a poor step or seem funny.
I rarely smiled in fear that my smile might appear too odd and thus, I would be too awkward and again, I would be that kid, locked in the bathroom to give a laugh to a roomful of people, but at my expense.

I am him.
Send me.
Let them come.
Let them try.
I am the one sent to defend this boy.

And yes. I am this boy.
I am him too and yes, I am the one who wore my scars in both noticed and invisible ways, —I was all too obvious, and all too hidden and all too textbook and all too clear from an intellectual sense.

I was that boy, yet I am still him.
I see him very well
Clearly too.
I see him sitting alone, wondering and waiting when his invitation will come in the mail.
I see him.

I love him.
I just wish he knew . . .

I see you there, sitting and thinking too much abut things that have gone far beyond our control.
And don’t be sad.
Don’t be afraid.
I have not left you.
I have not gone away.
I am still here. So, I know.

None of this was your fault.
No one is mad at you, and nobody hates you.
At least, I should say that no one who matters is mad at you.
I know all about your special collections and your dreams.
I know where your secrets are and so you know; all of this is safe with me.

I know that I can seem to be distracted. And maybe I am too guarded.
Just know that even with all my faults and my flaws, deep down, I know there is no one in this world who is better than you.

To you, my adopted son—

You inspire me.
I have seen you in short spans of time and yet, to me, it is like I see you through different eyes.
you are far more brilliant, talented, and far more special than any eye can see.

But I see.
I see you clearly, in fact, and what I see is more than anyone else has shown me in this world.

I will not allow those tricks to deter you.
I will not let the darkness frighten you.
I will not allow you to believe the lies and nor will I stand still and let the same doubts find their way to you the same way they found me.

Son, you are the extension of miracles and a lifesaver.
I know this because being able to watch you, teach you, and learn from you has saved me in ways that none of my words can cover.

You amaze me.

Thank you for this.
Thanks for allowing an old man like me to have a say in your life.

You are going to create a new world one day.
And I?
I will be there either in body or spirit because I am and will always be proud of you

My son.

Love and respect always
Pops