Happy Birthday to my Pops. Turns sixty-seven today. Told me that according to some symbolism or other (Tarot cards? I couldn't really understand what he said), the number 67 means "stabbing."
Sixty seven.
I remember calling him when I turned twenty-eight, so many moons ago. Tough guy that he was (and still is) he just sighed and remarked that I had finally reached the age he was when I was born. Gave one of his Cuban expressions, cracked a joke. But something about me turning twenty eight made him sigh a lot longer and louder than I had ever heard.
Maybe in that one quick exchange he reflected on his own life, his own accomplishments --or the lack thereof. Never thought to ask Pops about his dreams. Don't even know if he ever really had any. Can't remember him ever working towards any goal past the rent money.
What I do remember is him packing his bags one day, and Moms poppin' shit even after we could see his car pull down the block and around the corner from all the way up on our fourth floor window.
His only attempt at a family after that was with a Cuban lady in Miami, but my sis and I deaded that shit right after Moms died and the lady wouldn't stop running her mouth, opinionating on Moms' comings and goings. Or so we thought. For all I know, he might've wanted to break camp long before that, but didn't know how to.
Good thing he didn't have any children with her. No kids to remember him packing his bags. Nope. That one fell to me and Sis.
And so he went, the eternal blue-collar bachelor dude, putting in his hours at the gig, having more than a few Millers with his expatriated homies at the local watering spot after work, flirting with this waitress or that laundromat attendant. Day in, day out. Nigga even scooped up a lady who pushed her own hotdog cart once.
When 'Welo died, and 'Wela was left alone to fend against the wolves, Pops had to slow his roll somewhat. And now 'Wela has Alzheimer's, and seems to believe she's back in Cuba, circa 1940-something, and she can't be left alone. His roll has come to a complete stop.
And Pops, for reasons that I'm only now beginning to really understand, has to spend his birthday watching TV and making sure 'Wela doesn't wander off or otherwise hurt herself, instead of surrounded by his children and their children. His family.
Me, I believe Pops just never had it in him. Just wasn't his thing. Hard enough when you're reluctant.
Helluva thing, to be the constant gardener. You've got to have it in you. And me, I'm only now beginning to understand that sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can not get the falling apples in my backyard to land far enough away from that tree.
Happy Birthday to my Pops.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Lies and the Humans Who Tell Them, Part I
time and time again, you'll hear tell of the woman's superiority in crafting lies. men, as the pseudo-metaphor goes, are dogs, therefore, they don't bury their bones too deep in the backyard, oft times digging them up and bringing all types of drama into their lives. the XX-chromosomes, however, are more associated with cats, slinking about in silence, doing whatever it is they do, while the hapless dog is none the wiser.
i don't know, though. pet comparisons aside, what experience has taught me is that both genders are capable of creating fiction the likes of which no Fitzgerald or Hemingway could have imagined. the difference isn't so much between which of the two is more adept at story-telling, but which of the two has the greater need to believe those lies.
and, to para-quote another of the great dreamweavers, therein lies the rub.
from before their chests sprout the first bump along the way to becoming breasts, long before they ever have to keep their eyes on a calendar, little girls are taught that men lie; all of them, be they Little Leaguers or their beer-imbibed pre-cursors in the stands.
"that's just how they are," seems to be the explanation.
as such, by the time they realize --consciously or otherwise-- that tens of thousands of years' worth of men have fought, killed and died for the moist, velvety skin between their legs, young women resign themselves to spending the rest of their lives being lied to.
and with good reason.*
because both genders have socialized themselves and each other into accepting this to-and-fro as the "natural" order of things, a bastardized symbiosis has emerged in which women, conditioned to believe that it's in a man's genetic code to be untruthful, have played the roles of dutiful wife, wifey and girlfriend** on autopilot; while men, who've been the primary beneficiaries of the exchange, have done the same.
need proof? ask around and you'll find how rare is the one cat out of a crew of homies who does not cheat. odds are the attitudes of his compatriots toward his lack of play swing wildly between either end of the pendulum, from the adversarial "that bitch got him whipped" to the admirational "damn, i wish i could do some shit like that."
what most men are not taught***, however, is that their chromosomic counterparts have been playing the same game, only they don't celebrate touchdowns in the end zone; they do so when all the fans have gone home, and the locker rooms are empty of reporters.
the aforementioned rub? well, because men, in general, have become so accustomed to the eons-old arrangement, they simply can not fathom that their beloveds, with their virgin eyes and angelic smiles, the godly mothers of their children or the keepers of their beating hearts, would ever look them in the face, and lie.
it crosses our minds, to be sure. but in our eternal quest to become "better," we ignore instinct and rely on intellect, which tells us we're projecting. we're somehow ascribing our own shortcomings to find fault where it doesn't exist, just to relieve our guilt.
dime-store psychology goes a long way, no doubt. especially when self-diagnosing. but like lawyers who represent themselves and have fools for clients, physicians, even emotional ones, should not be so inclined to heal themselves. especially when they ignore their spirit, screaming at the top of their ethereal lungs that although the numbers seem right, something just ain't adding up.
kinda like swimming with dolphins. they're beautiful to look at, we've told ourselves that they're "smarter" than we are, and we want to believe so, so badly that we can somehow keep up.
my mother, rest her traitorous soul, said there'd be days like this. "don't ever, EVER give us the opportunity to break your heart. we lie. and we will not hesitate to do either."
but i knew it all. and in my need to believe, mom-dukes' admonition and my instincts got the curb.
and i got...
well, when all was said and done, i got smarter, finally.
finally.
-----
*because that is the status quo, if you will, i have no need to elaborate here. if you're reading this, and you honestly can't or won't agree, i suggest you remove the focus off your own life and watch the world as if you weren't the star of today's feature. trust me; it works.
**interestingly enough, the one role in which honesty --in all its raw, brutal power-- plays the motivator is the role which most women do their best to not play for too long. when it matters, it's that of homie/lover/friend; when it doesn't, it's the jump-off.
***the irony is that despite the ever-growing single-parent [usually female-dominated] family, one positive is that young men learn about women from women. and whether directly or indirectly, they are taught that the only absolute about truth is that it is relative.
i don't know, though. pet comparisons aside, what experience has taught me is that both genders are capable of creating fiction the likes of which no Fitzgerald or Hemingway could have imagined. the difference isn't so much between which of the two is more adept at story-telling, but which of the two has the greater need to believe those lies.
and, to para-quote another of the great dreamweavers, therein lies the rub.
from before their chests sprout the first bump along the way to becoming breasts, long before they ever have to keep their eyes on a calendar, little girls are taught that men lie; all of them, be they Little Leaguers or their beer-imbibed pre-cursors in the stands.
"that's just how they are," seems to be the explanation.
as such, by the time they realize --consciously or otherwise-- that tens of thousands of years' worth of men have fought, killed and died for the moist, velvety skin between their legs, young women resign themselves to spending the rest of their lives being lied to.
and with good reason.*
because both genders have socialized themselves and each other into accepting this to-and-fro as the "natural" order of things, a bastardized symbiosis has emerged in which women, conditioned to believe that it's in a man's genetic code to be untruthful, have played the roles of dutiful wife, wifey and girlfriend** on autopilot; while men, who've been the primary beneficiaries of the exchange, have done the same.
need proof? ask around and you'll find how rare is the one cat out of a crew of homies who does not cheat. odds are the attitudes of his compatriots toward his lack of play swing wildly between either end of the pendulum, from the adversarial "that bitch got him whipped" to the admirational "damn, i wish i could do some shit like that."
what most men are not taught***, however, is that their chromosomic counterparts have been playing the same game, only they don't celebrate touchdowns in the end zone; they do so when all the fans have gone home, and the locker rooms are empty of reporters.
the aforementioned rub? well, because men, in general, have become so accustomed to the eons-old arrangement, they simply can not fathom that their beloveds, with their virgin eyes and angelic smiles, the godly mothers of their children or the keepers of their beating hearts, would ever look them in the face, and lie.
it crosses our minds, to be sure. but in our eternal quest to become "better," we ignore instinct and rely on intellect, which tells us we're projecting. we're somehow ascribing our own shortcomings to find fault where it doesn't exist, just to relieve our guilt.
dime-store psychology goes a long way, no doubt. especially when self-diagnosing. but like lawyers who represent themselves and have fools for clients, physicians, even emotional ones, should not be so inclined to heal themselves. especially when they ignore their spirit, screaming at the top of their ethereal lungs that although the numbers seem right, something just ain't adding up.
kinda like swimming with dolphins. they're beautiful to look at, we've told ourselves that they're "smarter" than we are, and we want to believe so, so badly that we can somehow keep up.
my mother, rest her traitorous soul, said there'd be days like this. "don't ever, EVER give us the opportunity to break your heart. we lie. and we will not hesitate to do either."
but i knew it all. and in my need to believe, mom-dukes' admonition and my instincts got the curb.
and i got...
well, when all was said and done, i got smarter, finally.
finally.
-----
*because that is the status quo, if you will, i have no need to elaborate here. if you're reading this, and you honestly can't or won't agree, i suggest you remove the focus off your own life and watch the world as if you weren't the star of today's feature. trust me; it works.
**interestingly enough, the one role in which honesty --in all its raw, brutal power-- plays the motivator is the role which most women do their best to not play for too long. when it matters, it's that of homie/lover/friend; when it doesn't, it's the jump-off.
***the irony is that despite the ever-growing single-parent [usually female-dominated] family, one positive is that young men learn about women from women. and whether directly or indirectly, they are taught that the only absolute about truth is that it is relative.
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