Been a long journey so far and one of the greatest challenges I faced was ‘forgiving’. Never thought I’d see the day I would forgive my step-dad for making my mom and I human punching bags when I was young. Granted, I almost Spackled his brains all over the living room wall with my hunting rifle. I was going to kill him big time, I just could not take the beatings anymore. At the point when I pulled the trigger, something snapped inside of me and my life changed forever. If it were not for the primitive trigger mechanism, he would not still be alive today. And of course, my mom complaining she would have to clean up the mess if I blew his brains all over the living room. It’s as simple as that. Later in life, my mom told me she said the bit about the mess since the other arguments to save his life would have only made me finish the job. I hated him and I hated the world I lived in.
I was out of their lives for most of my life after that event. I saw mom once when I was in my early 20’s, I was going through a major beef in the courts. I was facing 30 or more years in the joint and I was no snitch, a trait I carry to this day (Omerto). So I wanted to say goodbye since the case was not going well and I knew I would never see her again. As it turned out, I was acquitted, to the chagrin of local and federal authorities. I was elated but I had to go underground since not everyone was pleased with the courts decision. I did not see my mom for another 20 years or so. Besides, the court beef moved me up in ranks since “I held my mud” and I had many more lessons to learn before I was done. The streets always had this mystic and I was drawn to the sanctuary it provided me. It was the only life I knew and I had a family who watched my back.
Only later in years did I come to re associate myself with my mom. It was after my near death experience and I must admit, I was a bit more receptive of my mom’s love of her long lost boy. I did miss my mom but I buried her along with my past. I would sit at the park and watch kids play little league baseball or football and wonder how it was to play and laugh without fear as a kid. I reflected on how it would have been to go to one of them school dances or homecomings. I shot hoops in the detention center but that was far from the school sports or playground fun. But I accepted the fact my life was different and I blamed my step-dad for sending me on this dark journey.
I carried anger and hate around for many years. I would dream I shot him and picture his head exploding as I put him out of my misery. I was so mad and bitter people could feel my medicine. Hate took me places I don’t think I could ever mention in this lifetime. But it made me a very effective and efficient associate within my constituency. I’m still haunted by the voracity and cold determination in my conduct. But life on the streets was fast, hard and very deadly for all who endeavor. Death was the norm and it came from many venues. And for some, it did not come quick enough.
In accepting my mom back into my life, I had to face the reality that my mom was still with the butthead who tuned me up all the time. Hmmm, what a royal pain in the ass, but for the most part, my mom had the upper hand with the old coot anyway. Imagine, she stuck beside this guy for around 50 years. Funny, she was only with me for 14 years.
Then something happened that changed the matrix of this situation. From out of left field, my step-dad came to me and apologized for the years of abuse and torment I had received as a child from him. He admitted to acts of violence and aggression towards me. He did not give excuses for his conduct but offered an explanation. He was raised in boarding schools in England back in the 20’s & 30’s and it was commonplace to use a ‘cat of nine tails’ and other sundry assortments of weapons of ass destruction. He told me of his journey, something I had never heard before. I was actually civil with him as I listened to his tale. In short, he did not know any better since it was the way he was raised. Then I pondered my mom’s stories of the orphanage and how the Sisters used to beat her as well as the other darker kids. I remembered how she told me of the time she contracted pneumonia and the Sisters left her to die. She was beaten as well.
I looked at these gray old buzzards, my mom and step-dad and it occurred to me, these guys did not have a chance either. They had gotten the bums rush in life and barely survived in the process. These poor souls did not know any other way. My mom would moan and scream with these horrific nightmares all the time. She would beg ‘The Sisters’ to stop beating her. Gawd, she would scream and wakeup the neighbors. I got used to it since she did it almost all the time. It was like someone was crushing her knuckles with a pair of Vice-Grips.
But dayum, after my step-dad asked me to forgiver him and he extended his old wrinkled hand to me. I forgave him, I forgave him for all the pain I endured by his hand and I held the old buzzard as he wept in my arms. I did it for my mom, but it did evoke a healing within me with a dynamic I was not expecting. For the first time in my life, I found peace. And the lost lonely little boy finally found his ma ma.
Creativity is the byproduct of a fertile mind