A child will love their parents unconditionally, even if that love isn't returned. Even when that child is mocked and ridiculed, or told that they're less than nothing and worthless. The words we use; the things we say. The words of a parent hold such great power and great power must be brandished with great care.
My parents were firm believers in the art of ridicule and they used it to great effect. To them, I was stupid, I was never good enough, I was weak and I would never amount to anything.
Well, I was a straight A student all through school, with a steady 4.0 gpa, I was considered a leader at school (one of them, anyway), I was a big kid and I excelled at sports such as football, track, basketball and soccer. I also got into a lot of fights, I won the majority of them, mostly through luck and picking my battles wisely. I haven't really amounted to a whole hell of a lot, though, but hey, three out of four ain't bad. If it counts for anything, I've got three amazing children. I'm not convinced that I deserve points for my ability to procreate, though.
Still, no matter what I did, no matter what I accomplished, medals, trophies or scholastic excellence and recognition, nothing that I did was ever good enough for them. Nothing. I was shy and withdrawn as a child; socially awkward, as children with overbearing parents usually are.
After a while, you get used to it. After a while, you start to believe it. It's easier that way, it hurts less. Holding on to that belief scars your heart and your mind; yes, you get used to it, but you never get over it. It takes a toll and you either give in completely or you learn to stand up and fight for yourself. Thankfully, in later years, I found the courage to do the latter.
Outwardly my family was the perfect Potemkin village, but behind the facade that was presented to the world was a family that was torn apart by strife and dominated by cruelty; mental, emotional and physical cruelty. I'm not going to catalog a history of abuse, nor am I looking for any sympathy, I just wanted to give you a little bit of history about two of the people who will end up being featured in quite a few of my stories.
When I was eight years old, my parents took me on a two week long Caribbean cruise for Christmas and New Year's. I had a great time, even though they had mostly abandoned me during the trip and I was left to my own devices for the majority of the cruise. I was only expected to take meals with my parents; an accessory. Other than that, I didn't see them much. It was as if I were invisible.
During the course of the cruise there were many activities planned for the children and we were kept occupied and out of the way for some of the time. The activities director had scheduled a talent show for the kids and I immediately signed up and began working on a comedy routine. I begged my parents to come, I begged them to watch my performance. I so very desperately wanted them to be proud of me. They agreed to come. I was so excited.
I worked on my act all week long, rehearsing over and over. I knew my routine by heart and I was ready to go. The big night came and I waited backstage, bouncing up and down with excitement, waiting for my turn to come. I peeked through the curtain, scanning the audience, trying to spot my parents, but I couldn't find them; the only thing I saw were a bunch of parents, families and a scattering of old people that had nothing better to do. I peeked through the curtain again,but I still couldn't see them, but I knew they were out there, somewhere and I so very desperately wanted to make them proud of me. My name was announced and I walked onstage to polite applause. I tried to look for my parents once more, but I was blinded by the glare of the lights. I stood there in my cheesy clown makeup and performed my little act, telling a handful of lame jokes that elicited polite laughter, followed up by something that was much more risque; a little story of how I had been watching a cartoon about car racing and had seen a banner that read 'Grand Prix', Well, when I asked my mother what a Grand Pricks was, my horrified mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to the bathroom where she proceeded to wash my mouth out with soap over a slight mispronunciation of an innocent French word. The audience roared with laughter and gave me a nice round of applause. My turn was over and it was time for the next kid to perform. As I walked offstage, I was congratulated by the other kids and and some of the cruise ship staff. I was stoked, as I walked out into the audience, searching for my parents. I walked up and down the aisles looking for them, but didn't see them anywhere. Thinking I must have missed them, I checked again, stopping at each row and checking carefully. Nothing. Frustrated, I checked one more time and then I gave up. I went over to sit with the other children whose parents hadn't bothered to show up.
A few other children performed. Some tried to sing and others tried to dance; some were just down right strange. The last act finished and the emcee took to the stage to announce whom the "judges" had chosen to be the winners of the talent show. The third place winner was announced and then the second place winner. The buildup of tension that followed was incredible and I thought that my heart was going to explode, because I had been holding my breath for so long.
The first place winner was announced.
It took me a moment to realize that they had called my name. I had won! I had really won! I couldn't believe it; it wasn't possible. My parents would be so proud of me when I told them that I won. I stood stunned for a moment and then one of the other kids pushed me forward, back toward the stage to accept my award and prize.
My smile was ear to ear.
The emcee shook my hand, and the audience applauded once more as he handed me a blue ribbon and a small, gift wrapped box. I shyly thanked everyone and practically ran offstage and out of the theater. I stopped in the hallway outside of the theater and I looked at the box. I shredded the gift wrap in my haste to open it and see my prize. I looked at my treasure and to my delight, it was an AGFA ISO - PAC 126 camera and two film cartridges.
It was perfect and something that I really wanted. I loved looking at great photography and now I would be able to create my own.
I ran off in search of my parents, with the voices of various crew members yelling at me to slow down, receding in the distance.
I caught up to my parents in the casino, where they had been since shortly after dinner. My mother looked at me, aghast. She stood there in her finest dress, baubles and fur, while I dared to show up and embarass her because I was covered in clown makeup. I tried to tell her about the talent show, but she would have none of it, cutting me off and sending me back to my stateroom to shower and get ready for bed. I was crushed, but did as I was ordered. You didn't cross my mother; not if you knew what was good for you.
The next morning, the ship docked in San Juan, Puerto Rico and my parents went ashore right after breakfast. I went down to the duty free shop and bought two more rolls of film and then I went ashore, as well. There was a really cool old fort that I wanted to see and I would be able to try out my new camera. I walked to the fort and I started taking pictures of everything. I remember that the view from the top of the wall was inspiring and it filled my little heart with joy. I had a great time, even if I was by myself and I used up all of my film.
It was starting to get late and I knew that I couldn't be too long, because the ship was pulling out around dinnertime. I asked an adult for the time and it was much later than I thought. There was no way that I could walk back to the ship in time and it was going to leave without me. My parents were going to kill me. They had already warned me about what would happen if I missed the ship and I really didn't want to endure the punishments that they had promised would await me, because if I understood them correctly, Satan would be building an entire new circle of Hell, just for me. I ran out the front of the fort and I saw that there was a taxi stand outside. I had money, so at least that wasn't an issue. I ran up to the first cab and I asked the driver how much it would cost to take me down to the harbor. He told me that it would cost me five dollars. I had two. Dejected, I turned around and started to walk away, but he called me back and asked me which ship I needed to get to. I told him and he said that it was leaving soon. I nodded and he told me to hurry up and get into the cab; he would take me to the ship, but we had to hurry. I jumped in the front seat and we took off. He asked me how much money I had and I told him two dollars. He nodded and said that would be enough. He told me that he had a son about my age and that if his son ever needed a little help, he hoped that someone would show him kindness. That thought has always stayed with me.
He drove as quickly as he dared, ignoring traffic laws and one way streets, while dodging chickens and pedestrians. Unfortunately, traffic came to a grinding halt, about two blocks from the harbor.
"Go, amigo, go!" shouted the taxi driver. "Run, amigo! You should make it there, just in time."
I paid the driver his money and thanked him for his kindness as I darted out of the door and started sprinting for the pier and the ship, weaving in and out of the crowds and evading more than a few startled goats. I was out of breath when I arrived at the gangplank, and luckily, just as they were about to pull it up and make way. I had barely made it, but I'd get to live at least another day and thankfully, my parents would never find out and I wouldn't be punished for almost missing the boat.
I ran back to my stateroom, accompanied by a chorus of "Slow downs!" Boy, the crew sure did like to yell a lot. I arrived at my room, hopped in the shower and got dressed for dinner. We had been invited to eat at the captain's table and I knew to keep my mouth shut and be on my best behavior.. My parents came to collect me, knocked on the door and came into the cabin. My mother straightened my bow tie and fixed my tuxedo, making certain that I looked presentable, but then she noticed the camera that was sitting on my bunk.
"What's that?" she asked, "And where did you get it?"
I started to explain about the talent contest, but my mother cut me off once more.
"Where did you take this from?" she demanded.
I was confused.
"I didn't take it from anywhere," I explained. "I won it in the talent contest that you promised that you were going to come to!"
My accusation hung in the air, an almost physical presence.
"Shut your damn mouth and get your ass to dinner," my father told me in a cold and warning tone.
"Yes, sir," I replied and I marched out the door and down the hall.
We rode the elevator in silence. Other than being congratulated by the captain for winning the talent show, dinner for me was nothing but silence. I tuned out the adults and their conversation. The waiter took pity on me and hooked me up with some extra desserts.
After dinner, I went and did the planned activities and it was movie night for the kids. I was told to go to bed right after the movie, but I snuck out and went to the casino to play on the slot machines. I won a few dollars and left, my pockets full of quarters. I went back to my cabin and went to bed.
Well, I guess that my parents must have eventually felt a little guilty over the whole talent show thing and the accusations over the camera and they tried to buy their way out of it as they always did, by throwing money at the problem, thinking that would make things better. They accomplished this by taking me back to the duty free shop and buying me twelve rolls of film, explaining to me that I could shoot all of the pictures that I wanted, but that they would only pay for one roll a month to be developed. They asked me if I understood and I said yes.
That night was New Year's Eve and I was allowed to stay up late, a long as I was with the other children and participating in the planned activities for kids. We ran around, played games and watched movies; it was a lot of fun, but the night, like all good things, came to an end. There wasn't much time left on the cruise and the ship was headed back to Miami. I snapped a few more pictures, but not all that many. I wanted to save the rest of my film for when I got home.
A few days after we arrived home, I was up with the sunrise. I grabbed my camera and hopped on my bike and rode down to the Intracoastal Waterway, just a few blocks behind our house. There were scattered storm clouds and a brilliant sunrise, a radiant backdrop to a stand of hibiscus that was in bloom. It was perfect. I raised my camera and I snapped away, frame after frame. It was a high that I just can't give words to; it was the beginning of my love affair with photography.
I finished off my roll of film and I headed home, ready to run down to the drug store and drop off the film for processing. I burst through the door of the house, a blur of energy and loudly informed the house that I was ready to drop off my film. The only problem with that was that I was the only one home. According to the note that I found, my parents had gone to breakfast and then they would be taking the boat out. I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat down to watch Saturday morning cartoons. After the cartoons were over, I packed myself a sandwich and spent the rest of the day fishing with some friends, topped off with a swim in the pool when I got back home.
The next day, my father and I dropped the film off at the pharmacy and the clerk told us that it would take at least one week to process the film, possibly two. They did offer a twenty-four hour service, but my father refused to pay the extra money for it.
Even though I knew it was going to be at least a week before I saw my photographs, that didn't keep me from stopping at the pharmacy every day, on my way home from school and harassing whichever unlucky soul happened to be behind the counter that day. Rather than be annoyed by my exuberance, the clerks were wonderful and they humored me by checking the incoming orders, every day. Being avid amateur photographers themselves, they also encouraged me and gave me photography tips.
After a full year of seven whole days of losing my eight year old mind with practiced impatience, my father and I went back to the pharmacy to see if the film had come in and as luck would have it, the film had just arrived.
The clerk handed me the envelope, but my father snatched it out of her hand and tore it open straight away.
"I need to make sure that they're the right pictures," my father said. It wouldn't be the first time they've gone and mixed things up."
My father had never seen my photographs. How was he supposed to know if they were the right ones or not? I was confused.''
"Where's the kid's pictures?" my father demanded. "These aren't the kids pictures. Where are his pictures?"
What? Not my pictures? It couldn't be! Then again, how could he know?
"Let me see," I said as I pulled at the envelope in my father's hand and it fell, the photographs scattering across the floor.
My father cuffed me hard, on the side of my head. I saw stars.
"Pick that crap up," he said and then he turned back to the clerk and demanded once more, "Where are his pictures?"
The clerk started to stammer out an apology while I knelt down to pick up the photographs from the floor. I recognized the images instantly; they were the ones that I had taken.
"Dad," I said.
He ignored me and glared at the clerk. She looked terrified.
"Dad." I said again, a bit louder.
He shifted his gaze and that angry glare settled on me. It was terrifying. I knew there was an explosion of violence that was close to being released upon me. I had to watch my step.
"Don't interrupt me again, if you know what's good for you."
I was scared, but I stood my ground.
"Dad," I said once more, quite loudly. "It's okay, these are the pictures that I took. These are the right ones."
"You didn't take those pictures. Don't you lie to me, you little shit," my father accused.
"I'm not lying. I took those; they're mine."
By this time, quite a few people had stopped to watch what was going on and the store manager was approaching the counter. My father was aware of their scrutiny, but I think that only made him angrier. The manager walked up to my father and asked if there was something that he could help my father with.
"You people messed up and gave my kid the wrong pictures. I'm not paying for these," my father said. The anger was evident in his voice and the set of his jaw.
"Sir," the manager replied, "Your son claims that the photographs in question are indeed his and in light of that claim, I'm afraid that I must insist that you do indeed pay for the photographs."
My father gave me a look that chilled the blood in my veins. I knew that look all too well; I had pushed my father too far and I knew that once we got home, things weren't going to be pleasant for me. I didn't care. I took those photos; they were mine and nothing was going to take them away from me. Unfortunately, I always seem to pick the wrong time to be more brave than smart, After all, discretion truly is the better part of valor.
My father was silent, never a good sign, as he reached into his wallet and grudgingly paid for the photographs. He scooped them out of my hand and put them back into the envelope that they came in, turned, grabbed me by the neck and pushed me out the door, face first. I can still hear the smack that my face made as it hit the cool glass of the door. With his meaty paw on the back of my neck, my father guided me to the car, opened the door and threw me in like a sack of potatoes. I knew I was really in for it, this time. You could see my father's anger in the firm set of his jaw; you could see his rage in the pulsing of the vein in his neck. I was dead meat and I knew it.
My father and I drove home in silence. Before the car had even come to a stop in the driveway, I had bolted out the door and headed for safety. My father wouldn't chase me, I was much faster than he was and we both knew it. I was in the clear, for now, but I'd have to go home at some point. It wasn't an escape by any means, more like a stay of execution.
After a few hours of hiding out at a friend's house, I'd hoped that my father might have calmed down a bit and I headed home, mostly because it was almot dinner time and I was getting hungry.
Big mistake.
Moments after I walked in the door, my father grabbed me by the arm and spun me around until I faced him and he started yelling at me, calling me a liar and informing me that I was going to get what I deserved as he started taking off his belt.
The next part wasn't very much fun.
My mother watched.
And smirked.
When my father was finished with me, I could barely stand. My mother broke her silence and told me that I was to apologize to my father for embarassing him, I was to admit that I did not take the photographs and that I would have to pay for the film processing, because I had lied about taking the photos in the first place. I might have been able to stomach all of that, but there were two more things; the photographs would be destroyed and my camera would be taken away. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.
I refused. I wasn't going to apologize for anything; I took those photographs, they were mine and I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I tried to explain.
Bad move.
My mother started screaming at me as my father lashed out again, this time with his fists. I was given another chance to recant and once again, I refused. My mother then invoked her favorite puishment and I was locked in the closet. I can't even begin to tell you how much I hated that. As I stood there, in that pitch black closet, shaking with fear, frustration and rage, my heart shattered into a million pieces. That was the moment when I lost all respect, faith and confidence in my parents; our relationship had fundamentally changed
After my release from the closet, my parents followed through on their threats. Over the next few days my camera was taken away, I was forced to pay for the film processing and I was told that the photographs were destroyed. I never apologized. After a few more days, things went back to normal and my parents shifted their attention back to themselves, once more. Eventually, my camera was returned. My parents may have decided to forget all about it, but I never did. Memories can smolder.
Twenty-eight years later...
In the summer of 2001, my ex-wife Medusa and I threw our infant son in the car and drove up to Atlantic City, NJ, to visit my mother for the weekend. My father had passed away in 1986 and not too long after that I became estranged from my family for over a decade, only reconciling with them shortly before my marriage and at my ex-wife's urging. We had a rather pleasant visit that weekend; my mother was head over heels in love with her grandson, who was named after her husband. My son had a very soothing effect on my mother; he kept her calm and rational, which was a good thing. Trust me on this.
We were all sitting in my mother's living room, cooling off, after a hot day at the beach. My mother was playing with the baby and Medusa and I were talking, when she noticed my mother's collection of photo albums. Intrigued, Medusa asked if we could look through the photographs. She had met less than a handful of my family and she wanted to learn more about them. We started leafing through the albums and I explained who everyone was and told her stories about them.
We were about halfway through the second or third book when she turned the page and I saw something that I hadn't seen for many years. I froze. Medusa looked at me and she asked me what was wrong. I asked her if she remembered the story that I told her about my first camera and she said that she did.
"These are the photos," I said.
Medusa looked about as confused as I felt. My mother was oblivious to what was transpiring; she was too busy cooing at the baby. She was about to get a rude awakening.
"Hey, Mom," I called to her.
She turned her head and looked at me. I held up the photo album.
"Aren't these the first photos that I took?" I asked.
My mother looked a little shocked. She knew that she was busted.
"Yes," my mother answered.
"You and Dad accused me of lying about taking these and yet you saved them?"
"We always knew you took them, that's why we saved them," said my mother.
"You belittled me and punished me. You took away my camera. You locked me in the goddamn closet! Why? Why would you do this? What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded.
"When your father and I realized that you did take the photographs, we didn't want to give you false hope. We thought you were talented but didn't want to see you try to chase some crazy dream; we wanted you to have success and security, not foolishness. You've always been a very talented photographer and you take beautiful photographs, but it wasn't something that we wanted for you."
"So you just thought it would be best to crush every dream that I ever had?"
"And what have your dreams ever gotten you?" my mother asked me.
I pointed at my wife and son and I said, "Love. That's what they've gotten me. Love. But I guess that's something that you just can't understand. Your loss."
I looked at my ex-wife and I said, " We'd better start loading up the car. It's getting late and we have a long drive home."
I'm not sure that my mother got the message.
Medusa and I packed our bags and our baby and we loaded everything and everyone into the car. We said our goodbyes and we headed home. My mother had damaged our relationship once again; I don't know why I ever expected anything else. It took a while before I was able to speak to my mother again. My anger sat on simmer for quite some time, but my son deserved to kmow his family and so I put my anger behind me. At least I hope I did.
If your child has a talent or a dream, your job as a parent is to provide encouragement, not ridicule. This encouragement should be tempered with common sense and the need for a back up plan, along with an education, because sometimes the real world isn't always friendly to talent and dreams. Our children do not exist to live our dreams by proxy, nor should they. Love your kids, nourish their hearts and minds. More than anything else, teach them to dream big and dream along with them.
Once again, a special thank you to Lisa and Kristina for their time and their help with proofreading and editing, My fumble fingers sure do like their typos.
Thanks to you, as well, for stopping by and reading.
My parents were firm believers in the art of ridicule and they used it to great effect. To them, I was stupid, I was never good enough, I was weak and I would never amount to anything.
Well, I was a straight A student all through school, with a steady 4.0 gpa, I was considered a leader at school (one of them, anyway), I was a big kid and I excelled at sports such as football, track, basketball and soccer. I also got into a lot of fights, I won the majority of them, mostly through luck and picking my battles wisely. I haven't really amounted to a whole hell of a lot, though, but hey, three out of four ain't bad. If it counts for anything, I've got three amazing children. I'm not convinced that I deserve points for my ability to procreate, though.
Still, no matter what I did, no matter what I accomplished, medals, trophies or scholastic excellence and recognition, nothing that I did was ever good enough for them. Nothing. I was shy and withdrawn as a child; socially awkward, as children with overbearing parents usually are.
After a while, you get used to it. After a while, you start to believe it. It's easier that way, it hurts less. Holding on to that belief scars your heart and your mind; yes, you get used to it, but you never get over it. It takes a toll and you either give in completely or you learn to stand up and fight for yourself. Thankfully, in later years, I found the courage to do the latter.
Outwardly my family was the perfect Potemkin village, but behind the facade that was presented to the world was a family that was torn apart by strife and dominated by cruelty; mental, emotional and physical cruelty. I'm not going to catalog a history of abuse, nor am I looking for any sympathy, I just wanted to give you a little bit of history about two of the people who will end up being featured in quite a few of my stories.
When I was eight years old, my parents took me on a two week long Caribbean cruise for Christmas and New Year's. I had a great time, even though they had mostly abandoned me during the trip and I was left to my own devices for the majority of the cruise. I was only expected to take meals with my parents; an accessory. Other than that, I didn't see them much. It was as if I were invisible.
During the course of the cruise there were many activities planned for the children and we were kept occupied and out of the way for some of the time. The activities director had scheduled a talent show for the kids and I immediately signed up and began working on a comedy routine. I begged my parents to come, I begged them to watch my performance. I so very desperately wanted them to be proud of me. They agreed to come. I was so excited.
I worked on my act all week long, rehearsing over and over. I knew my routine by heart and I was ready to go. The big night came and I waited backstage, bouncing up and down with excitement, waiting for my turn to come. I peeked through the curtain, scanning the audience, trying to spot my parents, but I couldn't find them; the only thing I saw were a bunch of parents, families and a scattering of old people that had nothing better to do. I peeked through the curtain again,but I still couldn't see them, but I knew they were out there, somewhere and I so very desperately wanted to make them proud of me. My name was announced and I walked onstage to polite applause. I tried to look for my parents once more, but I was blinded by the glare of the lights. I stood there in my cheesy clown makeup and performed my little act, telling a handful of lame jokes that elicited polite laughter, followed up by something that was much more risque; a little story of how I had been watching a cartoon about car racing and had seen a banner that read 'Grand Prix', Well, when I asked my mother what a Grand Pricks was, my horrified mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to the bathroom where she proceeded to wash my mouth out with soap over a slight mispronunciation of an innocent French word. The audience roared with laughter and gave me a nice round of applause. My turn was over and it was time for the next kid to perform. As I walked offstage, I was congratulated by the other kids and and some of the cruise ship staff. I was stoked, as I walked out into the audience, searching for my parents. I walked up and down the aisles looking for them, but didn't see them anywhere. Thinking I must have missed them, I checked again, stopping at each row and checking carefully. Nothing. Frustrated, I checked one more time and then I gave up. I went over to sit with the other children whose parents hadn't bothered to show up.
A few other children performed. Some tried to sing and others tried to dance; some were just down right strange. The last act finished and the emcee took to the stage to announce whom the "judges" had chosen to be the winners of the talent show. The third place winner was announced and then the second place winner. The buildup of tension that followed was incredible and I thought that my heart was going to explode, because I had been holding my breath for so long.
The first place winner was announced.
It took me a moment to realize that they had called my name. I had won! I had really won! I couldn't believe it; it wasn't possible. My parents would be so proud of me when I told them that I won. I stood stunned for a moment and then one of the other kids pushed me forward, back toward the stage to accept my award and prize.
My smile was ear to ear.
The emcee shook my hand, and the audience applauded once more as he handed me a blue ribbon and a small, gift wrapped box. I shyly thanked everyone and practically ran offstage and out of the theater. I stopped in the hallway outside of the theater and I looked at the box. I shredded the gift wrap in my haste to open it and see my prize. I looked at my treasure and to my delight, it was an AGFA ISO - PAC 126 camera and two film cartridges.
It was perfect and something that I really wanted. I loved looking at great photography and now I would be able to create my own.
I ran off in search of my parents, with the voices of various crew members yelling at me to slow down, receding in the distance.
I caught up to my parents in the casino, where they had been since shortly after dinner. My mother looked at me, aghast. She stood there in her finest dress, baubles and fur, while I dared to show up and embarass her because I was covered in clown makeup. I tried to tell her about the talent show, but she would have none of it, cutting me off and sending me back to my stateroom to shower and get ready for bed. I was crushed, but did as I was ordered. You didn't cross my mother; not if you knew what was good for you.
The next morning, the ship docked in San Juan, Puerto Rico and my parents went ashore right after breakfast. I went down to the duty free shop and bought two more rolls of film and then I went ashore, as well. There was a really cool old fort that I wanted to see and I would be able to try out my new camera. I walked to the fort and I started taking pictures of everything. I remember that the view from the top of the wall was inspiring and it filled my little heart with joy. I had a great time, even if I was by myself and I used up all of my film.
It was starting to get late and I knew that I couldn't be too long, because the ship was pulling out around dinnertime. I asked an adult for the time and it was much later than I thought. There was no way that I could walk back to the ship in time and it was going to leave without me. My parents were going to kill me. They had already warned me about what would happen if I missed the ship and I really didn't want to endure the punishments that they had promised would await me, because if I understood them correctly, Satan would be building an entire new circle of Hell, just for me. I ran out the front of the fort and I saw that there was a taxi stand outside. I had money, so at least that wasn't an issue. I ran up to the first cab and I asked the driver how much it would cost to take me down to the harbor. He told me that it would cost me five dollars. I had two. Dejected, I turned around and started to walk away, but he called me back and asked me which ship I needed to get to. I told him and he said that it was leaving soon. I nodded and he told me to hurry up and get into the cab; he would take me to the ship, but we had to hurry. I jumped in the front seat and we took off. He asked me how much money I had and I told him two dollars. He nodded and said that would be enough. He told me that he had a son about my age and that if his son ever needed a little help, he hoped that someone would show him kindness. That thought has always stayed with me.
He drove as quickly as he dared, ignoring traffic laws and one way streets, while dodging chickens and pedestrians. Unfortunately, traffic came to a grinding halt, about two blocks from the harbor.
"Go, amigo, go!" shouted the taxi driver. "Run, amigo! You should make it there, just in time."
I paid the driver his money and thanked him for his kindness as I darted out of the door and started sprinting for the pier and the ship, weaving in and out of the crowds and evading more than a few startled goats. I was out of breath when I arrived at the gangplank, and luckily, just as they were about to pull it up and make way. I had barely made it, but I'd get to live at least another day and thankfully, my parents would never find out and I wouldn't be punished for almost missing the boat.
I ran back to my stateroom, accompanied by a chorus of "Slow downs!" Boy, the crew sure did like to yell a lot. I arrived at my room, hopped in the shower and got dressed for dinner. We had been invited to eat at the captain's table and I knew to keep my mouth shut and be on my best behavior.. My parents came to collect me, knocked on the door and came into the cabin. My mother straightened my bow tie and fixed my tuxedo, making certain that I looked presentable, but then she noticed the camera that was sitting on my bunk.
"What's that?" she asked, "And where did you get it?"
I started to explain about the talent contest, but my mother cut me off once more.
"Where did you take this from?" she demanded.
I was confused.
"I didn't take it from anywhere," I explained. "I won it in the talent contest that you promised that you were going to come to!"
My accusation hung in the air, an almost physical presence.
"Shut your damn mouth and get your ass to dinner," my father told me in a cold and warning tone.
"Yes, sir," I replied and I marched out the door and down the hall.
We rode the elevator in silence. Other than being congratulated by the captain for winning the talent show, dinner for me was nothing but silence. I tuned out the adults and their conversation. The waiter took pity on me and hooked me up with some extra desserts.
After dinner, I went and did the planned activities and it was movie night for the kids. I was told to go to bed right after the movie, but I snuck out and went to the casino to play on the slot machines. I won a few dollars and left, my pockets full of quarters. I went back to my cabin and went to bed.
Well, I guess that my parents must have eventually felt a little guilty over the whole talent show thing and the accusations over the camera and they tried to buy their way out of it as they always did, by throwing money at the problem, thinking that would make things better. They accomplished this by taking me back to the duty free shop and buying me twelve rolls of film, explaining to me that I could shoot all of the pictures that I wanted, but that they would only pay for one roll a month to be developed. They asked me if I understood and I said yes.
That night was New Year's Eve and I was allowed to stay up late, a long as I was with the other children and participating in the planned activities for kids. We ran around, played games and watched movies; it was a lot of fun, but the night, like all good things, came to an end. There wasn't much time left on the cruise and the ship was headed back to Miami. I snapped a few more pictures, but not all that many. I wanted to save the rest of my film for when I got home.
A few days after we arrived home, I was up with the sunrise. I grabbed my camera and hopped on my bike and rode down to the Intracoastal Waterway, just a few blocks behind our house. There were scattered storm clouds and a brilliant sunrise, a radiant backdrop to a stand of hibiscus that was in bloom. It was perfect. I raised my camera and I snapped away, frame after frame. It was a high that I just can't give words to; it was the beginning of my love affair with photography.
I finished off my roll of film and I headed home, ready to run down to the drug store and drop off the film for processing. I burst through the door of the house, a blur of energy and loudly informed the house that I was ready to drop off my film. The only problem with that was that I was the only one home. According to the note that I found, my parents had gone to breakfast and then they would be taking the boat out. I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat down to watch Saturday morning cartoons. After the cartoons were over, I packed myself a sandwich and spent the rest of the day fishing with some friends, topped off with a swim in the pool when I got back home.
The next day, my father and I dropped the film off at the pharmacy and the clerk told us that it would take at least one week to process the film, possibly two. They did offer a twenty-four hour service, but my father refused to pay the extra money for it.
Even though I knew it was going to be at least a week before I saw my photographs, that didn't keep me from stopping at the pharmacy every day, on my way home from school and harassing whichever unlucky soul happened to be behind the counter that day. Rather than be annoyed by my exuberance, the clerks were wonderful and they humored me by checking the incoming orders, every day. Being avid amateur photographers themselves, they also encouraged me and gave me photography tips.
After a full year of seven whole days of losing my eight year old mind with practiced impatience, my father and I went back to the pharmacy to see if the film had come in and as luck would have it, the film had just arrived.
The clerk handed me the envelope, but my father snatched it out of her hand and tore it open straight away.
"I need to make sure that they're the right pictures," my father said. It wouldn't be the first time they've gone and mixed things up."
My father had never seen my photographs. How was he supposed to know if they were the right ones or not? I was confused.''
"Where's the kid's pictures?" my father demanded. "These aren't the kids pictures. Where are his pictures?"
What? Not my pictures? It couldn't be! Then again, how could he know?
"Let me see," I said as I pulled at the envelope in my father's hand and it fell, the photographs scattering across the floor.
My father cuffed me hard, on the side of my head. I saw stars.
"Pick that crap up," he said and then he turned back to the clerk and demanded once more, "Where are his pictures?"
The clerk started to stammer out an apology while I knelt down to pick up the photographs from the floor. I recognized the images instantly; they were the ones that I had taken.
"Dad," I said.
He ignored me and glared at the clerk. She looked terrified.
"Dad." I said again, a bit louder.
He shifted his gaze and that angry glare settled on me. It was terrifying. I knew there was an explosion of violence that was close to being released upon me. I had to watch my step.
"Don't interrupt me again, if you know what's good for you."
I was scared, but I stood my ground.
"Dad," I said once more, quite loudly. "It's okay, these are the pictures that I took. These are the right ones."
"You didn't take those pictures. Don't you lie to me, you little shit," my father accused.
"I'm not lying. I took those; they're mine."
By this time, quite a few people had stopped to watch what was going on and the store manager was approaching the counter. My father was aware of their scrutiny, but I think that only made him angrier. The manager walked up to my father and asked if there was something that he could help my father with.
"You people messed up and gave my kid the wrong pictures. I'm not paying for these," my father said. The anger was evident in his voice and the set of his jaw.
"Sir," the manager replied, "Your son claims that the photographs in question are indeed his and in light of that claim, I'm afraid that I must insist that you do indeed pay for the photographs."
My father gave me a look that chilled the blood in my veins. I knew that look all too well; I had pushed my father too far and I knew that once we got home, things weren't going to be pleasant for me. I didn't care. I took those photos; they were mine and nothing was going to take them away from me. Unfortunately, I always seem to pick the wrong time to be more brave than smart, After all, discretion truly is the better part of valor.
My father was silent, never a good sign, as he reached into his wallet and grudgingly paid for the photographs. He scooped them out of my hand and put them back into the envelope that they came in, turned, grabbed me by the neck and pushed me out the door, face first. I can still hear the smack that my face made as it hit the cool glass of the door. With his meaty paw on the back of my neck, my father guided me to the car, opened the door and threw me in like a sack of potatoes. I knew I was really in for it, this time. You could see my father's anger in the firm set of his jaw; you could see his rage in the pulsing of the vein in his neck. I was dead meat and I knew it.
My father and I drove home in silence. Before the car had even come to a stop in the driveway, I had bolted out the door and headed for safety. My father wouldn't chase me, I was much faster than he was and we both knew it. I was in the clear, for now, but I'd have to go home at some point. It wasn't an escape by any means, more like a stay of execution.
After a few hours of hiding out at a friend's house, I'd hoped that my father might have calmed down a bit and I headed home, mostly because it was almot dinner time and I was getting hungry.
Big mistake.
Moments after I walked in the door, my father grabbed me by the arm and spun me around until I faced him and he started yelling at me, calling me a liar and informing me that I was going to get what I deserved as he started taking off his belt.
The next part wasn't very much fun.
My mother watched.
And smirked.
When my father was finished with me, I could barely stand. My mother broke her silence and told me that I was to apologize to my father for embarassing him, I was to admit that I did not take the photographs and that I would have to pay for the film processing, because I had lied about taking the photos in the first place. I might have been able to stomach all of that, but there were two more things; the photographs would be destroyed and my camera would be taken away. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.
I refused. I wasn't going to apologize for anything; I took those photographs, they were mine and I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I tried to explain.
Bad move.
My mother started screaming at me as my father lashed out again, this time with his fists. I was given another chance to recant and once again, I refused. My mother then invoked her favorite puishment and I was locked in the closet. I can't even begin to tell you how much I hated that. As I stood there, in that pitch black closet, shaking with fear, frustration and rage, my heart shattered into a million pieces. That was the moment when I lost all respect, faith and confidence in my parents; our relationship had fundamentally changed
After my release from the closet, my parents followed through on their threats. Over the next few days my camera was taken away, I was forced to pay for the film processing and I was told that the photographs were destroyed. I never apologized. After a few more days, things went back to normal and my parents shifted their attention back to themselves, once more. Eventually, my camera was returned. My parents may have decided to forget all about it, but I never did. Memories can smolder.
Twenty-eight years later...
In the summer of 2001, my ex-wife Medusa and I threw our infant son in the car and drove up to Atlantic City, NJ, to visit my mother for the weekend. My father had passed away in 1986 and not too long after that I became estranged from my family for over a decade, only reconciling with them shortly before my marriage and at my ex-wife's urging. We had a rather pleasant visit that weekend; my mother was head over heels in love with her grandson, who was named after her husband. My son had a very soothing effect on my mother; he kept her calm and rational, which was a good thing. Trust me on this.
We were all sitting in my mother's living room, cooling off, after a hot day at the beach. My mother was playing with the baby and Medusa and I were talking, when she noticed my mother's collection of photo albums. Intrigued, Medusa asked if we could look through the photographs. She had met less than a handful of my family and she wanted to learn more about them. We started leafing through the albums and I explained who everyone was and told her stories about them.
We were about halfway through the second or third book when she turned the page and I saw something that I hadn't seen for many years. I froze. Medusa looked at me and she asked me what was wrong. I asked her if she remembered the story that I told her about my first camera and she said that she did.
"These are the photos," I said.
Medusa looked about as confused as I felt. My mother was oblivious to what was transpiring; she was too busy cooing at the baby. She was about to get a rude awakening.
"Hey, Mom," I called to her.
She turned her head and looked at me. I held up the photo album.
"Aren't these the first photos that I took?" I asked.
My mother looked a little shocked. She knew that she was busted.
"Yes," my mother answered.
"You and Dad accused me of lying about taking these and yet you saved them?"
"We always knew you took them, that's why we saved them," said my mother.
"You belittled me and punished me. You took away my camera. You locked me in the goddamn closet! Why? Why would you do this? What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded.
"When your father and I realized that you did take the photographs, we didn't want to give you false hope. We thought you were talented but didn't want to see you try to chase some crazy dream; we wanted you to have success and security, not foolishness. You've always been a very talented photographer and you take beautiful photographs, but it wasn't something that we wanted for you."
"So you just thought it would be best to crush every dream that I ever had?"
"And what have your dreams ever gotten you?" my mother asked me.
I pointed at my wife and son and I said, "Love. That's what they've gotten me. Love. But I guess that's something that you just can't understand. Your loss."
I looked at my ex-wife and I said, " We'd better start loading up the car. It's getting late and we have a long drive home."
I'm not sure that my mother got the message.
Medusa and I packed our bags and our baby and we loaded everything and everyone into the car. We said our goodbyes and we headed home. My mother had damaged our relationship once again; I don't know why I ever expected anything else. It took a while before I was able to speak to my mother again. My anger sat on simmer for quite some time, but my son deserved to kmow his family and so I put my anger behind me. At least I hope I did.
If your child has a talent or a dream, your job as a parent is to provide encouragement, not ridicule. This encouragement should be tempered with common sense and the need for a back up plan, along with an education, because sometimes the real world isn't always friendly to talent and dreams. Our children do not exist to live our dreams by proxy, nor should they. Love your kids, nourish their hearts and minds. More than anything else, teach them to dream big and dream along with them.
Once again, a special thank you to Lisa and Kristina for their time and their help with proofreading and editing, My fumble fingers sure do like their typos.
Thanks to you, as well, for stopping by and reading.
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