write write write must write to write right rite write write write write
Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived.
Bah. I have nothing to say.
I was born. I lived. I died.
Flesh that out a little.. Also the ending is uncertain. And false. Clearly the narrator is not dead yet.
A boy was born who was both wanted but not wanted. Born to abandonment. Tragedy. No.
My life began in turmoil. From a certain point of view, I was born to great advantages. In the most affluent country in the world in the early 70s, to highly educated white folks, I never wanted for suburbia. Indeed I enjoyed a product-filled homestead well into adulthood, with culture and art and New Yorker magazines, everything one needs to make it in the world. But there was a dark cloud hovering over all of it. A cloud named Tommy.
No, actually that’s bullshit. There was no Tommy. See, I never learned much how to lie. That’s a socialization thing. Maybe I was autisticky, maybe I just was moved around and traumatized too much to learn the reindeer games, but one way or another I formed into a pathological truth-teller. Even in middle age it is a source of shame and some embarassment that I can be relied upon, when asked, to spit out the essential truth in response to virtually anything. I tell women how beautiful they are, explain to employers that my weakest areas are that I’m lazy and don’t really care about corporate agendas most of the time. Things like this.
So, no, there was no Tommy. I wish. To have an externalized antagonist would have given some clarity in all the suffering, perhaps a target for later support groups. Adult children of incest or whatnot. But no, I had no such luck. My cloud was all around me, and could not be identified.
Of course, humans have a tendency to cast blame on whoever is in the picture when things are all wrong. And things were all wrong, and it was just me and my mom all those years. And wow, could she blame me.
Where to begin?
I was born a poor black child…