As I've mentioned before, my mother lived with depression for a great deal of her life before realizing she had a problem. One of her biggest issues was dealing with my brother Loyd as a baby. She probably spent the first two years of his life wondering why he couldn't be more like me and saying this out loud.
More than 35 years later, my mother would express regret that she was not able to enjoy Loyd for the child that he was instead of mourning for the child he could not be.
Now, even though my mother says that she was never able to enjoy Loyd, I think there was some level that she had some idea what he had to offer as a child. This was realized in what I consider the worst thing my mother ever said to me.
In our town, there was a clothing store called Main Place. (I would wind up working there one day, but that's WAY down the line.) They sold women's shoes under the "Personality" brand. When my mom was getting dressed once, I saw a Personality shoe box. "Personality" was a word that I'd heard before, but wasn't certain of what it meant. I asked my mother what personality was.
"It's something that Loyd has that you don't."
I was absolutlely stunned by this response. I was asking for a simple definition, not an attack on my lack of character or confirmation that Loyd had some. So I asked her why Loyd had something that I didn't and I asked her what she meant. I asked her what I needed to do to get it. I guess Mom figured out she had plain said the wrong thing to me and ignored my requests for more details. I know I kept asking for at least ten more minutes before I finally gave up on getting an answer.
Now, the reason I say this is the worst thing she ever said to me is because I remembered it up to the point that I finally learned what personality was. I looked back and recalled this incident and discovered that it was a very cruel thing for a mother to tell a child. Even worse is that she offered no explanation and no apology for what she said.
But, like I say, her acknowledgement of his personality and me not having any does demonstrate that there was some joy in her heart that was created for her by Loyd. It's too bad that she doesn't really remember ever feeling that way about him.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
A friend who took another path
I really can't say that I had a lot of good friends when I was in elementary school. I thought I did, but I really didn't. However, I had one good friend in the fourth grade that I actually considered my best friend. His name (for our purposes) was Wild.
Wild was probably about a year older than me and had gotten left back at some point. When you got right down to it, we probably didn't have that much in common, but we enjoyed calling each other best friend. When you're that young, there's not a lot else that seems to matter.
He actually came over and spent the night at my house one Friday night. We had a good time. We went out to a junior high basketball game. I kind of made a fool of myself by running out on the floor at one point. (However, I should add that the basketball court floor was very wide and I was yards away from where the game was happening.) My mother yelled at me in front of him because she felt like everyone could see me doing that and it embarrassed her. As you'll see in future posts, that happened a lot. To tell the truth, I got really bored at school sporting events.
I honestly don't remember what we did on Saturday. I know he just spent the one night and that we had a good time, but he never spent the night again.
The next year, I wound up going to a different elementary school, so Wild and I were no longer best friends. Back then, if you were a kid, you were not permitted to use the phone to call ANYONE. If grandparents or aunts or uncles wanted to talk to us, they would call us, or your parents would call them for you. But you NEVER picked up that phone to make an outgoing call.
When we wound up back together at the Intermediate school for 6th grade, we did not resume our "best" friendship. We didn't even have any classes together. That's a real friendship killer. (However, in a later post, you will see how he stepped up to defend me at one point.)
We are now going to fast-forward about four more years. I was a junior in high school. Wild had dropped out when he turned 16. Back then, you could drop out at that age. Most students who dropped out either worked for the refinery or the City of Artesia. I guess Wild went to the refinery.
Around this time, my mother saw his name in the paper in which he was arrested in connection with a shooting. What supposedly happened is that Wild and a friend of his were out in a field at night and were just shooting guns in the air. One of the bullets struck and killed someone. He wound up spending time in jail for that.
A few years later, I was in college. I went to a convenience store near the campus and I heard someone call my name. He looked very familiar. I then realized who it was. "Wild!" Despite my excitement my first thought was, "When did you get out of jail?" He appeared to have been chatting up the girl behind the counter. We exchanged pleasantries and I never saw him again.
About a year and a half ago, Ms. Ogolon and I were driving home from a road trip. My phone rang. I was driving, so I could not answer it. Whoever called left a message. Ms. Ogolon called the voicemail and said it sounded like it was Bob Suchandsuch. I said, "I don't know a Bob Suchandsuch, but I know a Wild Suchandsuch." The phone rang several more times before we got home. I was never able to pick it up and no more messages were left. When we got home, I called the voicemail. It was indeed Wild.
He had gotten my phone number by calling my father. He basically called to apologize about stuff that happened in the past. Now, I have been the victim of a lot of mistreatment in my youth, but he was definitely not one of my tormentors. Over the course of the very long conversation (with him sounding drunk), I told him not to worry about it.
I had previously told my father that, under no circumstances, he is NOT to give my phone number out. What he was supposed to do is take their information and call me with the message. He had done this a couple of times before and it hadn't been a problem. I called him up the next day. He apologized and said that Wild sounded drunk and was very insistent on getting my number, so he gave it to him to get him off the phone. I then told him that if anyone else ever needed to get a hold of me, they could look me up on Google and find my e-mail address. That way, he wouldn't have to take a message.
Over the next few months, Wild would call me up. Sometimes, I would answer the phone. Sometimes I wouldn't. It's bad that my main impulse was to get him off the phone, but we really didn't have much in common anymore. After he called a few more times and I didn't pick up, I stopped hearing from him. However, I had let go of him as a friend almost 40 years ago, so there was no real emotion there. I do feel bad that he wasn't as willing to let go.
Wild was probably about a year older than me and had gotten left back at some point. When you got right down to it, we probably didn't have that much in common, but we enjoyed calling each other best friend. When you're that young, there's not a lot else that seems to matter.
He actually came over and spent the night at my house one Friday night. We had a good time. We went out to a junior high basketball game. I kind of made a fool of myself by running out on the floor at one point. (However, I should add that the basketball court floor was very wide and I was yards away from where the game was happening.) My mother yelled at me in front of him because she felt like everyone could see me doing that and it embarrassed her. As you'll see in future posts, that happened a lot. To tell the truth, I got really bored at school sporting events.
I honestly don't remember what we did on Saturday. I know he just spent the one night and that we had a good time, but he never spent the night again.
The next year, I wound up going to a different elementary school, so Wild and I were no longer best friends. Back then, if you were a kid, you were not permitted to use the phone to call ANYONE. If grandparents or aunts or uncles wanted to talk to us, they would call us, or your parents would call them for you. But you NEVER picked up that phone to make an outgoing call.
When we wound up back together at the Intermediate school for 6th grade, we did not resume our "best" friendship. We didn't even have any classes together. That's a real friendship killer. (However, in a later post, you will see how he stepped up to defend me at one point.)
We are now going to fast-forward about four more years. I was a junior in high school. Wild had dropped out when he turned 16. Back then, you could drop out at that age. Most students who dropped out either worked for the refinery or the City of Artesia. I guess Wild went to the refinery.
Around this time, my mother saw his name in the paper in which he was arrested in connection with a shooting. What supposedly happened is that Wild and a friend of his were out in a field at night and were just shooting guns in the air. One of the bullets struck and killed someone. He wound up spending time in jail for that.
A few years later, I was in college. I went to a convenience store near the campus and I heard someone call my name. He looked very familiar. I then realized who it was. "Wild!" Despite my excitement my first thought was, "When did you get out of jail?" He appeared to have been chatting up the girl behind the counter. We exchanged pleasantries and I never saw him again.
About a year and a half ago, Ms. Ogolon and I were driving home from a road trip. My phone rang. I was driving, so I could not answer it. Whoever called left a message. Ms. Ogolon called the voicemail and said it sounded like it was Bob Suchandsuch. I said, "I don't know a Bob Suchandsuch, but I know a Wild Suchandsuch." The phone rang several more times before we got home. I was never able to pick it up and no more messages were left. When we got home, I called the voicemail. It was indeed Wild.
He had gotten my phone number by calling my father. He basically called to apologize about stuff that happened in the past. Now, I have been the victim of a lot of mistreatment in my youth, but he was definitely not one of my tormentors. Over the course of the very long conversation (with him sounding drunk), I told him not to worry about it.
I had previously told my father that, under no circumstances, he is NOT to give my phone number out. What he was supposed to do is take their information and call me with the message. He had done this a couple of times before and it hadn't been a problem. I called him up the next day. He apologized and said that Wild sounded drunk and was very insistent on getting my number, so he gave it to him to get him off the phone. I then told him that if anyone else ever needed to get a hold of me, they could look me up on Google and find my e-mail address. That way, he wouldn't have to take a message.
Over the next few months, Wild would call me up. Sometimes, I would answer the phone. Sometimes I wouldn't. It's bad that my main impulse was to get him off the phone, but we really didn't have much in common anymore. After he called a few more times and I didn't pick up, I stopped hearing from him. However, I had let go of him as a friend almost 40 years ago, so there was no real emotion there. I do feel bad that he wasn't as willing to let go.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
I'm going blind!
One of the largest changes in my life occurred when I was in the fourth grade. A few weeks in, I was having trouble seeing the blackboard. I was not aware that anything was wrong with my eyesight. I just started noticing that I had to squint a lot to see things that were further away.
The weirdest thing about this is that I was taken to see the school nurse. She had one of those eye charts and asked me to read the smaller letters. I said I couldn't see them. She basically accused me of lying. I kept telling her that I couldn't read the letters and she kept telling me that I could. A week later, I went to see an eye doctor, who said that I did indeed need glasses.
Three weeks later, we went to the eye doctor to pick up the glasses. When we left the building, I looked down the street and realized how clearly I could see everything.
The worst thing about when you first wear glasses is that for the first few weeks, you are constantly aware that you are wearing glasses. That was always the first thought in my mind. It didn't matter what I was doing. It wasn't until a few weeks later at a Cub Scout meeting that I realized that I had stopped thinking about having glasses on my face.
My first pair had these thick black rims. Yes, I definitely looked like a geek. However, if you were a kid back then, you really didn't have much of a choice of designs, and I really didn't like the wire frames. I wanted it to be very obvious that I was wearing glasses.
I wore that design for three years. In the seventh grade, my parents made me switch to the wire frames. I didn't realize it at the time, but Mom says those glasses looked really small on my face. When I was in the ninth grade, I got glasses with a gradual tint in them. I wore that design for the next 18 years. After that, I got round wire frames with grey-tinted lenses and have stuck with that ever since.
When I got older, I was offered the opportunity to get contact lenses. I had a problem with using my finger to stick something smaller than a dime into my eyeball. I had also heard horror stories about people who accidentally fell asleep with them in their eyes. Even though they now have the plastic lenses that you can fall asleep with, I still am uneasy about having to poke my eyes every day.
While I am also eligible for the Lasik procedure, I am uneasy about the long-term effects. At any rate, I still don't think I look like myself when I am not wearing glasses. I guess I really identify with having them and will likely wear them the rest of my life.
While my eyesight has remained fairly steady since I started wearing glasses, I have noticed some deterioration. A few years ago, I noticed I was experiencing eye strain when I was trying to read something close up. However, I found I could read everything fine if I took my glasses off. An eye doctor recommended bi-focals. Oh, no! I refuse to admit I'm getting that old.
I WON'T GO BI-FOCAL!
The weirdest thing about this is that I was taken to see the school nurse. She had one of those eye charts and asked me to read the smaller letters. I said I couldn't see them. She basically accused me of lying. I kept telling her that I couldn't read the letters and she kept telling me that I could. A week later, I went to see an eye doctor, who said that I did indeed need glasses.
Three weeks later, we went to the eye doctor to pick up the glasses. When we left the building, I looked down the street and realized how clearly I could see everything.
The worst thing about when you first wear glasses is that for the first few weeks, you are constantly aware that you are wearing glasses. That was always the first thought in my mind. It didn't matter what I was doing. It wasn't until a few weeks later at a Cub Scout meeting that I realized that I had stopped thinking about having glasses on my face.
My first pair had these thick black rims. Yes, I definitely looked like a geek. However, if you were a kid back then, you really didn't have much of a choice of designs, and I really didn't like the wire frames. I wanted it to be very obvious that I was wearing glasses.
I wore that design for three years. In the seventh grade, my parents made me switch to the wire frames. I didn't realize it at the time, but Mom says those glasses looked really small on my face. When I was in the ninth grade, I got glasses with a gradual tint in them. I wore that design for the next 18 years. After that, I got round wire frames with grey-tinted lenses and have stuck with that ever since.
When I got older, I was offered the opportunity to get contact lenses. I had a problem with using my finger to stick something smaller than a dime into my eyeball. I had also heard horror stories about people who accidentally fell asleep with them in their eyes. Even though they now have the plastic lenses that you can fall asleep with, I still am uneasy about having to poke my eyes every day.
While I am also eligible for the Lasik procedure, I am uneasy about the long-term effects. At any rate, I still don't think I look like myself when I am not wearing glasses. I guess I really identify with having them and will likely wear them the rest of my life.
While my eyesight has remained fairly steady since I started wearing glasses, I have noticed some deterioration. A few years ago, I noticed I was experiencing eye strain when I was trying to read something close up. However, I found I could read everything fine if I took my glasses off. An eye doctor recommended bi-focals. Oh, no! I refuse to admit I'm getting that old.
I WON'T GO BI-FOCAL!
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
The battle over hair
One of my favorite things to do when I was a kid was to go to the barber shop. I loved going there with my Dad and my brother to get my hair trimmed. The owner of the shop was Bill (one of the few times I'll use someone's real name in this blog, especially since I don't know his last name and he's probably dead by now).
There was no appointment needed. You just walked right in. And it was good if you had to wait a bit because Bill had a lot of comic books in his waiting area. Most of all, I enjoyed the regular chance for male bonding. I way I understood it was this: "Barber shops are for boys, beauty shops are for girls."
Right about the time I turned nine years old, my mother took me get my hair done. This wasn't a big deal. She had taken me to Bill's when Dad was busy with something else. But this time, she didn't tell me we were going to the beauty shop. I said I didn't want to go inside because beauty shops are for girls. I wanted to go to Bill the barber. I was a boy.
Somehow, Mom was able to make me get my hair cut there. The result was pretty much the same as if Bill had done it, but I still didn't like that I had to do it at the beauty shop. I was thankful that no one from school saw me there.
I never did find out why Dad stopped taking Loyd and me to Bill. Years later, I remember him talking about how Bill would cut the hair very short and this didn't make for good repeat business, but I don't think that had anything to do with it. It didn't matter, Loyd and I continued to scream to be taken to Bill instead of the beauty shop, but we never went again.
My story does not stop there. When I was in the fourth grade, Mom took me to the beauty shop. When the woman was finished with my hair, I was shocked! She had hardly cut any of it off!
"Mom! My hair's still long!"
"Well, that's the way all the boys are wearing their hair now."
"I don't care, Mom! I don't want to look like a hippie!" (The only two things I knew about hippies at the time were that the guys had long hair and they were not generally respected by the population at large.)
Sure enough, Mom was right. The other guys were starting to wear their hair long, but I still wanted to look like a boy. This is especially surprising considering that, at this point, my Mom was already afraid that I was going to grow up gay. You'd think she'd want me to promote my masculinity instead of chipping away at it bit by bit, starting with the hair.
The thing is that after awhile, I actually enjoyed having long hair. However, by the time I reached high school, the fashion trend swung back to short hair for guys, but I still left my hair long. This led to many arguments with my Mom for two decades over the length of my hair. She kept screaming at me to get it cut and I wouldn't do it. When I was in college, she'd write me letters begging me to cut my hair. I'd write back that she should be thankful that my hair was the only thing about me she had an issue with, because I could have just as easily have become an alcoholic, a drug addict, a criminal or worse. There were times when she would talk me into cutting it, but I always grew it back and the argument started all over again. I kept pointing out that having long hair was her idea and if she didn't like arguing with me over it, she shouldn't have let the beautician cut my hair long in the first place.
When I was 34, I had gone through a seven-year period in which I didn't cut my hair. It became very damaged during that time, so I decided to shave it all off. The plan was to keep it short until I turned 40 and then I was going to grow it long again. That never happened because I had met the woman I was going to marry before then and she said she wouldn't find me attractive with long hair. It's been short ever since.
I still have dreams about my hair being long. I hate waking up from them.
There was no appointment needed. You just walked right in. And it was good if you had to wait a bit because Bill had a lot of comic books in his waiting area. Most of all, I enjoyed the regular chance for male bonding. I way I understood it was this: "Barber shops are for boys, beauty shops are for girls."
Right about the time I turned nine years old, my mother took me get my hair done. This wasn't a big deal. She had taken me to Bill's when Dad was busy with something else. But this time, she didn't tell me we were going to the beauty shop. I said I didn't want to go inside because beauty shops are for girls. I wanted to go to Bill the barber. I was a boy.
Somehow, Mom was able to make me get my hair cut there. The result was pretty much the same as if Bill had done it, but I still didn't like that I had to do it at the beauty shop. I was thankful that no one from school saw me there.
I never did find out why Dad stopped taking Loyd and me to Bill. Years later, I remember him talking about how Bill would cut the hair very short and this didn't make for good repeat business, but I don't think that had anything to do with it. It didn't matter, Loyd and I continued to scream to be taken to Bill instead of the beauty shop, but we never went again.
My story does not stop there. When I was in the fourth grade, Mom took me to the beauty shop. When the woman was finished with my hair, I was shocked! She had hardly cut any of it off!
"Mom! My hair's still long!"
"Well, that's the way all the boys are wearing their hair now."
"I don't care, Mom! I don't want to look like a hippie!" (The only two things I knew about hippies at the time were that the guys had long hair and they were not generally respected by the population at large.)
Sure enough, Mom was right. The other guys were starting to wear their hair long, but I still wanted to look like a boy. This is especially surprising considering that, at this point, my Mom was already afraid that I was going to grow up gay. You'd think she'd want me to promote my masculinity instead of chipping away at it bit by bit, starting with the hair.
The thing is that after awhile, I actually enjoyed having long hair. However, by the time I reached high school, the fashion trend swung back to short hair for guys, but I still left my hair long. This led to many arguments with my Mom for two decades over the length of my hair. She kept screaming at me to get it cut and I wouldn't do it. When I was in college, she'd write me letters begging me to cut my hair. I'd write back that she should be thankful that my hair was the only thing about me she had an issue with, because I could have just as easily have become an alcoholic, a drug addict, a criminal or worse. There were times when she would talk me into cutting it, but I always grew it back and the argument started all over again. I kept pointing out that having long hair was her idea and if she didn't like arguing with me over it, she shouldn't have let the beautician cut my hair long in the first place.
When I was 34, I had gone through a seven-year period in which I didn't cut my hair. It became very damaged during that time, so I decided to shave it all off. The plan was to keep it short until I turned 40 and then I was going to grow it long again. That never happened because I had met the woman I was going to marry before then and she said she wouldn't find me attractive with long hair. It's been short ever since.
I still have dreams about my hair being long. I hate waking up from them.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
My father and my mother got to be my teachers
My father taught fourth grade at the elementary school I attended. I did not have him for my official teacher when I entered the fourth grade, but this year was different in school because they separated the students into three groups for the reading classes. These were the higher level reading students, average level and low level. My father taught the higher level, so I wound up with him as a teacher one hour every day.
This was a means of helping us adjust to the upcoming 6th grade, in which we would not be stuck in the same classroom every day. This was also done during the 5th grade.
My father was the only male teacher at the school. A lot of the boys were afraid of him because he had a reputation for pulling out the paddle to administer punishment and everybody said he could whip even hard than their own fathers. I wouldn't know. The other boys' fathers never tried to put the whup on me.
When I was in class, I was not permitted to call him "Dad." I had to call him "Mr. Ogolon." He practically treated me a little worse than he did at home, save for any beatings. Once I loudly yawned in class and exclaimed, "Oh, boy!" He screamed at me in front of everyone. For my first mid-quarter report card, he gave me a B for the class. (However, I was able to turn that into an A for the rest of the year.)
I really felt that there should have been a rule in place that said that teachers were not permitted to teach their own children or even allow them in the same school together. Even though my father only taught me one hour a day, it was hard getting through that hour knowing that everybody in class was carefully watching every interaction between me and father.
When I was a senior in high school, I wound up with my mother as a teacher. She taught Distributive Education and was in charge of the school's chapter of Distributive Education Club of America, or DECA. She more or less coerced me into her classroom. She wanted me in there because she know I would do well in the regional and state DECA competition.
One day, before school, my mother asked me to go get some gum and bring it to her in class. I came in the classroom and said, "Hey, Mom!" and tossed her the gum. She told me later that me that my calling her "Mom" was a glass-shattering moment for her. She didn't mind me calling her "Mom," and didn't ask me to call her "Mrs. Ogolon." She was upset because, for years, students would call her "Mom" and she would respond by saying "I am not old enough to be your mother." That day, she realized she could no longer say that.
I would like to add that Loyd never had to deal with having Dad or Mom as a teacher.
This was a means of helping us adjust to the upcoming 6th grade, in which we would not be stuck in the same classroom every day. This was also done during the 5th grade.
My father was the only male teacher at the school. A lot of the boys were afraid of him because he had a reputation for pulling out the paddle to administer punishment and everybody said he could whip even hard than their own fathers. I wouldn't know. The other boys' fathers never tried to put the whup on me.
When I was in class, I was not permitted to call him "Dad." I had to call him "Mr. Ogolon." He practically treated me a little worse than he did at home, save for any beatings. Once I loudly yawned in class and exclaimed, "Oh, boy!" He screamed at me in front of everyone. For my first mid-quarter report card, he gave me a B for the class. (However, I was able to turn that into an A for the rest of the year.)
I really felt that there should have been a rule in place that said that teachers were not permitted to teach their own children or even allow them in the same school together. Even though my father only taught me one hour a day, it was hard getting through that hour knowing that everybody in class was carefully watching every interaction between me and father.
When I was a senior in high school, I wound up with my mother as a teacher. She taught Distributive Education and was in charge of the school's chapter of Distributive Education Club of America, or DECA. She more or less coerced me into her classroom. She wanted me in there because she know I would do well in the regional and state DECA competition.
One day, before school, my mother asked me to go get some gum and bring it to her in class. I came in the classroom and said, "Hey, Mom!" and tossed her the gum. She told me later that me that my calling her "Mom" was a glass-shattering moment for her. She didn't mind me calling her "Mom," and didn't ask me to call her "Mrs. Ogolon." She was upset because, for years, students would call her "Mom" and she would respond by saying "I am not old enough to be your mother." That day, she realized she could no longer say that.
I would like to add that Loyd never had to deal with having Dad or Mom as a teacher.
It wasn't my fault I got to be the oldest!
Loyd likely had a muddled view of how I got to be the oldest.
Even though Loyd knows how random having children is and I am less than a year from being 50, I think he still wishes that he was the oldest.
Even though Loyd knows how random having children is and I am less than a year from being 50, I think he still wishes that he was the oldest.
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