The Piano 

 

Disclaimer: All thoughts / ideas / words that appear below are the sole thoughts / writings of the author and were in no way AI generated. Images appearing in this post were created by the author using an AI image generator for the sole purpose of providing illustrations.

Fermata, Legato, Staccato, Slur, Forte, Fortissimo, Pianissimo, Diminished, Whole Note, Quarter Note, ¾ Time…

These were terms I had not heard in over thirty years; in fact, some of them were terms that I had never encountered before. They were all new, yet so familiar. It was a part of me I had never known existed, yet had been there all along. It was a friend waiting in the shadows; it was a connection waiting to be restored. It was a missing puzzle piece; it was a lost part of me. It was like a prodigal returning home. It was my piano.  

I have always thought that my childhood could basically be defined in three stages. Beginning, middle, and end. Because of the nature of my dad’s career(s) while growing up, there was not a lot of continuity or consistency in my childhood at all. 

In some ways, there was consistency, as I had both of my parents as stable figures in my life while growing up. In other ways, the constant moves, changing of schools, leaving friends behind, and learning not to ever get close to people created a huge disconnect in my life. It might not sound like a huge deal to some people, but one of the accomplishments in my adult life that I am the most proud of is that I have been able to obtain stability, to live in one town (nearly 18 years now) for my entire married life. My son has been able to grow up in this town, go to the same church in the same school that he has been in since he was little, and have the same friends all his life.

When I was about seven or eight, my parents wanted me to start playing the piano, so I had a really sweet older lady named Mrs. Barbara who began to teach me piano. I can still faintly remember going out to Mrs. Barbara's house in the country and enduring those weekly lessons. I don't remember much about my practice in those early years, but I do remember that I did not practice that much because my parents were very lackadaisical in making sure that I was consistent in my practice. Those lessons lasted for about a year and a half until we had to move again and I had to leave Mrs. Barbara and my piano behind.

As some of you know, I was diagnosed with a rather severe hearing loss early in my childhood. It stabilized, and the doctors thought that it would remain consistent with the rest of my life. They thought that what I had at that point would be what I continued to have into my adult years. Undetected by my parents, it slowly started to diminish even more after I turned 10 years of age.

When I was nine years old, we moved, and for the next four or five years, life was filled with moves, job inconsistencies on my dad's part, and uncertainty about where we would even live. I always missed the piano, and secretly longed to play it but felt really discouraged and so I never picked it up after leaving Mrs. Barbara behind.

When I was 13, in the summer of 1994, we moved for what would be the last time during my grade and secondary school years. This was a time filled with much angst; in addition to the normal teenage angst, there was the added factor of moving to an entirely new city, nearly 1 ½ hours from where I’d lived for the past 5 years. It was a place where I knew no one, and had no desire to be. I won’t go into much detail about those years in this blog, because that’s not really the point of this post, and it’s still really difficult for me to think about and talk about even 30 years after the fact.

The pianist at our church was an incredibly talented lady named Mrs. Jackie. To this day, I still have not heard anyone that could play with the distinct style and talent that she processed. Sure, I have heard a number of incredibly talented pianists through the years, but Mrs. Jackie’s sound was unique. Just like I can close my eyes and tell you exactly when Floyd Cramer starts playing, I could tell you exactly when “Mama Jackie” (as we called her) would start playing. Her sound was that unique and beautiful. She was incredibly gifted in that she played by ear, but also knew how to sight read music very proficiently. In addition to being a church pianist, she was a banker by day, and a piano teacher by night. When  I was 15, my parents got Mama Jackie to start teaching me on the piano once more. I picked it up very quickly again even though I hadn’t touched the piano in more than 6 years. 

Because I was battling so much inner turmoil as a teenager that I kept hidden until my thirties, I never really took my piano playing seriously (which unfortunately, carried over into lack of desire to practice). When I turned 15, my hearing started rapidly diminishing even though the doctors had, years before, told my parents that it would remain stable. When I was 17, I was facing the inability to hear the notes clearly, so much repressed anger (which led to untreated depression), and yet even more instability in my family. In addition, Mama Jackie was facing some personal challenges in her own family which meant that she had to give up teaching for a spell. All of these things created a perfect storm which meant that I had to give up piano once more. For years after that, every time I saw a piano, I was filled with equal parts remorse, anger, longing, regret, and hopelessness. For me, it wasn’t just a piano. It was a symbol of what I’d lost as a teenager, a symbol of the lost, lonely young man that I felt no one saw or understood. It was a symbol of something I felt I could never achieve. 

During my freshman year of college, my parents moved yet again. This time their move led them out of state. It’s laughably funny, but when you think of kids going off to college, you think of the kids flying the nest and branching out on their own. In my situation, it was quite the opposite. I was already in school and didn’t have it in me to move yet again. I certainly did not want to go to college in Louisiana closer to my folks. So I stayed behind and my family left me. I actually lived with Mama Jackie and her husband for about 6 months until I got my own place and caught my stride. I will forever be grateful to them for that blessing. 

During my senior year of high school, my hearing had nearly completely vanished. That was a scary and frustrating time that I’d rather not remember. When I was a sophomore in college, I had surgery to bring back some of my hearing and the next few years were filled with the challenges of not only completing college, but also simultaneously learning to hear and speak correctly again. During this time, I met my lovely wife, who has been with me ever since (22 years now). In between starting my career after college, moving to Arizona for a stint, then back to Mississippi, getting married, and settling down to raise my son, and going through graduate school not once, but two times, playing the piano was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, subconsciously, it was the closest thing to my mind the the nearest thing to my heart. Deep down, I always had a longing to play again, but the constant fear of failure kept that from ever becoming a reality. 

A few years ago, I found an older 61 key Yamaha synthesizer from the late 1990’s, and purchased it from an older gentleman simply because it reminded me of the one I played on in my youth. Last year, the music department at the college where I work was liquidating two of their older Roland digital pianos, to replace them with newer models. I bought one for pennies on the dollar and dragged it home in the back of my buddy’s truck, much to the dismay of my wife. I bought it simply because it reminded me of the one Mama Jackie had in her piano studio.

 

I saw Mama Jackie a few times after moving away from Petal and graduating college. I kept up with her regularly on social media and via text. She was an incredible lady that touched so many lives including mine. Sadly, she experienced a good number of health issues over the last few years, even though she was my dad’s age, 71. This past February, she took a turn for the worse and unexpectedly passed away. I went to her memorial service, which required me to return to a place I said I would never go back to for the rest of my life. Hearing story after story of how Mama Jackie had touched so many lives, and hearing so much piano playing (and singing) in her honor touched something and sparked something inside of me; something that had been long dormant. 

For several years now, I have said I was going to pick up where I left off with piano all those years ago. Every year, I’ve made excuses for why I couldn’t. I’m too old. I’m too busy. I will never be good. I don’t have the time. It’s pointless…and so forth. After bringing the Roland home, I sat down and dabbled a little while playing it. The video I included at the top of this post is just an improvisation piece I recorded one Sunday morning this past February, while thinking about Mama Jackie and what she had meant to me in my life. 

Our church pianist is a retired music professor who is very proficient on the piano and the organ. She is a sweet lady who is very kind and she teaches piano in her studio, the Clinton Music Conservatory. A while back, she added me as a friend on social media, and earlier this summer, she announced that she would be starting summer lessons at her home beginning in June. On a whim, I approached her one Sunday in church and expressed my desire to resume my studies, despite the fact that I had not played the piano or opened up a piano book since Bill Clinton was in office! She agreed to teach me, and thus began the continuation of my journey in June of this year.

Today, I’m nearly 45 years old. I’m not a young man any more, and my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. I don’t have any desire to be a concert pianist, a church pianist, or the next Beethoven. In fact, I know I will never be any of those things. But I am playing again. Not for anyone, but myself. And it makes me happy. It’s my therapy. It’s like coming home. Committing 45 minutes to an hour each day of practice is a daunting task, but this time it’s different…I can’t get enough of it.  Learning piano again is like drinking water from a literal fire hydrant. It’s overwhelming. It’s like continuing to learn a foreign language you gave up speaking when you were still in high school. But it’s exhilarating, it’s invigorating, and it’s challenging me to no end. And this time it’s different. I’m an adult, and I want this like I've wanted few other things in life. I'm doing this for no one but myself. The fire hydrant continues to gush, but I’m thirsty and I’m soaking in as much as I can as fast as I can. Dr. Wilder is a good teacher, and very patient. 

For me, it’s not just a piano, and nor are these just musical notes that I'm playing. It’s the 45 year old me traveling back in time, to a place in life where I can reconnect with the teenage version of me; I needed to find him and tell him it will be OK. It’s not just a piano, it’s re-discovering what was lost. With each chord I learn and play, I'm one step closer to him. It’s reconnecting with a part of me that I have been unable to reach for so long. You’re never too old to learn or to travel back and find the younger version of yourself and learn to love him. As long as you have breath, you’re never too old. 

Today, I challenge you, much as I have challenged myself, to go back and find whatever it is that you lost in your life. To reconnect and rediscover the younger you that was lost, and for the older you to be able to tell him “It’s OK, we will continue this journey together.” I know Mama Jackie is smiling at me. Even if I never play for anyone else, that’s OK. I have all I need right in front me; just me and my piano. 

Just remember that I, oh I am always near,
You just have to reach deep into your heart
But for now, you just dry your tears, don't you ever fear
Just sit awhile and play your song in the night

Come, just sit with me awhile, for I will make you smile
As we play our songs together in the night
You just call out to me and there will be no more tears
We'll just sit here together awhile
Come, let's just sit together awhile…

(excerpt from “Songs in the Night” © Stephen Coleman)

Experiencing Matriarchal Disrespect? Consider Sending A Measured Response (& Don't Back Down)

When my oldest daughter was an infant (she's 22 now), I wrote a letter to my mother letting her know how disrespected (by her) I'd felt as a new dad.  There'd been an incident at my parents' abode.  My wife and I had brought my parents first grandchild (my now 22-year-old) over for a visit, and it was during this after church lunch that a statement was made (by my mom, directed at me).  Her off-the-cuff adjudication was way out of line and therefore pissed me off to no end.

I had never experienced disrespect as an adult - to this degree - from my mother (I was 30 years old at the time).  Her words cut like a knife into my heart, especially so knowing they were said amongst the entire fam.

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I vividly remember how terrified I was to confront my mom regarding this.  For I knew her well enough to know that she would refuse to concede, and thereby quickly (& very easily) pull my father into the mix (posturing).  And from what I recall, that did occur.  I heard from him not long after the letter was mailed in an attempt to convince me that I'd stepped way out of line by sending it. 

Whilst looking back, I'm so glad I chose to put my thoughts & feelings in writing to her versus attempting to '"talk it out".  For neither of my parents (back then) were at all experienced listeners (able to listen sans becoming emotionally charged).

As punishment for speaking up / standing my ground, my mother shunned me for 3-4 months.  She refused to look at me or even acknowledge my presence whilst in the same room.  Oftentimes, when we were within close proximity (sitting adjacent to each other in church, etc.), she'd quietly weep.

As this ridiculously juvenile behavior of Her's drug on, I became more and more certain that I'd done the right thing.

Eventually, she apologized (in writing) to me for what she'd said to me months prior.  

From what I recall, she dropped a letter off at the architecture firm I was employed at.  This was a pleasant surprise.  From there, she returned to behaving normally around me.

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There's nothing more important to men than respect, but it's especially important therein when new territory is being charted (life circumstances).  

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Ever since late 2013, I've been working alongside my parents within their small business.  In fact, a few years back, I actually purchased said business from them (they still work most days within our shared office space).  As such, my relationship with my mom has flourished due to the fact that we work really, really well together both respecting each other equally.

Nonetheless, a few weeks back, I once again found myself having to stand up for myself / my family, and yet again, it ultimately had to do with her disrespecting / mistreating me with her words.  But this time, she wasn't unfairly judging / shaming me as a father.  Instead, she was overstepping by sharing intimate details regarding her ongoing tumultuous relationship with her oldest brother (who's my 93-year-old grandmother's primary caregiver).  

As such, this ultimately led to me demanding some physical distance between my uncle and my family (wife / daughters) versus simply continuing forward with the status quo (as if nothing physically threatening had ever happened between him & my mom).    

Disappointedly, my mother (& father) is using the exact same reactionary techniques as she did 22 years ago when I stood my ground then.  It's like déjà vu.    

What's sad to me - primarily - this time around is the fact that these folks are in their early 70s.  As such, time is of essence (precious), taking their ages into consideration.

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Have you heard the adage, "When momma's not happy, nobody's happy?"  It's sort of a cutesy saying 'till you've lived it.    

That First Foray Into The Notion Of The Supernatural

This post is going to address the specific entertainment culture of the '70s by allowing my memories (& amateur commentary) regarding television to narrate therein.   

If you were to turn back the clock to 1980, I would be 7 - 8 years old.  At that time, there were three broadcast TV networks.  CATV was just beginning to gain traction, but it wouldn't be 'till 4-6 years later that it became the de facto means to receive TV programming within the home (& thereby immediately expanding the number of / clarity therein of available channels).  Hence, over-the-air ABC, NBC & CBS (along with PBS) served up the American people with the only TV programming available, all of which was clearly time-slotted via age-propriety (& interestingly enough, there was typically no programming broadcast at all from midnight to 5 AM).  

Revenue garnered to these three networks was dependent on viewership.  How?  The higher the viewership, the more the networks could charge for advertising time (TV commercials).  Blue chip companies, in particular, relied on TV advertising's powerful influence on the American consumer to drive revenue. 

Keep in mind that EVERYONE watched TV during this era.  Especially primetime TV broadcasting.  Why?  The broadcast content was very entertaining (mostly via novelty), and it was "free".  Whether it was comedy, drama (soaps), sports or news, broadcast TV was the GO-TO solution.

As such, networks knew a lot of $$$ could be made not only from (qualified) high viewership numbers, but too, the demographic the TV programming was aimed towards (preferably white people with disposable incomes).  Combined, these two guaranteed advertising "real estate" that was priced at a premium.    

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The 1970s ushered in the era of supernatural horror, and this coalescence with pop culture paralleled our taste for music (heavy metal) as well as the slow embrace of / interest in all things pagan. 

As such, the '70s landed such film spectacles as The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror.  Even The Omen experienced deep seated cultural traction (that's still intact) as Americans tepidly (but reverently) filled the cinema seats en masse (from one end of the country to the other).  Young Americans, in particular, dominated ticket sales.  For these films (regarding their subject matter) were considered spectacle events and therefore were MUST SEE.  

The producers / directors / screenwriters of these supernatural horror classics were very rare finds.  To be adept at capturing the tone needed to terrify audiences took precise skill.  Otherwise, missing the mark by simply one degree may very well relegate a huge studio investment as derivative camp.  Therefore, despite the seismic cultural / monetary impact, sequels / franchise continuity were almost always massive failures.  Studios therefore eventually turned to new, more novel material.  And none other than a young, myopic fiction author, Stephen King (he was around 33-years old at the time), caught the attention of many a network executive.  

At this time, King's fanbase was blossoming despite the fact that his books were very lengthy.  This meant his stories played out slowly, allowing suspense, creepiness & dread to build chapter by chapter.  Plus, in order to enjoy his stories, you ACTUALLY HAD TO READ THEM.  Therefore, a certain level of intelligence / education was required of his audience.

Also, his horror stories were centered more on mood / tone and therefore tension versus standard tropes such as brutal murder / Satan's playground - ramped up exponentially for maximum shock value.

Besides, once the three aforementioned films were released, they instantly became milestones within our then cultural zeitgeist, and as you know, milestones are often touted - out of respect - but rarely truly lovingly revisited (thanks to their spent ambitions).

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Enter 'Salem's Lot.  This was King's second novel.  And it was perfectly written in light of TV's reach and ritual respect - at the time - within the American household.

'Salem's Lot did have one direct connection to the three aforementioned '70s horror milestones, and that was its focus on victimizing children.  Whether they were teens or elementary age, child characters were integral to the story.  Hence, whilst screening the 2-part TV movie version therein, viewers of all ages (late November of 1980) were horror-mesmerized by the shattered innocence integrated throughout the gratuitous content.  

In summary, the story of 'Salem's Lot is one of covert exploitation via an unassumingly viral-like exchange, leaving its assaulted victims enslaved to the MO of the initial host / infector (a small-town interloper).  That antagonist isn't revealed but for a very short stint (90-seconds total within the tail end of the TV movie), but alas, this / these brief scenes gave the audience sufficient shock to involuntarily empty their bladders with.

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Now let me remind you, once again, that I was around 7-years old in late November 1980 when 'Salem's Lot was broadcast (Saturday at 8 PM CST).  Because it was two parts, the network used two subsequent weekend time slots to cash in.  

I wasn't reared by parents who were all that more mature than your average teenager.  And this was due to their youth (they were in their late teens when they had Rob).  Plus, they'd both been reared in rural MS (my mother grew up impoverished).  Finally, neither had any real understanding of Scripture (my mother could barely read at this point).  And as a result, neither did I.

As such, watching network TV was THE ABSOLUTE Turner afternoon / evening centerpiece - no matter what day / night of the week it was.  I can remember vividly the "TV Guide" magazine always being prominently displayed on top of the stained walnut coffee table in our den.  But I digress...

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I've always been a highly visual male.  It's one of the primary motivators for me pursuing the career of architecture.  As such, certain TV / film programming, especially during my childhood, had a profound impact on my developing brain.

'Salem's Lot's narrative firmly planted the idea of being cursed and therefore recognizing one's inability to escape a certain dark fate, and in turn, sympathizing with the horror of watching those you care / love haplessly perish.  If you've ever read Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, you see the exact same theme except there it plays out within distinct waves.  

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When I look back on my life, I credit the gospel firstly with upending my cursed outlook, and from there, it was my wife.

Now, let me expound on the former.

When I reference the gospel, I'm referring mostly to the gospel lived out.  Demonstrated.  And mostly, of course, in and through adults that were either paid to or genuinely (or some combination of the two) cared for Rob.  If I were forced to list those, it would take pages and pages.  This is my good fortune.  I saw Christ in these supporting characters, and this powerfully drew me in.

My wife though is a whole different story.  For she willingly loved / loves me.  And this truly detonated a path forward for me that dismantled completely any musty misgivings of cursed(ness).  I could never disavow / discount owning her gaze and allegiance and perpetual trust.  This served as a powerful reminder of God's love for me.

For I'm telling you, I knew even as a small child that Satan was real and that he was intent on taking me down.  How did I know this?  Mostly through dreams but also via what always felt like the makeshiftedness of my 3-person family.  A family that put so much of its faith (like so many others of this era) in the ongoing cultural novelty of the status quo.  For I knew that video entertainment wasn't anything more than such, but it was its influence (on my young brain) that was lost on me as to how best to manage.  

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So here we are.  Fall of 2024.  A lot of time has passed since 1980.  

'Salem's Lot will very soon be released as a feature film.  On TV, no doubt.  I've watched the trailer dozens of times and even gone back to YouTube to watch fanatical pieces pertaining to the original 1980 TV production.  

As a result, my 7-year-old self has been stirring deep within the recesses of my grey matter.

And it's been so very emotive and opportunistic in terms of truly sitting with my boyhood self.  

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A few weeks back, I screened a horror film with my middle school daughter (who also is a highly visual person).  And just so you know, the film is a courtroom drama firstly (this child has a noteworthy interest in the practice of law).  Hence, my justification.  

But it is a very disturbing film (as all great horror films are).

So disturbing in fact that she slept with me afterwards (& we only screened the first 50 minutes).  

But, as you know, there's a big difference in age 7 and 14.  Nonetheless, we spent (& have continued to spend) mucho time discussing said film (at least the portion we've watched) in anticipation of finishing it off.  

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Evil exists.  Humanity truly is cursed.  Our comprehension of secure shelter for ourselves is misguided.  This world of woe is overseen by Lucifer.  Those are genuinely frightening truths.  Especially to helpless children.

But...

There's an assemblage of humanity that's been predestined to survive this wretched curse.  But not by our wits or sacrifice or resistance.  By favor.

For though evil is manifest, God is ineffable, and his propinquity is not unlike the very air we breathe.  

In closing, as young King David boasted about in 1 Samuel, our God is living.  

Vampires, in so many ways, depict Satan almost too well.  As the undead who feast on the hapless living for survival, their very existence is cursed.  

There's one misgiving though regarding this analogy.  Children get a pass 'till they're mature enough to be considered accountable to an understanding of the gospel.  Picture a lei of garlic cloves hanging 'round their necks as a sign of their judgement day immaturity.  Perhaps that's why these tales are all that more harrowing.       

Most Of My Hair Is Silver Now

The house I grew up in in Madison, back in the '80s, was a typical ranch house.  After my parents had a small addition constructed (FL / sunroom), it amounted to +/-1,800 sf.  A quirk of this house was that the garage flooded (even with the garage door closed) during a deluge.  I remember having to "sweep out the garage" immediately following these rainstorms.  There was always either a push or corn broom on hand for this task.  But even then, the concrete garage floor would remain saturated / puddled, thereby making traversing throughout a slippery affair.  And if it was mild weather, this dampness would remain for days. 

When my parents sold this house (1990 - my freshman year at MSU) in order to move into a rental ('till their newly constructed home was finished), I wonder if they disclosed this quirk.  For they never made any effort to remedy it.  It was just one of those nuisances that we lived with throughout our time there.

Today, when you attempt to sell a home, disclosures are expected.  For every house has its quirks.  I remember populating my mother-in-law's disclosure statement for the home she sold a few years back.  It was multiple pages of Q & A with sizable legal warnings throughout threatening legal action if the document wasn't ENTIRELY FORTHCOMING.

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My oldest friend's wife is morbidly obese.  She's always been overweight, but over the past 3-4 years, she's gained more and more pounds.  Now it's to the point (for those of us who've known her for decades) of the inevitable shock (especially considering their Xmas photo card).   

She's also a heavy, heavy social media user (political commentary).

When I last spoke to my friend, his wife was unemployed, having been laid off from her job.  He mentioned a job prospect she was pursuing that would title her "Admin Assistant" for a consulting engineering firm.  This position was in line with much of her resume.

I asked him to let me know if she received an expected offer.

I haven't heard back from him since then.

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I was convicted early on within my life that "letting one's hair down" always came with a cost (physical appearance / words).  And most of the time that cost (for me at least) was risking offense and, in turn, the due penalty (some semblance of rejection).  Therefore, I'm constantly weighing risk versus reward herein.  And, I believe, that's a worthwhile exercise to be tasked with.  It strengthens emotional muscle which promotes / endorses maturity.  

It's one of the main reasons I enjoy writing publicly on this blog as well as my former blog.

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Earlier this week, I had an opportunity to say "hello" to a cousin whilst meeting with a longstanding business owner client (my cousin happens to work there).  He was shocked to see me.  This made the rendezvous all that more special.

My personal blog, "The Architect's Garage", that was deleted in September of '13, was a combination of video / text posts that spanned +/-5 years.  There was a naivety there.  I'd go so far as to say an emotional immaturity.  I posted thoughts and feelings that were deeply revealing within that blog.  Especially as it pertained to my dad / our relationship when I was a child.  As such, it reflected exactly where I was for such a time as that.

This aforementioned cousin was offended enough by those posts to alert his father (my dad's youngest brother, who he loved dearly).  And though the blog had long since been deleted when I came to be made aware of this squeal, I felt something that I'd never felt before as it pertained to my family.

Seen and somewhat known.  It represented an incredible leveling up for me.  For it was the first time someone (within my Turner extended family) actually had the opportunity to pay attention to the Rob that I truly was / had been.

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There are folks who live to be spotlit.  I believe my friend's wife falls into that category.  Her physical self is a mirror to her online one.  

There are others who are required (at times) to be in the spotlight.  For it's the only way they can make sense of the world they're faced with.  Especially regarding those who just might take the time to read the entire disclosure.  

I am so looking forward to seeing my cousin again soon. 

Time's Up

I believe it's important to address my marriage within my writings, but over the years, I've admittedly gone back and deleted numerous posts related to the familial struggles (her family) my sweet wife (& I) has had to endure throughout the course of our 28-year betrothal.  These struggles I've observed mostly as an onlooker, and though my relationship with my parents has certainly not been ideal (whose is?), their overall mental health / stability has been such the positive contrast to what my in-laws brought to the table.  These aforementioned (long since deleted) posts of mine were driven by heady emotion.  Feelings of betrayal and mistrust, disingenuousness and spite were the absolute catalyst behind those writings.  Thankfully, it didn't take me long to realize the inappropriateness of positioning / publishing them here.

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Before the end of August 2024, my mother-in-law will be institutionalized. She's been living in a super deluxe congregate housing for the elderly (2-bedroom apartment) for the past two years, but now she's become unable to care for herself.  This course of action is inevitable as it pertains to how she's envisioned herself (& subsequently planned for) at this stage of her life.

"Assisted living", as it's dubbed, is within the same complex where she presently resides, therefore logistically, this move will be a cinch.

But my mother-in-law knows that she'll lose her independence the moment she's admitted, and from there, will never regain it.  And primarily, this has to do with her medicated state.  For one of the primary identifiers of "assisted living", first and foremost, has to do with the administering of meds (many of which are psychotropic) via 24/7 nursing staff.  

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Angie's dad has been dead for +/-6 years.  The last few decades of his life were very low quality due to his chronic health issues.  As such, throughout the majority of our 28 years of marriage, he was disabled to the degree that he was unable to drive a car.  This combined with mental health issues (general anxiety disorder / depression) crippled an already diminishing individual.

Angie's parents, like mine, are within the Jackson Metro, therefore we have, over the years, engaged regularly with them, though looking back, it was mostly in light of their (primarily Angie's dad) desire to see their grandchildren (our three daughters).  Now that two of these are college-age, and Bob is long since dead, any engagement with Angie's mother is out of pure Christian benevolence, and man oh man, has my sweet wife doled out some kind of pure Christian benevolence.

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Prior to Angie's mother moving into her apartment, her abode of 40+ years had to be prepared for sale.  Angie and I stepped up and saw that entire 1.5-year process through to the end.

Now, here we are.  Time's up.  Independence is slip, slip, slipping away by the minute.  Congregate housing for the elderly is going by the wayside.

What's sad is how there's been no attempt on my mother-in-law's part to ask forgiveness for all the pain she's inflicted on Angie throughout her life.  Nor has she thanked her daughter for her resolve in consistently caring for her mom.

As such, very soon, with the degree of meds that'll be needed to emotionally lobotomize her (in light of her being forced into "assisted living"), Edie will be no more.  For her mind will be mush in preparation for her Final Destination.

Time's up.

Lagniappe

Utilizing Unresolved Familial Baggage To Perpetuate / Justify A Rudderless Life / Existence (With Much Rubble By The Wayside). Recognizing How Easy It Is To Establish An Identity For Identity's Sake.

Growing up Southern Baptist, I recall vividly (as a teen) one particular pastor chiding us parishioners (First Baptist Church Jackson) from the pulpit with, "Do you know that you know that you know?" 

He was referring / speaking to what he considered to be the Christian imposters, sitting there amongst the throngs (or perhaps the Christian amnesiacs?).

It was a question that was laser-focused on his listeners' personal profession of faith, but via wordy distortion, it instead landed underneath the umbrella of emotional petulance (angst).  And as a result, most every mature adult (had they been honest) simply wished to stand up and walk out due to how patronizing (& cultish) it sounded. 

I believe it's important to note that this nagging orator not at all looked the part of Southern Baptist pastor.  And I recall distinctly that his voice was incredibly baritone and therefore rich (& chocolatey)-sounding.  Perhaps that was what served to soft-land his stupid pitch?  For this repetitive verbiage was his mantra.  No matter the sermon, it would be repeated ad nauseum (mostly at the tail end prior to the altar call). 

In a nutshell, whilst looking back, this pastor had a distinctly inaccurate view of our Heavenly Father that he'd perpetuated in line with his own identity.  In short, I have to assume that he felt that it suited him specifically, therefore he allowed its credence to shape / instruct / inform who he was outright as a preacher man.  As a result, this distortion resulted in his reliably odorous pulpit delivery.

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Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye.

There are a lot of low intelligence individuals in Mississippi.  I've said this before.  

Here's the sad truth:

Low intelligence folks are hard pressed to live their lives beneath the banner of delayed gratification.  This combined with the inability to analyze their familial history / narrative constructively (if at all), leaves them like cultural "sitting ducks".

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Okay, having written those two sections, I'm going to attempt to tie all this in a neat bow by focusing on the sometimes-difficult coupling between both of these: delayed gratification and analytical skills (assuming moderate to above-average intelligence).  From there, I want to explain what I sometime see happening when we allow our fundamental desire for a stark / distinct / foundational identity to take precedent over process.

If you're a southern boy in lieu of a Midwesterner or out-westerner, community standards aren't going to scream ONLY EXCELLENCE RESIDES HERE.  That "low bar" combined with haphazardly "knowing" how to analyze versus taking the needed time to do so (well / thoroughly), can result in an identity that's an identity for identity's sake.  As a result, I would argue, individuals end up much worse off - in the long run - cross eyed.  

And this is because those identities are false.  And yes, even if they're off by just one degree, they're still false.

The preacher / evangelist I cited earlier had an identity rooted in a Jesus that simply wasn't the Jesus of Scripture.  Yet, he pressed on with his dumbass message in light of the obvious, all the while confusing / frustrating the masses every time he opened his big mouth (in spite of that rich voice).  

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There are plenty of teens who stay frustrated with their family of origin.  And oftentimes, this frustration is justifiable.  Families aren't perfect.  They disappoint.  They fall short.  Sometimes they do terrible things that result in tremendous hurt to the everyone (w/ the concentrated hurt falling on the children).  

And none of this should be ignored.

But if an adult child has the intelligence to respectfully / historically analyze (perhaps with some therapeutic assist), having lived through it, I would argue that in due time (sometimes taking FAR LONGER than one cares to commit to), clarity can be had.  

Answers to questions such as:

-  Who exactly are my individual family members?

-  Who were those who influenced them?

-  What role did I play within the family dynamic?

-  How will the answers to the first three questions within this list play a role in my own identity?

-  How do I see myself, going forward, as I continue to mature forward into adulthood?

-  What can my family look like in spite of my upbringing?

These are a great analytical jumping off point.    

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I look at friends of mine who've established a false identity (for identity's sake), and I so often cringe at the informalness (not at all striving for excellence) approach to living out (a portion of, if not most of) their lives.  

And this approach can, depending on the individual, perhaps only "infect" certain areas of their identity.  Maybe it's their job or their relationship with their spouse that's at the mercy of this biased (false identity) approach. 

Speaking personally, I believe I've been able to spot this approach with ease due to a deceased uncle's tragic legacy within my own family.    

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How do you know if you fall into this camp (harboring an identity for identity's sake)?

I have to believe that (taking into account those of us who're blessed with ample grey matter) it's not genuinely satisfying to live a life that's half baked.  Just as it's never going to be permanently affecting preaching a gospel that's distorted and pushy. 

And I realize that some individuals simply refuse to fully process the tremendous hurt they experienced as children, therefore they rebelliously build their identity on that shaky void.

Nonetheless, it's foolish for anyone with half a brain (& an assumed healthy mental state) to buy into this half-assed, discounted settling.  For it's a settling that perpetuates generational failing forward.  

Remember, you can't hide true intelligence.  Therefore, if you're a Christian as well, and fall into this camp, I would argue that in many ways, you're actually worshiping an internal idol.  An idol of false identity that likely moved in during a season of your development (adolescence?) where it's tangibleness seemed to do far more regarding your need to heal than it actually was / ever could.  

Be encouraged to evict it today and seek out the help you need to do the necessary analytical work to find your true identity (in Christ).  And please, for goodness' sake, be patient with the process.  

You will get there eventually.  And perhaps Samson Society can help.

Lagniappe

Resist Being Relationally Territorial Within Samson Society. Remember, You're Only "Brothers" In Concept Alone. Nonetheless, Never Stop Considering The Relational "What If?"

Being an only child helps me in this regard.  I've no siblings to mar my relational outlook.  

What I mean by that is, (as a child) I always had to placate myself to the expectation that any and all friendships would be unpredictable / nonpermanent.  This point of view allowed me to stay hopeful, putting more energy towards the "What If?" versus the "Please don't leave me!".

(For I desperately needed friends.)

How did I do this?

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My favorite rock band throughout my childhood was Heart.  Had the two female band members not been sisters, I doubt the allure would have been nearly as strong.  Through Ann and Nancy, I vicariously enjoyed having / observing a sibling(s).  

What was so obvious to me about these two was the "order of operation" baked into the relationship.  Now, for those of you who know Heart well, you're privy to the fact that Ann wasn't the oldest child within the family.  There was an older sister still who just happened to not be a musician.  But if you know anything about these two rock 'n roll superstars, there's a definitive hierarchy combined with a steadfast, implicit value anchorage.  

In essence, Ann Wilson was the lead, and both sisters recognized the fact that they were far more valuable as a pairing than individually.

Both Ann and Nancy Wilson have recorded solo work.  In fact, Ann did so firstly by agreeing to perform within a rock duet (movie soundtrack from the mid '80s).  Eventually, Nancy did the same, though her efforts felt much more unsyncopated (in spite of the song's airplay) / unnecessary.    

When both sisters partner as song composers, they credit a pseudonym, "Connie" within the liner notes.  I've always like this.  It implies the seamlessness between the two, both carrying equal weight.  And that's cool.

In the not-too-distant past, Ann and Nancy Wilson had a public falling out.  This resulted in both women rocking (recording / touring) separately for a season.  Now they've made up and are once again together as if it never occurred.  

Why?

Because they're family.  As such, there's simply too much historical alikeness / sensibilities to not effectively keep them together.  

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I'm leery of friendships within this community that feel contrived.  I've been down that road with Samson brothers who're interested in befriending me, having received no indicators that I feel the same.  

Taking risks for Rob = feeling masculine.

This is my / many men's secret sauce pertaining to acting on the "What if?".

Personally, I especially like strong intelligence, but the rarefied attraction between two potential brothers involves identifying and acknowledging (being sympathetic to) his zone.  And doing so in a way that solidifies his trust in you / your trust in him.  This acknowledging will undoubtedly take creativity and a whole lot of deliberateness.

His / your zone = Whatever keeps a man up at night

Maybe it's work or children or his / your health (recovery?).  Whatever it is, if you / he can find a means to support him / you therein, doing so creatively and very intentionally, he's / you're demonstrating two things.

Firstly, your understanding of who you are / he is.  Secondly, your / his willingness to do the work needed to be "brotherly" in that regard.  

Ann Wilson loved music well before starting her band.  Not long after, Nancy joined too, bringing her guitar-playing skillset, songwriting ability, but mostly, she brought her willingness to support sis within an endeavor / "zone" that was no doubt her first love.  

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In closing, Heart's success as a rock band went into stratosphere during the MTV era of the 1980s.  And much of that had to do with the production team they agreed to work with.  A team that understood the era / cultural impact of music video production and how integral it was becoming to influence fandom (drive record sales / airplay).

Putting the dolled-up sisters on display, never too far from one another onscreen, did wonders to intrigue audiences (me).  For not only did they look similar, but there was simply a sibling rapport that was unmistakable.  Not to mention the fact that they were a lot easier on the eyes than Eddie & Alex or Chris & Rich.

Decades of time together, supporting / showing love whilst making entertaining music for all of us to enjoy = success all around. 

Your close brotherly friendships within Samson Society should be just as celebrated.  For they're no doubt similarly influential / entertaining to observe (despite the differences in last names).

Either Remove Yourself From The "Handful" Or HOLD ON 'Till Opportunity Presents Itself To

 

This thought-provoking illustration could easily be a reference piece of an imaginative Hollywood screenwriter.  Perhaps he / she's dreaming up yet another misunderstood villain (antihero?) for us his purported audience to love / hate.  

Think of the Beth Dutton, JR Ewing, Brenda Walshes specifically, and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

They're a lot more interesting to watch than Fred Rogers, aren't they?

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Television characters must exist on a disproportioned spectrum of reality.  This is an outgrowth of theater where everything must be larger-than-life to truly be entertaining / keep the audience's attention.

But what gives when you find yourself living alongside one (or more) of these?  Where do you go from there?

You know the answer to that one.  Get the hell out of dodge.

Let's discuss the harder part of this equation.  Preparing yourself to face these folks.  Identification is key.

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My closest female friend in high school, Shannon, was one year my senior.  She was very mature for her age and quite the contrarian when it came to both her style and interests.  Shannon came from an upper-class family whereas I was very much middle-class.  Her (Golden State) mother had remarried her attorney (Magnolia State) father after losing her first husband (Navy sailor) in a tragic submarine vanish.  Both Shannon and her younger brother came from that second betrothal.  This now blended family (her mother had birthed two daughters from her first husband) was one I always found intriguing to hang with as a teen for they were SO VERY unlike any other family I was close to.  

And that unlikeness was spearheaded by Shannon's mom.  A typical Mississippi suburban mom of the 1980s she was most definitely not.  It was always a bit intimidating engaging with Jolene, even in passing (& I was by no means a shy teen).  She was so intelligent, opinionated and articulate.  The complete opposite of the familiar folksy, sweet and cornpone.

But I digress...

Shannon had an admirer who was two (or maybe three) years her junior at our small private academy.  This younger girl was also in the marching band with Shannon (& I) even though she was only in middle school at the time.  

It became immediately apparent to everyone that this young admirer was not at all well as it pertained to her admiration (obsession) of Shannon.  For her behavior towards herself, Shannon and everyone else became unusually out of character for a middle-school girl.  

How Shannon coolly handled this younger girl was absolutely empowering to witness.  It was as if my friend literally had been born to navigate the relational dangers / complexities she'd found herself now saddled with.  

I still look back on that with intrigue (as well as heartache).  In the end, the younger girl was removed from school and institutionalized.  Post release, she thankfully didn't return ot our small school.  Nevertheless, I admired Shannon that much more for what she'd endured and modeled with such civility / compassion towards this junior (high) admirer.  

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Shannon immediately identified her relationship with this younger girl as problematic.  Especially so considering her somewhat "forced proximity" to her (fellow schoolmate / marching band member).  From there, she did everything she could to shield herself from the girl.  Much of her strategy consisted of fencing herself in via healthy, supportive friends.  

But firstly, the miracle herein was her deep-seated sense of self protection versus what you might typically see from a female teen (manipulation, harassment, pandering, entitlement) who was the subject of said emotional (& eventually physical) stalking.  

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Your well-being matters firstly.  Even when you're tempted to compromise that in return for some prospective future reward / promotion / solidification / gratification.  It's important to remember that.  No matter the "rank" / position of family / friends / employers / leaders within your sphere of influence (or theirs), the most important consideration is your health firstly.  For you cannot walk back stupid.  For stupid is a past tense verb. 

In closing, if it's not feasible to physically fence yourself in with healthier relations in light of the unhealthy influence, take the time to do so with God's spirit BEFORE engaging with the "handful".  You most certainly can figuratively get the hell out of dodge via the Lord blanketing you throughout.  Bank on that, don't lose hope.       

Discovery / Narrative, Arousal = Architecture Of Sexuality VS. Longings / Triggers, Fetishes = Mobile Homes Of Lust

"I don't know much about art, but I know what I like."  [This is horseshit.]

Architecture, by definition, wouldn't exist were it not for critics.  Critics use their fine-tuned, scholarly adjudication skillset and from there, communicate to the masses what and why a building qualifies as architecture.  And they do this as an outpouring of their zeal for standout, outstandingly designed buildings.  Buildings which seemingly capture volumetric space in a masterful way (architect = master builder).

A worthwhile architectural critic, by definition, is exceedingly knowledgeable of their subject.  It's this knowledge that allows their critique to carry so much weight.

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Guys who find themselves within Samson Society typically fall into the category of sexuality aficionados.  I would argue many of these men entered into crisis (pre-Samson Society) of some sort due to their individual passion for sex colliding with their (in very simplified terms) longstanding / life-long isolated state (inability to find helpful knowledge / understanding therein).  

Religion undoubtedly can play a role in this cataclysm (the majority of Samson guys are Christians).  As such, I would argue that this then knowledge / understanding vacuum will occur alongside the false accusation that "No one else within the church is experiencing nor is as interested in sexuality as you are...FrEaK".  [This too is horseshit.]

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Porn, phone sex, hook-up & circle jerk roulette sites all provide pitifully unreliable information regarding sex, yet it's devoured by these men. Why?  Ease of private accessibility.  Too, (if they choose to take this step) transactional sexual relations (strip clubs, massage parlors, prostitution) further their woefully biased / distorted thinking.  Why?  Ease of private accessibility. 

And all of this internalization of such their favorite topic eventually manifests ruts within their minds.  Call them fetishes or triggers.  They're deep valleys within their grey matter equating to salacious comfort food of the ultra-processed Wal-Mart impulse-buy caliber.  

Hence, it's cheap, deadly fare.  Would you choose to dine out of a trash heap for each and every meal?  It's important to remember that although this is the least healthy means to find caloric sustenance, it's still sustenance.

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There has to be a healthy way for men - who're like us - to gain needed knowledge regarding sexuality in line with their individual discovery / narrative leading towards arousal.  

Now, what am I referring to when I say, "men like us"?  Go back to what I wrote earlier within this post.  

I'm referring to men who're passionate about sex and therefore deliberately ruminate on it.  Within the same vein as guys who're similarly passionate about other topics of interest such as cars, hunting, video games and so forth.  

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To become an architect, one must be taught via schooling then internship.  That, combined with the assumed extensive knowledge relative to building construction, go hand in hand.  But first & foremost, the individual must be a built-environment aficionado.  Otherwise, there's no zeal to motivate / discipline the man through the maturation process of learning.  

It's an arduous process that's not for the faint of heart.  Requiring time, dedication and a willingness to develop one's own rudimentary beliefs / narrative (ability to see) whilst embracing the high standards of qualified architectural design. 

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Where are plenty of men who've mastered their sexuality / sexual narrative, therefore what exactly should they be doing for the young men within the church / Christian circles who're secret sexual aficionados - perhaps as they too may be?

How do these young sexual aficionados reveal themselves to potential trusted mentors who've clearly mastered their sexuality / sexual narrative?

What exactly does that mentorship look like between this older and younger man?  How much of it is executed via example / posture versus specific instruction?

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At our church, besides the youth pastor, there's typically both a male and female youth intern.  Think of these co-ed interns as assistant youth pastors.  One of our recent (he's since moved away / out of that position) male youth interns took two teenage brothers under his noble wing.  These young men came from a less than ideal familial setup, but both of them were respectfully close (to each other) in line with their dedication to our church's youth program.  Independent, confident, physically impressive, demure.  These were all descriptors perfectly suited to these young men. 

Because of these boys' unconventional family setup combined with their undeniable masculine (stoic combined with physical) presence, engaging with them could be intimidating.  Particularly considering how fiercely protective they were relative to their out-of-the-ordinary household roots. 

But this male youth intern was as equally masculine / physically impressive, and therefore not in the least dissuaded from putting in the effort needed to befriend these young men.  In fact, the running joke within the youth group was this intern could easily win the role for the next silver screen version of the renowned X-men, Wolverine (Hugh Jackman's breakout role).

So, what are the odds that one of these brothers is a sex aficionado like you and I are?  What are the odds both are, particularly considering the stress placed on them via their aforementioned unconventional familial setup?

I'd say they're pretty good odds.

The most heartfelt development regarding this tale is how this mentorship / big brother role that our church's youth intern bravely embraced ultimately wielded a romance.  A romance between (the next) Wolverine and the two brothers' older sister (she's in college).

During our Christmas Eve service, I could see (from the choir loft) Wolverine seated on the end of the pew next to his lovely significant other (the brothers' sister).  Then there was mom and dad and finally, the two brothers, on the opposite end.

It made my heart swell.

The notion that this powerfully influential mentor could potentially become these two boys' brother-in-law literally took my breath away.  How cool is that?

Most of us didn't have the experience I've described here.  No youth intern (or otherwise) mentor to come alongside us sexuality aficionados.  Nevertheless, read on.

Lagniappe

The Harsh Reality of Xmas (Re-post)

We live in a day and age of deeper and deeper still - personal lifestyle facades.  Facades that we work to constantly perfect to the point that we actually begin to believe they're our reality, and I suppose eventually a facade, if it ends up deep enough, will serve to replace reality itself.  Wait a minute, nope.  That's not possible.  Scratch that.

In the past, it was consumerism that fed this pursuit of lifestyle facade construction, but today, it's also social media and any / all forms of technology that serve to buttress our camouflage.

The end-of-the-year holiday season can serve to ramp up that work on said facades when in actuality, there's tremendous experiential pain going on behind the scenes.  I became aware of this as a teen right around this time of year when there presented itself a breach in my serendipitous reality one Xmas eve.  Read on.

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When I was a boy, my father spent Thursdays out of town (in the MS Delta) for business, and often wouldn't return home 'till late Thursday night.  On one particular Thursday night where he was absent from the homestead, my mother and I were spending the evening watching Christmas television programming in the den (or TV room).  The home in Madison I was reared within was +/-1,800 square feet, therefore like the abode I reside in today, a loud enough yell or scream would easily resonate throughout.  The den was on the east end of this ranch house with a "formal" living / dining room on the front (north side).  That "formal" room was always cordoned off since it was "reserved for social gatherings".

Our TV consumption was interrupted when we heard something that sounded like a knocking on our front door (which was only accessible through the living / dining room).  My mother noticed it first.  This motivated me to investigate.

I remember just as soon as I breached the "formal" part of our abode, I heard a very loud banging on our front door along with muffled cries from someone on the opposite side.  The solid core door had an arched glass window close to its head, but it was too tall to see out of.  Nor were there any windows within close proximity to peer through prior to opening the door.  I wasn't sure how to proceed so I hesitated.

I remember clearly the harsh white light streaming through that arched door window into the dark living / dining room.  The source of that light was the ground mounted PAR lamp out in front of our door.  This cheap lighting stunt was the typical suburban attempt to ring in the season by highlighting your home's Xmas entrance décor.  At this point in time, I found myself leaning against the back of the door attempting to hear more from the other side, wishing all the while that my father were home to handle this (more and more) frightening situation.

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So, I eventually opened the door, and what I witnessed changed my perception of Xmas forever.

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An athletically built white teenager was crouching on our stoop in obvious emotional and physical distress.  There was no doubt in my mind that he needed help, but in that moment, as we stared at one another, neither of us could even begin to fathom how best to clearly articulate anything of any substance.  Nonetheless, this strange teen he'd ended up at our door, and he looked to be on the run from something or someone.  And here I was peering out at him awestruck.

The next thing I remember was a station wagon coming to a screeching halt at the STOP sign in front of our house.  It slid to a stop due to the street being slick from an early evening rain.  When I attempted to take a closer look at it, despite the harsh glare of the floodlight, I made out the driver frantically exiting the vehicle right there in the street.  The man rushed around the back of the car before sprinting towards the teenage boy through our small front yard.

All the while, the boy was continuing to plead for help, but when he became aware of his impending doom, his pleas turned to stark panic.  At this point, time seemed to stand still, and I became frozen as I watched this bizarre scene unfold.

Within seconds, the man had the boy by the back of his coat, lifting him with ease off of our front stoop.  From there, he dragged him back to the station wagon prior to tossing him into the backseat.  The teenage boy went kicking and screaming all the way as the man repeatedly punched him in the head with his fist as he yelled obscenities at him.

Then I remember the car speeding away, but only after the man glared back at me right before opening the driver side door.  What little I could make out of his looking at me was a combination of both threat and satisfaction.

By now, my mother was also in our front room, standing silently not far behind.  From what I recall, she only witnessed what she could see from within the room itself.  Eventually, I turned back to her, and we found ourselves standing there in stunned silence for a few seconds wondering what exactly had just happened.

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This was no doubt a once in a lifetime event.  Madison, at the time, was countryside.  Few people lived there, and those that did were church-going, lower to lower-middle class folks.  Even today, I wonder why this boy picked our house to look for help, and of course, the greater question is why didn't I choose to respond in lieu of simply standing there like a pansy?  It would have been so easy to simply let him inside our house, locking the door behind us.  There was plenty of time for me to execute a rescue.

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My mother and I continued to look at each other without saying a word, and from there, both of us did the most shameful thing I care to admit to here.  We returned to the den on the east side of the house prior to locking the front door and settled back in to watching television on our 19" Toshiba CRT.  There was no telephone call to law enforcement.  No discussion regarding the incident with my father.  Nothing.  The event was treated by us as if it had actually only existed as part of our TV programming.

Why?

Because we were too busy existing within our facade, and what we had just been sucked into didn't "fit" within that artificial construct.  And this reflects perfectly of my entire growing up years and how shallow they truly were.  It was like living within a Norman Rockwell painting in so many ways.  A very deeply unoriginal Norman Rockwell painting.

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Xmas is a harsh, difficult, uncaring, brutally wicked time of year for so many folks, and all of these negative superlatives seem to only ramp up during the holidays in contrast to the traditional merrymaking.  But, this ugly truth is so often hidden from view until you have it show up on your suburban doorstep.

If this reality decrees itself within your world during this Xmas season, don't cower away as I chose to do.  Instead, come to the rescue of those in need.  Open the damn door, swing it wide, and let the suffering inside for safe keeping.  To hell with the devils of this world, but especially here at Xmas.

Even When The Glass Partition Is Removed, It Can Take A Sizable Amount Of Time To Muster The Emotional Courage To Swim Outside Of Its Familiar Boundary.

Firstly, I want to encourage you, dear reader, to take a few minutes today to memorialize (those which you can recall) the men who've advocated for you in the past.  Perhaps it was a peer or someone older / wiser, but in lieu of dismissing / looking down on you, they did the opposite.  

When I was a junior at Mississippi State ('92-'93), I once again (third year) lived within the dormitory (Evans Hall) with a potluck roommate.  This man was at least ten years my senior, having served in the military - active duty - for a number of years.  Steve was immediately identifiable as cold hearted and jaded.  He seemingly felt slighted by most everyone around him (including God).  And above all else, he loathed Christianity.  Hence, he was friendless and estranged overall from his devout family.  If I could use one modern-day phrase to describe this man, it would be slow burn.

It was via this matchup that I truly learned to lay low around another man (outside of my immediate family) for Steve made me feel anxious whilst in his presence, considering his consistently dark moods.    

Across the suite from our room was another older student, and this man too was honorably discharged active-duty military.  I recall too that throughout the majority of that year, he was without a roommate.  Potluck roommate, Steve, and this about-the-same-age man (we'll call him Frank) were friendly, and I just always assumed it was due to their shared military resumes.  

The remaining two suite dorm rooms were occupied by guys that refused to even be polite.  Inevitably, I'd run into them within the bathroom / shower at the end of the hall, but I'd might as well have been invisible.  Hence, I reflected / projected just as much indifference in response.  

Considering just how diminutive / odd-man-out I found myself feeling, I remember vividly how Frank chose to engage with me during the sporadic times we'd encounter each other there within that soulless, bunker-like building.

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A huge paradigm shift has occurred within my vocational circumstance.  This shift has been anticipated for years, and as such, throughout the majority of 2023, much behind-the-scenes work (thanks be to God for my CPA wife) has been done to see it through.  Now that it's accomplished, and various players (family members) have been "reassigned" accordingly as a result, I'm now finding myself struggling to "swim free".  

And I know that's due to how blithely transactional this shift has been framed as.  To the point that it's beginning to make me question my own emotional vitals.

For this is my now upended reality in contrast to the last ten years.  

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When I was in middle school ('86-'88), I took Shotokan karate classes two days a week at a northeast Jackson aerobics studio (which my mom happened to be employed at).  My Sensei, Mr. Terry Vandeventer, advocated for me like nobody's business, and I loved that (in spite of me feeling undeserving).  Throughout those few years, I tended to be one of the oldest boys in his class, yet I was the least confident in my physical self / ability.  

Mr. Vandeventer's class consisted of an hour on Tuesday afternoons (4 PM - 5 PM) practicing technique / katas, and an hour on Thursday afternoons sparring (against each other).  I privately loathed sparring, though I realized that I was the exception out of the other boys within our class.

What eventually motivated me to quit the class was a neighbor boy (he lived behind us) of mine who also decided to join in the karate fun.  This punk had always been extremely intimidating to young Rob, and he therefore used that intimidation to his advantage.  

One Thursday, I was paired up with this kid, and he wailed on me throughout our 10-minute sparring match.  It was humiliating and profoundly stigmatizing.  As a result, within just a few weeks, I hung up my Gei for good, much to the chagrin of Mr. Vandeventer.  

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I remember discovering that Frank was a runner by listening in on an exchange between he and Steve.  This surprised me for two reasons.  Firstly, we were full-time college students (who makes time to exercise - particularly running - in college?*), and secondly, Frank was far more muscular than what I'd considered at the time to be an ideal "runner's build".  

Now, let me expound on Frank's physicality.  Being around the age of 30, this stallion of a man had the body of an Army Ranger. In fact, though I wasn't privy to what an Army Ranger was at the time, it wasn't hard for me to imagine him being within some sort of elite military unit. I'd never seen a man with so little body fat combined with such muscular bulk.  That combined with his incredibly handsome face (he sported a dapper mustache that fit perfectly therein) made him almost impossible to not envy / admire to some degree.  

Frank wasn't one to see and be seen, but when he was, I couldn't help but take notice.  Especially when he was semi-nude (community bathroom).  Too, he was usually wearing a thin gold necklace.  That too looked great on him, fitting perfectly into his very uniquely masculine physique.  

Lastly, if I remember correctly, Frank had no shortage of body hair, particularly on his chest and stomach.  As such, it's location / thickness only served to amplify his build / enhance his looks.

*The Sanderson Center had yet to be constructed on MSU's campus.

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This past Friday afternoon (yesterday), I yet again head butted against my spontaneously reactionary familial rival (who's 19-years my senior).  As such, I felt deeply maligned to even consider moving out from this "invisibly cage-like" corner.  From there, I cautiously reacted by looping in my closest ally.  And it's important to know that by deeply maligned, I'm referring to behavior / tone / beliefs that were completely off the chart from the customary pettiness.  

I'm still shaken.  All the while attempting to keep myself calm enough to remember that I truly did nothing wrong via acting the part of my new ownership position.  

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The very last day I attended Mr. Terry Vandeventer's Shotokan karate class happened to fall on a Thursday (sparring day).  It was during this class that our respected Sensei shockingly volunteered himself to spar with neighbor punk.  It was then, right before everyone's eyes, that he put a vengeful ass whooping on this kid.  

For every slick move neighbor punk would attempt, Mr. Vandeventer would counter by barreling through.  As such, it was his lightening quick reflexes and almost psychic-like reflexive instinct that were no match for neighbor punk. 

For we all were witnessing a high-level black belt up against a cocky peon.

Unfortunately, although I greatly appreciated this not-so-subtle theatrics, it wasn't enough to convince me to stay.  For neighbor punk's audacity and confidence were far too overwhelming for Rob.  It was as if there literally wasn't enough oxygen in the room for me to breathe with when he was present.

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Frank always spoke to me respectfully when I ran into him there within the dorm suite.  At times even, I vividly remember him seeming genuinely happy to encounter me.  As such, I felt as if he could sense how (yet again) stigmatized I felt there amongst his larger-than-college-life physical self.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that he may very well have taken my homosexual attraction towards him into consideration, yet despite this, worked that much harder to make me as comfortable as he could.  

This was the very first one-on-one private, personal adult male encounter (Rob too as an ALMOST adult) where I felt as if I either wasn't ignored, shunned, or ridiculed outright.  It was indeed significant.   

Hence, this only amplified the beauty - in my eyes - of this glorious man.  This man whose minute gestures made such a lasting impact on me during one of the most trying living situations that I'd encountered up to that point.  

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What's the lesson here?

Terry Vandeventer and Frank continue to support / validate me.  Their memory shines light during the most frustrating of times (now).  

There's no doubt in my mind that I will experience blue ocean eventually.  For I will someday be granted the strength to leave behind this gosh awful present-day corner behind forever.  Until then, I will relish these memorials from my past.