Black/White/Yellow/Red/Green…Crayons!!!

I guess I could write my life story, and try to captivate you on my life. Like when I was diagnosed with Becker Muscular Dsytrophy, at 13. Or when I first seen someone, of the same color as me, at age 9. Or the first person that adopted me had no idea that was going to be black, and in turn accepted the adoption, but refused to carry me in public in fear of people thinking that she had been with a black man. Don’t get me wrong interesting stories and all, but who really gives a shit. Nobody. Rather I want to write about how I was raised.

After my first adoption, I was adopted by a 65 yr. old white man. He was retired Navy, fought in three wars (WWII, Vietnam, and Korean) and was an amazing man. The only person ever, I will consider to be my father.

He spent 30 years in the Navy, retired and moved out to a really small town on the Washington coast Westport, Wa. . Population 1,300 at the time, he built a home raised a garden and was enjoying his retirement. During the summers he would drive up to eastern Washington, and volunteer his time to pick apples. And that is where he met my adopted mother and me. At this point in time my adopted mom was in trouble for the sketchy terms of my adoption, and was dealing with court cases, and such trying to keep custody of me. And he decided that he wanted to help out, so they got married, he got a good lawyer and figured a way to make my adoption legal, and adopted me himself. I was 5 at the time, he was 65. Their relationship didn’t last for very long, him figuring out that my adopted mom wasn’t the type to be tied down. So they divorced a year later, and I had to go with her. But every weekend I was dropped back off at my dads house, so that my mom could go out.

She ended up meeting a mean spirited individual that didn’t appreciate me, or like me very much ( I found out later, it was the color of my skin) so I started to get beat. Not with a belt, or a stick, but beat. And every weekend I would still go to my dads, I was scared to tell him what was going on, but I would hide upstairs when they would come to pick me up. Finally one time I hid to long, and they got really upset over this. So on the car ride home it wasn’t very fun, and when we pulled in the driveway I bolted, I was 8. I hid in the garage and refused to come out until they called my dad, which they did. And my dad said that he would take me, only if she signed over custody which she did, with the agreement that he would still pay her child support $300 a month, which he agreed on.

Man……That paragraph was depressing… Sorry, here is something to help you smile.

Anyway, back to the story…

Life was different with my dad, we sat at the table for dinner, we would tell each other that we loved one another. If I wanted to do something that he knew probably wasn’t a good idea, he would tell me the consequences and let me decide what I should do. Every summer we would get in the motor home and travel the country (I have been to 48 states), go to U.S.S. Enterprise CV-6 reunions. By the age of 13 I had traveled almost the entire United States, been in the White House, met Pearl Harbor survivors, been to George Washington, Abraham Lincolns, and Dwight D. Eisenhower’s home.

The fall of that same year we were noticing that I couldn’t run like the other kids, and certain things were painful for me to do for very long. And after a lot of different tests, after tests, after tests, after tests…………you get the point. I was diagnosed with Becker Muscular Dsytophy. At that point in time they really didn’t know much about the disease and told me eighteen wheelchair, death twenty-five. I don’t remember crying, I do remember looking over at my dad and the sadness in his face made me feel like I had let him down. He wanted me to grow up and be a boxer, or a military man like him. Now we had to face the reality, that I wasn’t going to make it. So we did what anyone else would do, we went traveling, fishing, swimming, hunting, bike riding, played baseball, and everything in between. I wasn’t raised to give up, and my dad started his Navy career an 8th grade drop out, and became a CWO-4 the highest rank a person can go without going to Annapolis. So “give up” wasn’t something we knew.

My father ended up having a stroke in 2007, I was 27 in a relationship with a woman that became my wife living in Las Vegas. When I found out I drove all night and day till Olympia and stayed by his beside until he was released. Heather (my wife) and myself moved back from Las Vegas to my fathers home, and took care of him everyday until his death in 2012. I never put him in a home, even though he was bed bound. We love him. That’s my dad. We take care of who we love.

We got a lot of looks, an old man, and a young black kid. But we didn’t care. I didn’t even know what racism was until 13–14, and even then my father would go down to the school raise hell, and take me fishing. We would be in the boat and he would say to me “God loves everybody, that is why he created us. But one thing he doesn’t love is ignorance, but that is something we can work on.” I guess we are still working on it. Strange because I know no difference. I care for everyone, no matter if they care for me. I do not judge because the actions of a few, nor do I let hate fill my heart because the mistakes of many. Today or tomorrow we will realize that life is very short, and spending it upset, or angry is a waste of energy. It makes time move faster, when we should be wanting it to move slower. I would give anything for just one more minute with my dad, and not think twice about the sacrifice.

Anyway, I am not much of a writer I sometimes wish I was. But what I am is a person that cares sometimes more than what I should. My dad and I didn’t see color, we didn’t care about the age gap, there was no difference. It’s hard to understand ignorance, I guess because it is ignorant. Maybe dad and I were ignorant, or maybe we had figured it out, that love doesn’t know what black, or white, or yellow, or green is all it knows is love. The last day he was alive he knew he was going to go, he looked at me and apologized for leaving, and told me he loved me, and repeated a few times “You’re my son”.

Hard to think about now. But here is what I want you to think about. Is life really worth wasting our time angry? Or hating someone else? Do you have regrets? Have you felt loss?

We all go through life trying to make better for our kids. We search for love, we search for happiness, we search for meaning. Question if there is a God, question what the point is. I do, everyday, now that the disability is starting to win the fight. My father made me feel stoic, stronger, than what I really was so I fought this disease. I am 37 now, probably another year until a wheelchair. A part of me gave up, nothing to prove to anyone anymore. I got married, even though the government said that I couldn’t or they would take my disability pay away. I have 3 beautiful kids, all of them knew Grandpa, and he loved them very much.

I am unemployed, educated (writing is not one of my strong suits.) I search for purpose employment would be great, but at this point anything that gave me meaning would help my life. Yeah a lot has changed since his passing. I wish that there was some sort of way to explain to people that just because you live on this side of town, and someone else lives on the other. Or that just because their skin is lighter than yours, or darker. That there is no difference. I wish that I could show my worth, but people with disabilities are referred to along with ex-felons or somehow scamming the government, or people have it in their head that a person with a disability is extremely disabled. None of which is always the case. I make $800 a month off of disability, but give $200 back in taxes every month. I want to feel like I am doing my part.

This is turning out to be longer than what I thought it would be. And if you made it to this point, that last paragraph was probably rambling…Sorry bout that….Here you go..

Ok. I am done. Comment tell me how bad my writing is (constructive criticism is welcome). Follow I will follow back (living breathing individual behind this monitor).

Overall, I’m just saying that life is worth so much more. No matter you color, religion, disability, or economic status. If we spent more time trying to help one another, other than bringing one another down we would have a different more exciting world. Shit………..I will stop……….Or this will never stop..