dreams of my father on his 70th birthday
happy 70th birthday to my dad rick who does not know how to use modern voodoo, i.e. the internet, and would be in perpetual prayer if he were to ever see my facebook.
my dad was an every-other-weekend bachelor dad who knew every conceivable way to cook a hotdog. we were reared on hotdogs. and black coffee. and the same four-line prayer:
‘come lord jesus,
be our guest,
let these gifts,
to us be blessed. amen”
every friday after school when that old white work van (loaded with five kids without seats) came roaring down decamp i’d practically float out of my body. every weekend was an adventure filled with overnight trips to ramada inn. the one with a pool. taco bell (too cheap to spring for supreme, wahh sour cream) and trips to family dollar. & three whole days playing with my brothers from another mother.
nothing was normal about going to dads. christmas was a giant indiscriminate brown box filled with unwrapped junk — sombreros, harmonicas, dollar-store tchotchke, nintendos, and whatever else he collected along the way. we’d wake and it’d be a free-for-all — grab what you can. everything was everyone’s anyhow.
then we’d go outside and there’d be brand new go-carts. it was hard to reconcile with mom’s poverty.
life with mom was welfare poor. weekends with dad were ponderosa buffets and rollerskating. he wasn’t rich, but to us he was king.
& we were his spoiled loyal subjects.
i’d come home to mom and she’d tell me to go to the local store with five bucks in food stamps (that’s the purple one) for milk and bread when i had a crisp hundred-dollar bill burning holes in my pocket from the weekend at dads.
dad played hard and worked harder. a wild drunk who cheated on all his women. i have a brother two months my younger to prove it. but he gave it all up before the first memories of him crystallized for me. i only remember the good stuff.
i owe @ lampshade to my father. to a childhood watching him buy, flip, and sell hundreds of fixer-uppers. hot summer days repairing roofs in exchange for driving one of his dozen cars before we could see over the dash. we’d knock down fences in the yard, be pulled over by the police, have aunties scorn him for his supposedly errant wifeless ways.
an eternal softy, he’d routinely be faced with evicting the perpetually broken-hearted down-n-outs with the absolute best stories and no rent.
every weekend we came we’d be living in a different house (all within ten miles of each other). he was the mogul of mt. morris. life with him was transient. we went through a couple dozen houses. stuff left behind at each. i learned early to let go. living like nothing mattered but the moment. so the vagabond gypsy life suits me well.
(stark comparison with mom where we lived in the same house my whole life. when our house burned to the ground as a kid and we lost everything, including all our photos, she simply got the insurance money and built over top of it.)
dad was our god. he would beat boys half his age in silly macho competitions to show off for his children. he was vitally alive.
eventually he turned to god. back in his early walk with the lord, when he was still courting christ, before he really clung to the cross to save him, church was a blast. he’d seduce all the old ladies with his charm. he’d sing the old hymns in his elvis voice, pocketful of peppermints to tide us over. ‘my boys will always have dollars for the offering tray of the almighy.’ he made a total show of it. church was theatre and we were keen on acting in god’s great show. (my brother jeremy would usually pocket his deliverance dollars for cigarettes and sodas for his girlfriends.)
i owe my humour and obsession with making others laugh to him. he was addicted to fervent celebration. to play and jokes. to bringing the light to every room. to flirting and perpetually-peppy small talk. with the waitress, the bank teller, the policemen who seemed to follow us wherever we went (without ever so much as a ticket). i also inherited his addictive personality, ruthless judgment, flat ass, and male-pattern baldness.
my father has changed a lot since childhood. but he has always been a wildly political man.
so for his birthday i am taking this opportunity to honor and celebrate him and our twenty years of political back-n-forth. to clear some things for myself and the universe.
i came out to my very republican, ultra conservative father while in college at UofM in ann arbor. he proceeded to spit on my floor all-the-while throwing a photograph of me hugging a gay black boy across the room and storming out as my truly angelic (and (at-times) confusingly loyal) step mom fell into sobbing hysteria. her god also condemns the gays but not like this. she genuinely wants for world peace. for love to reign. she just thinks white christ is the way to it. meanwhile dad is aghast — acosted on three fronts — now waiting in the car to leave the devil’s den.
- a messy house,
2. a gay son,
3. & his most prized child hugging a black faggot all in one trip?
what did he do to deserve such a fate?
the following week he had his brother, a pastor, send me a 10-paged letter condemning my lifestyle to a fire-y pit in hell. uncle clark militarized every verse of the bible that so much as hinted at ‘my blasphemous lifestyle.’
‘you’ll burn with all the other fags dying of aids unless you change your ways.’
‘richard, my son, if i die tomorrow don’t bother coming to my funeral.’
a nasty rage fell over him. his pure christian tongue unhinged from the handle.
virile vile language … words rooted in fear, shame, and deep feelings of betrayal flew out from his belly.
his ‘logic’ was the typical stuff. it was mother’s fault. she let me around predatory men. i was raised around all females. a case of poor parenting, degenerate role models, corrupt television.
he pleaded with me: it’s unnatural. i felt this way too at your age, you must resist sinful temptation.
we didn’t speak for two years.
then he got very ill. a lifetime of smoking and drinking finally catching up with him — after twenty years of sobriety. i reach out just as his lungs and heart begin to give out.
a series of awkward, discomfortingly painful conversations span the following years. his careless language is obtuse and hurtful. he is in deep pain.
my father is mourning a son who still has a pulse.
mourning his plans for me. his grandchildren that won’t come to pass. my never becoming president. the life of sin and degeneracy and darkness that dancing with the devil is inevitably to deliver upon me.
we’re both mourning our friendship. he was my best friend. we could talk. i mean: we.could.talk. we leveled with one another. i was his therapist and he placed a lot of eggs in my basket. i was the kid who was going to make it. get the education to raise our family name while changing the world in style.
and with one tiny gesture i ruined everything.
the past decade has been a slow dance of reconciliation. of finding common ground — which usually revolves around politics. he just loves fox news. the more conservative the better. and i am so willing to engage him. i’m his one truly educated, traveled liberal punching bag. no one else will entertain his blatant bigotry. i fucking love it. to spar with my father. an ongoing intellectual, spiritual boxing match.
you can imagine the years of dramatic dialogue. we’d stay on the phone for hours arguing best ways forward for our planet.
we made it through clinton, bush, obama, and now trump.
when i used to visit, we’d take boat rides on his lake and spend all afternoon defending our views — ultimately getting what felt like nowhere.
the thing is, i grew up with this man. i know his heart. his mind. i know how good he is. i know his love for me. for all of humankind. for all creatures.
i also know his limits. his bigotries and delusion. the fact he’s rarely left michigan. and in the past twenty years, rarely left his county. and in the past decade, rarely left his lake. he watches fox news exclusively. he doesn’t use the internet. he is fed a constant storyline that goes something like this. . .
rich white men are prophets of god. blacks are lazy drug addicts taking from hard-working americans. muslims are terrorists. gays are sex addicts facing god’s wrathful plague. women are subordinate to their men.
it’s all right their in his other point of reference:
the bible.
i spent my twenties dissecting my father. and others like him. i’m one of ten kids and most are trump supporters without a passport.
i am the forbidden fruit that fell from eden and has yet to stop tumbling from the garden.
i have three college degrees. i’ve traveled to over 50 countries. i’ve intimately engaged with people of all races, genders, orientations, religious denominations, political affiliations, philsophies, and systems of belief. i’ve had an insane life. met with people who’ve had sex with aliens and people who think glen beck is the next messiah here to deliver us from our collectively sinful ways.
i’ve spent years trying to solve the human condition. and my father has been a primary subject of my study. many of you have witnessed my evolution. witnessed my anger and pain and confusion and very candid approach to the journey.
my love, my partner, my bestfriend and the man who is building this empire of sand with me, @ samer, came out to his middle-eastern, muslim father three days ago. the story is the exact same. sub out christianity for islam.
luckily samer has heard it all before. he knew what to expect. all the demons of 15 years ago came flooding back but this time they were met with a man who welcomed them with open arms. i am so proud to take this walk with you babe. love wins.
today i celebrate 70 years of my father’s journey on this planet. i celebrate the open, receptive, curious boy of his youth; the strong, loving, hilarious man he was; and the confused, scared, soft man he has become. i pray for you too dad. every day. and for all my family. blood or otherwise. for you are all my brothers and sisters. and we are in this together.
we’re all as saved as we’re ever going to be. & i’m not afraid anymore. i no longer yearn for my dad’s approval. or anyone’s really. i am. i have isness. i know my heart is good. my brain is strong. and my perspective is uniquely mine. i no longer need to prove or seek validation. that doesn’t mean i don’t share myself. i am addicted with the overshare. my wish is for the world to be wildly open and vulnerable. fearlessly expressive. explorative to exhaustion. the world would be a better, more explosive, dynamic exciting place to live on if more shared my perspective. my goal is to make that happen. to radically express over survive. dialogue over dogma.
i may never reach my father in the way twenty-year-old me thought i would. but i won’t stop trying. i love him. i love our journey. but i am no longer beholden to his wishes. he does not see the infinite, kind, receptive, open god i know and have intimately met. his vision is shrouded in clouds and baggage. as he ages, the depression settles in. ‘the bible is right on schedule,’ he says on every call. everything is an omen and testament to the end of times.
sometimes i wish he saw with my eyes. but mostly i accept his journey. (usually from afar) it takes all of us. god has all our backs. all 7+ billion of us.
the years have hardened us both. disillusionment has run her course. neither of us are the boys from my childhood. that’s what memory is for. i relish daydreams of yesteryear. my childhood was good. i was loved and looked after.
as i scroll through thousands of photos on facebook i am smiling in almost every picture. as i get older, i find more wrong with the world. more that ‘i need to fix.’ i also see more that is perfectly imperfect and right as it should be. my dad was a kid until 55. it’s only the last fifteen years the world has really eaten at him. for that he is my role model. i feel myself hardening already. and i’m only 33. it’s harder for me to see him these days. shriveled and small and bigoted and clinging to his conservatism and cross. but whatever gaps of pain and misunderstanding that exist between us today, he is forever a beacon for me. the man has lived. with humour and kindness and adventure at the helm of his ship. but thank christ i’m a vegetarian so i’ll never have to eat another hot dog again.
happy 70th birthday day, rick.
i love you in infinite, untarnished ways.
‘your precious birthed one,’ rick.
in honor of my father and decades of political banter, i leave you with this…
whatever your beliefs, we are facing intensifying partisan polarization that threatens to hurl the unwitting masses (that’s you and me baby) straight off the cliff. we are in a cultural crisis i cannot justly express.
questioning is a nuisance to status-quo and continually shamed out of modern living. we shame people for questioning what we’d rather just accept.
but to halt questioning in exchange for resting easy… to defer to ready-made systems of religion, education, politics, laws, & morality… is a type of philosophical suicide — a mental murder of the self.
i do not believe all rich white men are toxic. nor do i believe they should all stand down. my language is divisive and i’m working on it. but our planet is stuck. my father is stuck. and our planet (and my father) are primarily led by rich white men who use christianity as a whipping post for all those who do and do not believe.
80% of congress is white and male.
and yet 51% of the general population are women… so shouldn’t something close to 51% of elected officials be female? 10% are gay… 13% are black… 18% are latino/hispanic. . . you get the point.
if we say we are not a white supremacist nation, that we are a melting pot for all, that the american dream is alive and well for the taking — then should not the numbers in office line up with the numbers on the streets? a call for proportional representation. that’s all.
coincidence or otherwise, 91% of CEOs are very rich white men. these few white men hold the bulk of power. this has is-ness. we can ignore it or explain it away, but there it is. like a giant zit on the face.
11.5% of ALL WEALTH ON THE PLANET is stored untaxed by the uber rich in offshore accounts. and yet the story sold and bought is that the poor are draining our economy.
67% of all campaign funds come from .2% of the population. (think about that.)
numbers don’t lie; just the people crunching and selling them.
we know all this. billions are spent by corporations (primarily ran by rich white men) in order to buy elections. in return these same corporations receive trillions back on their investment.
the american people — and their hard-earned taxes — are a surer bet than any investment opportunity since the gold rush. we have been in a 17-year unwinnable war-on-terror because it has generated trillions (exclusively from your tax dollars) for lockheed martin, haliburton and a select few other war-mongering, mega corporations getting very, very rich off convincing the american people that terrorists (who they supply all weapons to) are our greatest existential threat.
the return on investment for wealthy corporations to buy elections, and therefore tax breaks and unlimited loopholes, is far greater than actually selling their product.
and they are so good they’ve convinced those they are screwing into selling their stories for them. don’t blame us… blame black people! blame muslims! blame mexicans! we must build that wall.
minorities aren’t the problem. those sailing on yachts with your tax dollars are.
but i agree with many of you. we cannot legislate tolerance. we cannot force gender and race quotas onto the election process. we cannot create policy to change small minds and bruised hearts.
but it is the role of government to facilitate the conversation.
& it is the role of media and education to not sell people like my father a bill of hate, division, and bigoted can’t just because the ratings are better.
recent studies show 80% of all media coverage is negative towards muslims and islam.
our nation is a bigoted nation. the sooner we face this the sooner we can get on with it. the electricity we feel in our highest moments of human connection can be brought into waking life. but we must start owning and honoring and talking about the realities of our planet.
it is not just racial. it is socioeconomic. it’s religious, intellectual, geographical, and a straight up matter of exposure to difference.
i grew up in a poor, wildly undereducated family in a good-intentioned, small-minded town. my guidance counselor told me straight up, ‘kids from our school don’t go to places like UofM” i was floored. in spite, i ONLY applied to university of michigan. luckily, i got in. no clue what would have happened if i didn’t. i guess i dared the universe to test me.
the point is, we teach self-limiting behavior. & the prophesy completes itself.
we have an opportunity to offer a better prophesy for people. that’s all.
little black boys in the bronx are taught from the television, teachers, preachers, parents, politicians… each other… that they are less than. it is built into their ecosystem from the start. rich white kids are taught something quite different. this just is. i’m not mourning it. i just want to publicly, politically acknowledge it.
society teaches us our place. education, media, family, society… drills into our heads from a young age who we are and where we fit in the hierarchy. we are told who and what we are. our worth and what is to become of us.
all the while, this other storyline — the story of the american dream… where anything is possible if only we work hard enough, want it bad enough, etc. is perpetuated in a sick, twisted cycle.
it’s a sham. where you are born, your skin color, gender, orientation, and other biology alongside how wealthy, educated and socially situated your family is has a massive impact on what’s to become of you.
this is not up for negotiation.
suggesting the reason 90% of all millionaires in america are white is ‘purely coincidental’ or directly tied to those white people ‘wanting it more’ is a disgusting form of pure privileged nonsense.
purple republic aims at getting at what is. not what we tell and sell. but isness.
we the people hold the cards. we’ve just given them all away.
our aim is perpetual empowerment. to reinvigorate the masses to take control of our own destiny. which requires looking at the shit we’ve created.
it’s time to express over survive. dialogue over dogma. radical self-efficacious responsibility. transcending the duplicitous stories that make us feel alright. we each have an active role and part in this collective creation. it is up to us.
education, laws, government, and the very fabric of society should aim to create a level field from which nature can rise.
let’s look at it. let’s accept privilege and stop pretending like it doesn’t exist.
let’s perpetually empower ourselves, each other, and the truth. even though it’s really fucking difficult.
there is an ongoing war on religion, on minorities, on rationality itself. this keeps us squirming and confused.
aren’t you bored with impersonal and faceless bureaucracies? morals as dictates. primitive nationalism and the factions of a corrupt, mindless western world that has given itself away to the comfort promised in stopping all truly original thought. eventually one comes to ask (perhaps rhetorically) if there is value in moving beyond primitive ancient tradition towards an existence outside typical terms, boundaries, and specific mandates propagated by a dated, fear-based, lion-slaying society.
is life-as-perceived ‘socially impressed’ or merely evolutionary biology playing out? would switching leaders have an impact? is human nature an insurmountable force? is change possible in a world of biological presets dictacting the rules of engagement? maybe we can’t force evolution. i have no clue. but i’m dying to find out.
consciousness — awareness to the futile, repetitive nature of things — makes life absurd.
suffering is universal. celebrate !
just because nature cannot change doesn’t change we are alive. and have lots of time on our hands. to either play the game according to someone else’s mandates or make the rules up for our own.
namaste and thanks a trillion for reading. and for being. ❤.
oh, & happy birthday daddy!!
