Here are the young men
be trusted with money. I hate money, few people try and aspire similarly — by that I mean to really **hate** money. I’ve met a lot of people who are richer, or poorer than I am at that particular time, family, not-family, social class or impending disinheratance, and well, if there’s one thing most of us can agree on is that we could all have it just a bit easier with just a little more cash on hand. Life would be just grand.
Money can do terrific things for the betterment of others, I am very sure; when it’s handled properly, there are wonderful spectacular things we can do with the miracle of philanthropy and responsible social investment. I worked for a few years in financial services, where there were many skilled and talented professionals who knew how to handle money. They were trusted with that most inner holy of holies of our modern world — the care of the most important money of all- OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY.
That’s some important shit, I’ve known since the moment I was introduced as a young man to the power money has over all of us. I believe I had an unusual perspective of it’s power growing up though, living in foster homes from my earliest childhood years.
Most of my peers, and certainly all of my superiors in financial services, I feel were cut from different cloth than I was, perhaps that’s a grandiose thing to say, I didn’t know all of the many people I met along the way in any way well enough to be so certain in my conclusion. I can say however, of the five dads and four mom’s I had — no one ever took the time to sit down with me and show me how to balance a bank book. The people who claimed to be my parents over the years, were well, frankly disengaged and not all that interested enough beyond making sure I had a few hot’s and a cot every night to sleep in.
I presented myself as a capable, responsible, unremarkable, perhaps -mediocre suburban white kid well to most people. It wasn’t my skill as a sneaky teenager, or neglectful attention from my mom at the time that forced her hand in throwing me out of her life so capably, at least for the time being though. Mom#4 was an optimist and didn’t see any warning signs that indicated she would have to take certain and immediate action to maintain her daily sanity and responsible routine of living by giving me the 18th birthday parental pink-slip you’re on your own now. I was during those months a mess and difficult for anyone to tolerate for any more than fifteen or twenty minutes.
Times have changed since 1990 here in New England, our national culture, -I’d like to say the world, but I’m not that optimistic we have moderated our position on same sex relationships once and for all. Recent events in Russia are also good example of how easily popular tolerance can shift back to the rule of the lynch mob so quickly, public opinion being so easily swayed in the mechanizations of those in power. I’m forced as well, as an enthusiastic student of history, cultures, Ethnography in general and as an ethnic Native American to here be reminded of the historic acceptance among many Peoples of the America’s before 1492. Historians, and cultural writers have researched the change of attitude in Native acceptance before, and after the arrival of Christianity on American shores. We’ve lost a lot of our known history in the American Genocide, and enforced cultural hegemony of European social stigmas towards homosexuality. We do know however that among many Native American tribes and cultures, there was, and presently have more acceptance, and socially supportive structures for gays. Christianity, and religion in general introduced homophobia- a recently invented linguistic device here.
I’ve often heard other’s, and my peers complain about their parent’s protestations, and frequent reminders to their kids, of how many days remain until their 18th Birthday, a day many parent’s celebrate and like to remind their truant children of the impending deadline and celebrations. Most kids know their time at home, with their parents are numbered, many kids also look forward to getting away from their families’ grip. My situation however was a little more transient, my time with whichever family I was living with as A Ward of the Sate of Massachusetts, may end at any moment’s notice, when I could be shaped off to distant lands- even as far away as the Berkshire’s — never to return. I could end up spending the rest of my life with attractive lesbian retired elderly white classical music loving aborigines. I was scared, and also, I admit a little excited at the possibilities or opportunities out there for me.
No one could tell, but everyone were very certain, I wasn’t part of the family- we had no future together. My teenage years weren’t marked with an ending milestone. I was often reminded that I probably shouldn’t bother to unpack my bags, I’d be leaving soon as DSS, court orders, rejection, neglect or the whim’s of a fickle god’s decisions were pending at any given time. Goodbye, it was nice to meet you. My many parent’s had a lot of trouble they were facing when I arrived, so perhaps they can’t be blamed too harshly as I do at time.
I think it’s important to pause and take stock of my situation as I am in the present. Many of my babysitters, elders and teachers have tried to get me motivated to write, keep a journal, or someday sit down and write my memoirs, but I haven’t written many things down precisely because I’ve always beenanxious that revealing my love for one parent would be a betrayal to the family who clothed and fed me now. I was never far from the fear of losing another family, parent, sibling or friend. The thing that hurt the most though, was my certainty that I was at that moment’s awareness, lost, literally. I would often try and run the highway signs through my mind waking up in fear when living in another home with a family I just met, realizing if I had to, I couldn’t even walk by the side of the highway back to the comfort of my older sister or brothers’ (i have two) protective presence. Even at seven, eight and nine years old I was really a grouchy forty year old man muttering to himself, Where the fuck am I and Who the fuck are these people? (I swore from the earliest years of my childhood, and still haven’t broken the habit.) I knew my birth grandma’s address — on the other side of the State, but couldn’t afford cab fair, I hated my dad in that family, they hated my mom, so even if I had to run away from this family if they turned out to be douchebags, my troubling conclusion was just another question- Where were my brothers’ and Sister today? How would I find them? Where would I go?
Each day I lived in the years that followed erased my recollection the family I had lost. I had a rich and engaging inner life as a delinquent, potty mouthed, but quiet, introspective, shy, foster kid, I ignored other people a lot because I was often trying to run over the telephone number- I think it was Lisa- my sister’s parting words to me years earlier 93-6914, 3-6914, 914 the numbers truncated and I concluded I had finally forgotten what my mom looked like. I had a very sad day which I still remember, when I realized, if I ran into my any of my family running errands at the local mall, all of them together, and me with Dad #3-paired-with-Mom#4, who are they again- well, I wouldn’t be able to smile and wave to my former family if I had to pick them out inn a crowd.
Those who know me today, particularly those who have been the regrettable target of my ire, wouldn’t believe I was ever a quiet person, but there were in fact several years just before I turned ten years old when, I fell into a deep depression, and largely stopped interacting with people in the usual way little boys do at that age. This was my first clearly recognizable clinical depression and it was a serious and catastophic tsunami which crashed over my juvenile psyche, drowning out the voices of concerned people who were entrusted with my care. The roaring sound of that wave smashing into my mind has never gone away.
I was often labeled, with whichever socially sensitive moniker that was popular among educators at the time as ‘someone who needs a little more care and attention than the other boys and girls.’ They thought I was retarded and I was sent to special classes with other kids who didn’t talk, play on the playground with other kids or excel at anything which might guarantee them success in their later years. No one realized I was in fact a sharp tongued nearly-multilingual (I could swear in 12 languages I counted then-with good pronunciation too!) I did protest once to a scolding grammar school teacher that I knew how to interact and communicate, I just didn’t want to.
She assured me, she didn’t speak Portuguese, though she recognized the pejorative tone, defiant stand and rage I displayed when I said those words. Shaking her head, she concluded by noting in my school records, perhaps, the diagnosis could be idiot-savant.
I was also, even back then, an angry boy at heart.
I’ve always received contradictory reviews, it seemed to be dependent on my mood or the weather, rather than actual cognitive capabilities or deficiencies on my part.
For my part, I remember dismissing her as well, concluding that she was a bitch too. Fuck her and these kids they have me sitting with now who drool on the table at lunch more than they seemed to eat. My new school friends — and they were good friends, I learned how to have fun with them- they were kind and welcoming to me, just not very popular with the other kids, and very unattractive to watch during snack or lunch periods.
Where was I again? I do get sidetracked a lot — yes thank you — money.
For nearly fifteen years from around when I was a young boy I listened to a lot of complaining from everyone about not having enough money, and I want more and I want more. I’ve never had a particular need, other than in sharing an amusing anecdote over a couple martinis with friends, or astonished colleagues, their surprise at the things I can say at times, and I admit that is another of my many short comings- I suck at duplicity. On the one time I really put an effort out there to pretend I care about Report XYZ or someone’s stock portfolio performance, well, I sounded like an ignorant hick; which I don’t mind being called; I will be quick to correct anyone who would dare accuse me of behaving like a typical ‘American’ as badly behaved as those people are, and I do believe many Americans have behaved deplorably to this very day towards my people. I never forgot, though seldom disclosed that I was mostly Native American by ethnicity. I’m sad to report that the Great Spirit, perhaps to remind me of my own need to be a humble person- I get mixed reviews on that evaluation as well-gave me a small measure of European blood. So there you have it, I can pass myself off as another European-American with too much money, resources and always wanting more to keep up with the Jones’ next door.
Regrettably, there was a period of perhaps five or six years when I had some professional successes, I’ve had many good years and some bad years since that first time. But that was my first point in my short life that I found myself, — to my ultimate eventual undoing and another lesson in humility — swimming in more dough that any of my relatives near or far could easily claim to have in their particular possession at that time.
I made all the usual mistakes of someone, such as myself who had no genuine attention from their parents in these matters- to me the only reason for any of us to mention money, was to find out who owed it, when they were going pay us what we’re due, or if sadly, and it is a real fact of my family relations along the way- legs were sure to be broken if payments weren’t to be received on time. I have no doubt that many close blood relatives have faced the legal consequences of their actions in collecting what they felt, or believed, or perhaps were due. I’m not proud of that in any manner whatsoever, and I don’t care, excuses, and honor be damned- there are ways of resolving conflict that don’t involve violence.
So there I was a young man with more money than I had time to spend and it made me spoiled, unhappy, and miserable — truly suffering more than at any other previous point in my life. Soon after that nap on the couch I mentioned previously in this chapter. I came out of the closet, and in a place and time, where — well, I risked my legs being broken. I wish they had been broken, rather than being disowned by my adoptive family — there were other reasons, too much drinking and smoking and teenage rebellion for my poor mom to handle rationally, and at perhaps the most critical point in many years of our life as a new family together, she had enough. My teenage bad behavior all happened in the final semester of High School right when I should have been on task and getting ready like my peers to move into young adult hood.
I don’t think mom #5 actually knew the nitty gritty details about my teenage rebellion before declaring myself openly gay in my small New Hampshire town. I’ve said, I’ve never been a very popular kind of guy, I didn’t l distinguish myself among my talented, affluent attractive, football playing god fearing Square Jawed White Christian Soldier peers so most people from that year in High School wouldn’t remember me today- which was and is fine with me today. That year or two of transition- a chaotic and confusing jump in to young-adult hood is hard enough for any kid from even a nuclear, affluent, suburban family, but I decided to make mine more difficult for everyone, particularly me by developing a taste, a craving really, for LSD. It wasn’t a secret to anyone except to my poor mom that is. Just look at 98% of the good byes’ in my year book from my peers, they read, explicitly page after page, nearly verbatim among teenager after teenager, as we passed our yearbooks around to sign each other away and goodbye. Parting advice was offered to me, though I would to my detriment- ignore — HEY, give your head a break Phil, lay off the Acid and the Weed for a bit’ OK?
I have a particular, fond remembrance, certainly the only distinguishing award I received in my youngest school days was a mimeographed poem from my favorite teacher of my many years in school from Mrs. W. (I’m withholding her name so she doesn’t get in any trouble.) It was a poem she wrote and spun off on that blue drummed rolling ink, close the door and — let-me-have-a whiff-magic-mimeograoph machine- titled “Teacher Talks to Thai Sticks.” I won’t publish it here without her permission, but I can tell you, it is a fantastic poem, no doubt written in her younger days of perhaps the late 60’s when she began as a young enthusiastic teacher, and soon realized to her dismay that the summer of Love was really, for her, an endless repetition of the same lesson plan to another kid high on the latest version of KingKahuuna or DOOBAGE. How many more years until she could retire from this job? She would vent her frustrations in the angry spin of the manual magic mimeograph machine as she turned out another copy of this- her version of a Pink Slip to another student high on weed in her classroom- I gathered she had to hand out a lot of those “you’ve failed my class- you might want to lay off the pot in your first year of Vocational School or working at the local gas station as a young adult going no-where far from here.”
I loved Mrs. W, because she was of all the many people shuffling around and through my life only the second person to actually demonstrate responsible, adult engaged, effort and joy in parting and enthusiastic closure to our special friendship through my pot-hazed LSD ending of High School.
I still remember so vividly our goodbyes to each other and presently smile as I see Mrs. W, when she looked up to find me standing at the door to her once manically decorated Self Concepts Class Room. It was now laid bare similar to the once proud gaudy gold leafed bejeweled churches of England stripped to the wood nails of any resale value and white-washed for protestant post reformation services under James VI and I. Her class was a magical world for me with my friend Amanda and there Mrs. W while our discussions were on Existentialism vs. Nihilism and the problems of Søren Kierkegaard. All worthy discussion for anyone, particularly women with the grace, humor and wit of my two lady friends those days- but I couldn’t keep up with such a worthy debate, the condition I often went to class in, I’d be distracted by the Mandala’s on the wall as the latest tab of magic paper on my tongue took hold and I wound be transported, happy to another magical world of color and MUSIC you could taste!
I was warned, only take ONE tab Phil- otherwise you’ll be tripping for three days! (3?- THREE??) days I’d say inwardly as I popped a tab on my tongue next to a juicy fruit. It’s Monday morning and I won’t enjoy more than HALF the week trippin’ out! I rarely told anyone about my private adventures in the psychedelic, they happened so frequently, I couldn’t have enough.
I can be honest here and share that in those final days after a long and mediocre academic performance on my part- my peers wanted to be cool, and goth, and act all suburban, and wear black. I was often accused of not living up to the part because well, frankly I smiled too much. And I was looking back, relatively happy despite my stated belief then- and sadly on most days to the present, not someone to put my faith in God, Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, Mikhail Gorbachev, Pat Robertson, Hollywood or anyone else for that matter. I was then a far emptier vessel than I sadly admit I am in my middle-aged years. If any of those illustrious names then announced their intention to blow the whole fucking planet up, well, I would have not cared very much at all if they did then. I didn’t like being gay, it wasn’t something I aspired to, and when I did decide to get honest about it — as my young male friends were professing their eternal love for Tits, ass, girls in general, I kept out of the discussion, laughed half-heartedly and was afraid of being found out for who I really was.
(c) 2014 Phil Chartrand
