Being ATY

10/28/14

Massive tension, guilt, rage, and it's been a good day.  Maybe because it's been good and I've done everything I felt I should (though not perfect) I feel like it's ok to feel these things.

I have some self respect now.  Not a lot.  But a little.

1/5/10

I'm a little kid. My two front teeth have come out, and I am now a Saber-Toothed Growl, playing with my Mom like my cat does with me. I love her. My mom, I mean, though I also love my cat.

But my mother is weird. Irrational. Scary, angry, hateful. I don't understand why it's like this, I know growing up is not supposed to be like this. What happened? How could I ever love this...creature? I hate her! She's ruining my life! I can FEEL the psychological scars forming and I KNOW why they are forming and what has to change but THEY WON'T LISTEN TO ME!!!

My Dad's irrational too, he inherited multiple houses, but by the time I was a teenager I was nearly homeless...my Mom had to shower with a hose in a rat infested basement with only one wall, visible to the whole canyon...they sent me to live with my aunts, first the one, then the other. As I settled in to the second Aunt's apartment, the news came; Rodney King had been beaten by the police and the Black community was really, really pissed off. Next thing I know I've been spirited away to safety by my folks, while the barbarians set my city on fire. They ran down the street my aunt lived on, torching buildings. One guy tried to set off a Molotov on my aunt's condo building, I was told, but Korean gunmen on the roof scared him off.

My family sticks together. We can rely on one another. All the rest of them out there...all you zombies...you're strange, weird, people. I have one pair of jeans, two T-shirts...one purple, one green. I alternate them...chewing, slobbering nervously on the collar of my T-shirt, going from one side of campus to the other as ordered, not paying attention to the teachers in the slightest. I have no energy, no will. I piss in my pants as I walk across campus, because I can't muster the energy to go to the bathroom. I become good at spacing out and watching the clock until it moves fifteen minutes, then thirty, then forty five, now the next class. A pretty little thing with a tight body and gigantic pants held open with a belt and...did she have suspenders or something? I forget. Her outfit was such that I could look down and see her panties as she flirted with me in class, sitting close, pressing our hands together while she talks about how big and manly my hands are.

The teacher gets pissed off. While I didn't flip out emotionally while flirting with the girl in class, there was no way in Hell I could ask her out or anything. I don't think I even got her name.

My mother SCREAMS for hours, and hours, and hours, and hours at my father, never with the intention of stopping. No amount of reasoning or listening will soothe her. The putrid smoke from her chain smoking fills the house, choking me, filling my lungs and sinuses with nasty phlegm, giving me a headache, giving me cancer, keeping me from thinking and sleeping and when I open the window in my room a crack and put my nose to it so I can breathe she comes into my room and SCREAMS that it's cold and how dare I open a window? I crawl downstairs into the closet, piled high with old clothes, where my kitten kept her babies...one time I almost stepped on her while she was giving birth (she was very fertile!) and then I sat with her and pet her in the dark until she was done and began to carry them away.

Anyway, I crawled past the cockroaches that infested our home into that dark closet, smelling strongly of cat piss, and hid in the corner, hoping the night would pass quickly, because I was miserable. I learned that tears don't help. Crying doesn't matter. It just makes you look weak. All you zombies don't care. Maybe a little...but not very much. To get what I want, I need money. I need power. I need knowledge. I need to have things others want, because that's the only reason they're nice to me. My awkward hot-and-cold personality and the habitually grim look on my face, and the great amounts of time I need to spend alone to get over the stress that's been programmed into my nervous system...these things turn nice people mean, and I can't control them. I'm not a regular person. I can enjoy the company of regular people as long as I remember not to trust them too much.

I'm angry, and bitter, and depressed. I walk the streets of MY city at night, alone, in Highland Park where the Avenues are, down in South Central, in K-Town claimed by 18th Street, Mara Salvatrucha, White Fence and any number of other gangs. I WILL NOT be cowed by the ghetto trash. I listen to the Doors and early Beatles over and over as I walk for miles all night long. I hate school. I'm an incompetent failure. I'm unpopular, in a sense, though not disliked, and somewhat picked on...but I'm not a small guy, and I'm not a submissive guy, and they can sense it, and so I don't get too much crap. One day a tall kid - strangely, one of the few non Chicanos at my Jr. High School, a black kid - calls out to me, "Hey, white boy!" I ignore him. Another kid, a chicano, calls out "FIREBALL!!!" and they snicker. The next day the tall kid slaps me upside the head.

The boiling, fuming hatred and rage bubbles to the surface, spitting droplets of boiling, mindless fury. I fling myself into his face, inches from him, body tensed, one knee between his legs, the other leg behind me, in a stance something like I will one day learn is called Front Stance (though not really a proper Front Stance). I'm shaking.

"What the FUCK is your problem?!" I spit, hiss into his face. A comic expression of surprise passes over his features as he recoils slightly.

I turn and leave, watching him through narrowed eyes. Every time he I see him I watch him, ready for him to fuck with me.

He never bothers me again.

Now I'm in Horticulture class. We're all standing in a line outside, waiting for the teacher. We get bored. One girl leaves her place in line and begins inspecting the boys one at a time.

"Do you want a girlfriend? Do YOU want a girlfriend? Do you want a girlfriend?" She asks each in turn. Then when she gets to me, she looks into my face, considers, and says "Not you."

I'm a kid again. "You have to take a test now". "A test about what?" "Oh, don't worry, it's a kind of test you don't have to study for."

I don't get it, but I go where they tell me to go. They give me a paper with problems on it which involve spotting patterns and other various mental exercises. I finish and hand in the test. "Did I pass?"

"I can't tell you, I will tell your parents."

I'm nervous, scared. Not of my folks - they aren't abusive at all - but of failing AGAIN.

My Mom has a tense, anticipatory look on her face. I wait nervously. "Did I pass?"

"They said you're Highly Gifted!!! You might be the smartest person in the school!"

Ahhhh...now I understand.

Everyone else is just stupid. That's why this world is so crazy, so irrational, so painful and confusing.

Its my responsibility to fix all the problems. After all, I'm the one who can figure it out, right? I'm the one who breezes through Algebra class without trying while the other Highly Gifted kids in the magnet struggle.

But that's the only class. I fail the rest of them. Algebra's the only one where I get to think and puzzle out the answer instead of memorizing.

I'm still a failure. And despite the fact that I'm smart I still can't figure things out...I need a mentor, someone who understands...myself twenty or thirty years from now, time travelled back to this time to tell me I'm right and they're wrong and what to do and how to handle it. But no, I don't have such a mentor.

The most beautiful girl in the school is paying attention to me! She compliments my hairstyle, which I am very proud of, but not to me - I'm terrified, I can't look at her, she's RIGHT NEXT TO ME and there's another pretty girl too and they're talking about me I'm so glad but so terrified.... The cowlick on the right is brushed back on that side, using that natural feature to define my look. On the other side the hair comes down, almost over one eye. It's short and kept in place by gel. I guess she likes that kind of hairstyle; there's another boy with a somewhat similar hairstyle she is said to like, except his is longer and he doesn't use gel. I also have a single Ankh dangly earring. I liked the Ankh because it was the symbol of the Ultima games.

Later on I had to watch the girl who held my heart swapping spit with another guy. I fumed with jealousy, but somehow I knew that was just my place in the world. The loser.

Later on I got over most of my fear of women, and got over my first big crush, but with them left much of my faith in true love. It wasn't meant for me it seems. Maybe someday.

Tae Kwon Do class. I joined because I was out of shape and didn't know how to fight and I wanted to be able to HURT the cholos when they tried to jump me. Unfortunately the only time I had a chance to try this out I discovered I STILL couldn't fight, despite my Black Belt.

Next time I know where to aim. I know which techniques I'm not good at. No more roundhouse kicks to the ribs...my leg isn't strong enough to make that work. I'd have to train a lot to get that to work. No, next time it'll be the knees, the neck, the elbows, the eyes. The weak points where I don't need to be in top shape to hurt the bastard.

I fantasize about a poster. It has two images; one of Bernhard Goetz, and one of a rattlesnake. Each image has text over it. Goetz' face has written over it "Bernhard Goetz only got eight months." Over the rattlesnake it says "Don't Tread On Me."

I go online to gang websites (they're a joke, man these gangsters are so ignorant...we have a culture of ignorance here in inner city LA that I later find out is not part of African or Mexican culture - it's the culture of poverty, not of ethnicity) and rant and rave as AThousandYoung, my anonymous ID. I troll them, telling them how, when my cousin joined 18th Street and went to prison for an attempted gang assassination (with a knife, I think), my Chicano father said "I'm ashamed of him. He's not one of us anymore. I don't consider him family anymore. He has brought shame on the family name." I tell them how they affirm all the racism Latinos (or Blacks) have to suffer through, how they fire bullets into schools where little kids of their own ethnicity are playing. "Brown/Black Pride" my ass. I tell them they're nothing but human cockroaches - no, rats. Roaches don't gang up on babies and kill them. Vermin, dangerous vermin. And vermin, when it gets out of control, gets the exterminator.

Don't Tread On Me.

My gang colors are red white and blue, and my colors are there flying above the 'hood, not yours, bitches. Kill me, go ahead...my country's got my back, and I'll take a few of you with me. Oh? You're posting out in front of your local Mexican restaurant hangout, flying the 18th Street colors? I drive up real close and ask you for directions. I scan your face closely. I show no fear. This is OUR 'hood, not yours, you piece of shit. He looks frightened. Of me. This guy with the gang tattoos, gang clothes, scared of the white boy. I feel that thrill of power that some young men get addicted to, the power of intimidaton.

Everyone is afraid of my anger at the gangs. They ask me to stop harassing the teenagers who go on to my roof to smoke meth, and then look into our windows all night, talking about us...GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BUILDING!

I make sure the security doors are closed, I get a video camera, I begin to patrol the building. I call the police, ask them to come in and check out the roof. I send in anonymous notes telling them about the filth on my roof, and they send cruisers and helicopters to my block, and I am glad. But everyone else asks me to stop, even the men who talk about how tough and macho they were and how they were violent and got into fights...but when I asked for backup, it turns out they're all talk. One guy tells me to stop, I'm endangering his life. This is the guy who talks about how he used to smash peoples teeth in with his forehead and who shouts enraged insults at people as we drive by. Talk's cheap I guess.

Only one person feels like I do; my little aunt. She sees gangsters on the bus and calls them baby killers to their face. She is awesome :)

We have a Right to Bear Arms precisely so that the People are not oppressed by violent...umm...oppressors, whether in the form of a formal military or not. I could get a rifle.

No, I'd probably shoot myself with it some time when I got depressed. I still have the knife scars. I remember wondering whether I was strong enough to do it, to open my own flesh. The real problem was I liked a girl and was too terrified to do anything about it, to the point of unconciousness due to anxiety attacks. I hated myself, was angry, wondered why I couldn't be normal with women. They like me...I like them...what's the problem? Why am I failing at this too?

I find a big, serrated bread knife. I wash it carefully, and my shoulder as well. Then I pull the serrations over the soft, baby skin on my shoulder - so much different than the skin on my forearms, which is a little tanned, a little tough and leathery. Knives down there didn't work all that well, though I'd jam forks into the forearm until it bled. That worked. But the knife worked best on the shoulder. One slice, two, three...now the other side, my left hand isn't as capable, those three lines aren't as clean and straight. I can see blood welling out, and I see the whitish yellow subcutaneous fat, and I am fascinated, and terrified, and so fucking alone. I cover the wounds with my long sleeves and never tell anyone. I forget about them until my Mom sees them, half healed, while I'm walking around without a shirt.

I'm an adult, and I know my Mom is the one person I can trust. I'm a Momma's Boy and I'm so emotionally fucked up I don't care about the mockery this gets me any more. I need people who care, who will back me up when I am freaking out and don't know what to do. All you zombies...you aren't like that. Only my family is. My Mom, my siblings, my aunts and uncles. The rest of you...

I have to watch my back around you. Yeah, you're charming, flirtatious, complimentary.

But that's when my mind clicks into perfect focus with reality and I understand it all...when I feel good, confident, charming. My voice gets deep and powerful...when I was an assistant instructor at my Tae Kwon Do school the little teenagers would sometimes fall down in fear simply at the power of my keyop on the rare occasions the Master would have me spar with them...it was funny, especially since I wasn't a good fighter.

The pleasant interpersonal relations are only when things are good...fair weather friends. I see how quickly you turn against me when it's not trendy to be nice to me any more, when I don't feel so in tune with this reality, when I feel irritable and depressed and can't think or breathe or speak with any volume.

I need to make sure I'm ready to fight back. But in this world the power is not only in the violence of the individual but more so in the form of the law, and persuasion of others. Logical reasoning, understanding, using references, pondering, making a solid point; that's where my gift is. That's where I have power and it will only grow with time.

You want to fuck with me, bank? You want to manipulate my withdrawals so as to charge me as much as possible? You, banker, want to defend them?

I walk in and loudly complain so everyone can hear. People start to leave. I make demands, complaints, make a scene. I write anonymous essays that dig at the bank's reputation. I look for building code violations, lack of disabled access, whatever I can get.

A smart person properly motivated is not something you can dismiss, Bank. I consider throwing a brick at the window, but no, that's a strategic mistake - I can't give the power of the law into their hands.

And guess what - the recession's over, and so are you. You're bankrupt. Your name is never seen again. But I'm still here. I don't claim credit, but I did my part. Fuckers.

Now I'm confused, depressed, tired, anxious. Am I manic depressive? I don't think so. I think they are mood swings and anxiety attacks caused by a messed up childhood. While some of the men in the family have psychological issues, the insanity only touches the women. Not only that; it passes from mother to daughter. My daughters should be safe.

I see my sister succumb to the paranoia, the delusions, the irrational rage. Then my aunt. Another aunt's brain is fried from the illness; she'll be in a home for the rest of her life. My grandma was sick too, I am told, which is the major reason other than the mental illness that my Mom has had a hard time in life. It takes two generations to recover, they say. My kids will be psychologically healthy, if I have them. Very few of my female maternal relatives are completely untouched by the madness.

Then one day, after I'd quit my job in an anxiety attack and run home to my parents who I knew would help out, my Mom asks me not to go downtown.

It seems THEY were out to get us; she and I. There was a CONSPIRACY.

I felt the blood drain from my head and neck as the terror set in. She's in no position to take care of me. It's my turn to take care of her.

Now I get it. It's not that they're dumb...I'm smart, and I'm still unable to make things work. Willpower is an illusion - I know what I need to do, and I don't do it, and demanding willpower from myself just leads to anxiety attacks and self-loathing when I fail. My Mom was sick, really, really sick, and my Dad stuck with her, despite all his own baggage. They're flawed people but they take care of family. The difficulties aren't really their fault.

The psyche has great power over us. That's the problem.

Hmm. I want to learn more about music. All kinds. Let's try gangsta rap.

Oh, snap! These guys GET IT! Dre understands! Eminem gets it! Eazy-E was an asshole, I don't like him, he's the kind of guy that gives rappers a bad name. But Snoop Dogg gets it. Sublime gets it. I'm a fan of gangsta rap for life. There is so much wisdom, so many Secrets of Power hiddin in the lyrics, and even fans of gangsta rap generally don't see them. But I do.

"They say we got to learn
But nobody's here to teach me
If they can't understand
How can they reach me?
I guess they can't
I guess they won't
I guess they front
And that's why I know my life is out of luck, fool"

Coolio, Gangster's Paradise

"Y'all know me
Still same OG
...
Hated on
...

Mad at me 'cause I can finally afford to provide my family with groceries
If it was up to me
You muthafuckas stop comin up to me
Wit your hands out lookin up to me
Like you want somethin free
When my last CD was out you wasn't bumpin' me
But now that I got this little company
Everybody wanna come to me like it was some disease"

Dr. Dre with Eminem, Forgot About Dre

"Dr. Dre be the name
Still running the game
Still, got it wrapped like a mummy
Still ain't tripping, love to see young blacks get money
Spend time out the hood, take they moms out the hood
Hit my boys off with jobs, no more living hard
Barbeques every day, driving fancy cars
Still gon' get mine regardless"

Dr Dre with Snoop Dogg, Still D.R.E.

"His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting
What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's chokin, how? Everybody's jokin now

...

He won't have it, he knows his whole back's to these ropes
It don't matter, he's dope
He knows that, but he's broke

...

This world is mine for the taking
Make me king, as we move toward a, new world order

...

But hold your nose cuz here goes the cold water
His hoes don't want him no mo', he's cold product
They moved on to the next schmo who flows

...

All the pain inside amplified by the fact
That I can't get by with my 9 to 5
And I can't provide the right type of life for my family
Cuz man, these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers
And it's no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer,
this is my life
And these times are so hard, and it's getting even harder
Tryin to feed and water my seed, plus Teeter totter

...

I've got to formulate a plot or end up in jail or shot
Success is my only mothafuckin option, failure's not
Momma, I love you, but this trailer's got to go
I cannot grow old in Salem's lot
So here I go, it's my shot. Feet fail me not,
this maybe the only opportunity that I got"

Eminem, Lose Yourself

"When I was young, me and my mama had beef
17 years old kicked out on tha streets
though back in tha time, I never thought I'd see her face
ain't a woman alive that can take my momma's place

...

shed tears with my baby sister
over tha years we wuz poorer than tha other little kids
and even though we had different daddies
tha same drama when things went wrong we blamed mama
I reminisce on tha stress I caused, it wuz hell
hugg'en on my mama from a jail cell
and who'ed think in elementary, heeeey i'd see tha penitentiary

...

and even as a crack fiend mama,
ya always was a black queen mama
I finally understand for a woman it ain't easy trying ta raise a man
ya always wuz commited, a poor single mother on welfare, tell me how ya did it
there's no way I can pay ya back
but tha plan is ta show ya that I understand
You are appreciated......

...

Ain't nobody tell us it wuz fair
no luv for my daddy, cause tha coward wuzn't there
he passed away and I didn't cry
cause my anger, wouldn't let me feel for a stranger

...

I hung around with tha thug's
and even though they sold drugs
they showed a young brother luv
I moved out and started really hang'in
I needed money of my own so I started slang'in
I ain't guilty cause, even though I sell rocks
It feels good, putting money in your mailbox
I love paying rent when tha rents due
I hope ya got tha diamond necklace that I sent to you
cause when I wuz low, you was there for me
ya never left me alone, cause ya cared for me
and I can see ya coming home after work late
ya in tha kitchen trying ta fix us a hot plate
just working with tha scraps you wuz given
and mama made miracles every Thanksgiving
but now tha road got rough, your alone
trying ta raise two bad kids on your own
and there's no way I can pay ya back
but my plan is ta show ya that I understand
You are appreciated.....

...

pour out some liquor and I reminisce
cause through tha drama, I can always depend on my mama
and when it seems that i'm hopeless
you say tha words that can get me back in focus
when I wuz sick as a little kid
ta keep me happy theres no limit to tha things ya did
and all my childhood memories are full of all tha sweet things ya did for me
and even though I act craaaazy
I got ta thank tha Lord that ya maaaade me
There are no words that can express how I feel
Ya never kept a secret, always stayed real
and I appreciate how ya raised me
and all tha extra love that ya gave me
I wish I could take tha pain away
If you can make it through tha night, there's a brighter day
everything'll be alright if ya hold on
it's a struggle
everyday gotta roll on
and there's no way I can pay ya back
but my plan is ta show ya that I understand
You are appreciated......."

Tupac Shakur, Dear Mama