This LJ is now mostly locked; however, I do welcome new readers/friends, especially people who comment and interact in a nice respectful way :) Be welcome! If I forgot to notify you that I added your LJ, I do apologize. Also I tend to drop people if they haven't posted for awhile; if that happened and you're back lemme know! The public entries will likely be therealljidol entries, and I encourage you to check out that community.

People of note, whom I often refer to you without reference/context at the time:
Granny: My maternal grandmother.
Grandma: My paternal grandmother.
David: My brother, who is almost my exact opposite and the person I respect most in this world, even though we don't agree on a lot of stuff.
Mom/Dad: Parental units, obviously.
The Pox: bexfabulous, all-around hoodlum.
J.Bola: The Pox's boyfriend.
My tattoo artist: lastporter- more than sort of awesome.
Junior: An almost, but not quite, nemesis.
The Bearded One: A friend, former crush, and older brother to J.Bola.
Snarls: My socially-challenged cat.
The Gentleman Caller, also 'GC' and 'Ben': leroy_brown242, the abusive partner in a past relationship.
Max Powers: glowing_fish, friend and ex-boyfriend.

Succinct summary:
Age/Sign: 35, Aquarius

How long have you had your LJ: Um... October 2002? Not sure, but the Pox got me on it.

What does your username mean: I used to dye my hair with henna with cinnamon mixed in... also I like Neil Young. But Cinnamongirl was already taken. Also I then switched to paprika, as it gives a more vibrant red. Any coy 'sinful' connotation was unintended.

What is your favorite thing about LJ: Interaction with people I'd never normally meet.

What is your motivation on Live Journal? I work from home, so it's hard for me to remain connected/interactive IRL (I'm an introvert with depression problems), and also I've been journaling since the 2nd grade, so it was a natural progression to do it online.

Have you ever met anyone on your F List in real life? A couple of them, yes! Though my original small Flist were people I knew IRL.

Do you have a paid subscription? I believe I do.

Where do you live: Southern Oregon; I have a mailing address and a few places to stay but no real fixed home for myself.

Do you have an accent? To quote a guy I went on a date with many years ago, "you're the only person I've met who doesn't have an accent. You sound like the people on TV."

Do you have pets: An old and grumpy cat, a brand-new kitten, and also live with 2 dogs of Granny's and 1 cat of mom's (whom I fostered as a kitten even though he's lived with her for 6 years)

Did you go to school: Under protest I went to a traditional 4-year college. Then trade school. Then a whimsical fling with art classes. Then a less-whimsical fling with graduate school, which I dropped out of after a little over a year.

What do you do: Yearn to do other stuff, mostly...

Do you have more drama, at home or at work: At home. Where I also work.

Who do you often write about: Family, friends... the usual.

I went out that night for cheese curds and beer
In some tight pants that showed off my derriere
Scooped up the friends who were on a tear
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

Arrived at the bar, got a table for eight
Ordered the crazy-sized fried cheese plate
On your mark, get set, go, open the gate
To shovel it down before it coagulates

Halfway through there was a pang in my rear
Stomach rumbling, cramps so severe
I wished my intestines would disappear
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

I fled to the bathroom, locked the door
Skidded to the toilet on the slippery floor
"Never again!" I think I swore
As I fell to the toilet and released the gore

Fried cheese curds & bubbles, it became clear
Turn my insides out & eminently queer
I apologized profusely to the next toileteer
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here


------
edit 1 done 3/26

There are a lot of ways to roofie a person, but one drug that gets a lot of blame (or attention) is GHB. GHB is a liquid that can be poured into other liquids and should cause anything from drowsiness and confusion to straight-up passing out. What people don't realize about GHB is that the dose is extremely variable from person to person - there's no guarantee that what you give someone will actually have an effect. Also, GHB is very salty. I didn't realize that myself, not until dad gave me some GHB, and I had to choke down this salty (and oddly oily) liquid. More and more of it, as it had no effect on me.

Luckily this isn't a horrific story that requires a terrible trigger warning - Yes, my dad gave me GHB. But I knew it and consented to it, and went off to my bedroom alone and unmolested to, quite emphatically, not sleep at all. After dad started drinking again, he branched off into other drugs as well. He was chasing something, and despite his assertion he was going to "smoke his way to heaven," I'm not sure even he knew what he was chasing. Sometimes I see my dad in myself and my own decisions, and I grasp vaguely at his end-goal, but it floats away. Me, I'm chasing self-worth and confidence; I think it would be too arrogant to assume the same for him, though in the end we're all chasing those things - some simply to a far greater extent than others. Some of us have a much larger void to fill; some will never fill it, perhaps especially the ones who try to fill it with drugs and alcohol.

One of dad's tricks was to look overseas for his substances. Codeine from Europe, Turkish poppy pods from Canada ("for dried flower-arranging purposes"), GHB from... wherever it was from. I think also Canada, but I'm not sure. As long as it didn't get confiscated by Customs, it was smooth sailing (besides that one summer there were odd clicks on the telephone line, but nothing arose from those). So, one night when I complained of insomnia, dad gleefully went to the cupboard and pulled out a large mason jar of clear liquid - relatively odorless too. He gave me his own usual standard dose, and that's when I discovered it was salty. Gross salty. We waited; nothing happened. I took more. We waited longer; nothing happened again. Finally we maxed out the amount he was willing to give me - not because he was concerned about safety, simply because he didn't want me making too big a dent in his supply. I finally went to bed but never went to sleep, so scratch GHB off the list of insomnia remedies for me.

Another time, dad told me that if you took a sleeping pill (in this case Ambien) and stayed awake on purpose, you'd have some great hallucinations. He figured they were the dreams you were supposed to have, but you'd tricked yourself into being conscious of them. I was uninterested in this but was desperate for sleep, so I took one of his Ambien and went to bed. Again, I didn't mean to stay awake, but as it turns out, my particular type of insomnia is rather resistant to drugs. As I did all sorts of other relaxation exercises, I prayed for sleep, it didn't come, so I thought, well, if I'm not going to sleep I may as well see about these hallucinations. As I contemplated my sad existence, a crack in the ceiling wiggled. Just once, like a worm shuddering, and then it stilled.

That was it. That wiggle was the hallucination. I was unable to sleep the rest of the night; too tired to get up and move, so lay there and lay there, but all I saw was that wiggle.

Conversely, there was one night I slept the best sleep I've ever experienced. Dad had gotten his hands on about a foot of San Pedro cactus and whipped up a batch of mescaline which he wanted to share with me. As before, my partaking was a combination of interest and being unable to withstand his pushiness. We prepared - showers, clean clothes, clean house, some meditation - and then split the dose in half and alternated swigs of mescaline with swigs of orange juice. The mescaline itself is gross, but it melds with the orange juice in your mouth to make this deliciously indescribable flavor. We parted ways, dad and I. I ended up sitting on the couch, felt tired, laid down, then next thing I knew I was waking up feeling refreshed, happy, energetic, pain-free, knowing that I'd had vivid and wonderful dreams the night before but not able to remember any of them. I was excited, optimistic, balanced emotionally... it was, frankly, amazing.

I'm sleeping better these days - the PTSD isn't as present, I'm learning mindfulness to handle the anxiety and panic attacks, valerian root for the chronic pain, and I'm not in contact with my father. Often in life it's the little things, but in some cases it's also the very big things - the lack of drugs, the lack of fear, the lack of strife. Sometimes I like who I am in the context of all these random things; sometimes I struggle to remind myself that without these experiences, I wouldn't be who I am today so should be grateful, at least on some level, that I had a dad who'd feed me GHB. He tried, in his own way, to help with my problems and to share his knowledge. In some small way, too, it expands outward - if you're ever out at a bar or a pub and have left your drink unattended then take a sip, and it tastes weirdly salty - put it down. I don't know how to identify all the other roofie drugs out there, but I can do GHB. In that sense, at least, I am roofie-proof, thanks to dad.

My father is an alcoholic and a drug addict. It wasn't the worst in my childhood; he'd gotten clean and sober and replaced drugs with religion. That's another story entirely, the religion. One feature of my life, starting when I was maybe 10, maybe 12 or 13, was the knowledge that we didn't talk about what went on at home. Dad didn't start drinking again until I was 14, but even before that, I remember my mom telling me not to talk about our home life - not with friends, not with teachers, not with fellow churchgoers. I knew that was wrong, but I also didn't argue. One feature of life with an addict of any stripe is silence. Silence maintains the structure. Silence is fear, and control. Silence for my father was validation that he was doing nothing wrong. Silence for my mother was maintaining the precarious balance of life. Codependency is a bitch.

We moved around, a little, after the drinking started again, including moving back to the home of my heart, and ultimately moving to a house on the lower slope of a beautiful, if potentially deadly for the stupid, plateau. I've mentioned, then, my fear and dislike of rattlesnakes, perhaps touched on my absolute loathing for black widows, somehow forgotten the cougars, but have not yet mentioned the coyotes.

And, you know, as much as one wants to make the coyote out to be a misaligned but noble and beautiful creature, reality is that they're often mangy and crazed looking. Still awesome - I'd still fully try to tame one if I found it as a pup, my last thought as it gnawed my face off, "but it's so cute!" - but they're... often not the most impressive animal in the kingdom.

Oftentimes, I would get off work, go out with friends, smoke weed and drink cheap alcohol (at the time, $5 got me a bottle of Night Train or Thunderbird and a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill to wash it down; definitely did the trick, though there's a horrible irony in drinking and smoking weed in order to cope with my father's drug and alcohol problems). I told my parents we were watching movies, normally. Since dad often didn't want me in the house, to the point where some nights I wasn't allowed to sleep inside the house so would drive to parking lots and sleep in my car, or at friend's houses if I could find them before they went to bed, even if they thought I was lying, it helped keep the peace at home if I said I was watching movies with friends. Always, always keep the peace.

At the same time, if people knew I wasn't sleeping at home, it would count as "telling" others about our home life. It would raise questions, possibly concerns. It would make it a lot harder for my parents to keep the silence about dad's addictions. I would sober up and drive home - or sometimes not sober up and drive home. For my life, that is the decision I regret the most, and I cannot shake that regret, of my past choices about driving impaired. If I could get home before dawn, I could rest, avoid my parents, make it back to school or work on time.

It was this hour, the blue hour, the hour just before the sun rose, that the coyotes started to come through our yard. I'd get home, park, trudge upstairs and get some water or coffee, then go out onto the upper deck to smoke my final cigarette before sleep. Only a few miles from the river, we often had a fog wafting through the valley, which diffused the light into a soft shell around the house. Before the sun peeked over the horizon and the clouds turned to pink and orange, the world was a misty blue on top of the greens and golds of the valley. Every morning for an entire summer, a pack of coyotes coursed over the road, up the hill, and cut across our yard to circle the plateau on their way to wherever.

This was the only silence that calmed me - myself alone, the gentle sky, the quiet air, the aura of the coyotes' intent focus - halfway between "normal morning commute" and "really important coyote business." There was always one coyote about 15-20 feet behind the rest; I never knew (and still don't) if that meant he was an outcast or the rear guard, but in typical high school fashion, I named the straggler "Holden," and empathized with him every day. In hindsight, if that was a rear guard coyote, it was probably a different one every day. But at the time, all I saw was that lone coyote, not part of the pack but determined not to be left behind. It was never a clear-cut metaphor; I never realized I loved that coyote so much because it was me, and the pack was my family. I do remember the peace that spread over me; if I missed them one morning, I missed them the entire day. Life moved on; I went to college, they went wherever coyotes go, but for one summer, the blue hour was the only hour I knew peace.

If there is one thing I, your hero, am not good at, it's seduction. I can't even pronounce the word correctly because it sounds too silly to me, so I pronounce it like seduckseeon which obviously is way more ridiculous, so at least I laugh at it. To myself. Because I have driven people away with my lunacy. But, in the way of coincidences, I'm soon to be faced with yet another seduckseeon (don't forget the vaguely French nasal "on" when you pronounce that), and this week's prompt reminded me of one of my first.

( Cut for sheer embarrassmentCollapse )

It was a dark and stormy night in the foothills of the Cascades when I, your hero, was thrust into this world. Well, it was night at least, so it had to be dark. Stormy is up for debate, though February near the mountains there had to have been some little gusts or flurries. So, dark and stormy it is! I was born in the hospital of this small town because the even-smaller town in which my family lived had no birthing facilities. It turns out the even-smaller town didn't have much else to recommend it, besides being situated in a truly beautiful location. Sadly, this location is inside Cascadia, and not the state of Jefferson which has always been the home of my heart.

My father, when asked, claimed that we lived in the above small town for one reason and one reason only - he was forced to move there. Somewhat forced. There was another town he could have gone to which apparently was even worse. The force came in the form of his boss, who discovered that my father had been embezzling money and told him to get out of Jefferson or get beaten, and dad chose to get out. Take this story with a grain of salt; I always have. Dad fancies himself a criminal mastermind of sorts, when really he's just a drug addict who's not very good at not getting caught. He is, however, weirdly good at weaseling out of the consequences of his actions, but that's another story entirely.

I spent my childhood going back and forth between the northern towns and the southern valley which I love, the home of my heart. At one point we moved from the very-small town up north in with my paternal grandparents in the southern valley. Three blissful months in the sun, the heat, the orchards, and the barn, until dad packed us back up and we went even north, further away. Though, granted, this may not have been the worst choice, as once you've spent 3 days with his parents, let alone 3 months, you may understand why he was a drug addict.

Cue another round of back and forth, back and forth, north to south, south to north. Your hero here and her older brother spent vacations running up the Table Rocks, where the world began, rafting down the rivers of life, gorging on the succulent fruits of this land of milk and honey. Then we trudged back up north to the gray and the grind. One time, around the age of 9, your hero broke her strong facade and sobbed, "I want to go home," as she was packed into the car and driven north past the shadow of the Table Rocks. "We ARE going home," your hero's parents exclaimed, "We'll be there in 4 hours." Your hero tried to explain that in fact we were leaving her home, the land of milk and honey to the south, to the bewilderment of her family, who did not understand how one could have a home of the heart separate from the roof over one's head.

It was some years later that I, your hero, was able to make her way back home in the presence of her family at the age of 16. But that is also the age when one is going to leave the nest, make the way into the world, and your hero sadly had to leave many times before coming back, possibly for good, possibly not, but at least for now in the home of her heart.

( Pictures under the cut, because pictures take up a lot of roomCollapse )

America is a myth. It's a beautiful myth. It's the myth of equal rights, acceptance for all, and democracy. It's the myth of,

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

It's the myth that we can call something a "right" but only allow some members of society to have that "right." It's the myth that anyone from anywhere can achieve the American dream. It's the theme of New York amplified: "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere." It is the myth that all are equal.

Then there's America the reality. The reality that even while we are built on a foundation of immigration, each large wave of immigration has been met with prejudice and backlash. It's the reality of "No Irish need apply" and "No vacancies for blacks". It's the reality that allows an entire country to deny sheltering refugees from a war-torn country - men, women, and children all - because of the fear that one of them will be a terrorist, despite the fact that at least 80% of terror attacks on American soil are committed by American citizens".

This is not to say there's no intersection of the two. The reality is that the right for adults of sound mind to marry whomever they love is still not an actual right. It's a privilege extended to only certain groups of people. The progress is that Americans have fought, and fought hard, to extend that privilege far enough for it to be considered a right. In 1967, it was finally deemed legal at the federal level for people of different ethnicities to marry each other. That's only 60 years ago. In more recent decades, of course, the right to marry has been extended - slowly and lurchingly - through various states to those in same-sex partnerships. The myth and the reality of the right to marry are coming closer and closer.

Voting is another right some take for granted because our reality is much closer to the myth, but that gap was closed after hard work and hard fighting. Women were granted the right to vote in 1920. It wasn't until 1965 that LBJ enacted legislation to ensure that barriers to minority voting were lowered, so that all citizens could in fact exercise their rights as guaranteed, without interference, intimidation, and manipulation by those who did not want minorities to vote. Up until last year, I myself felt pretty secure in all our citizens' voting rights, excepting of course those criminals who are barred from voting due to felony convictions (which I don't agree with, but that's another tangent). Then in this last election, we learned that there were far fewer polling places available to voters, disproportionately affecting poor, rural, and minority populations", as well as targeted actions focused on party lines and also affecting poor and minority populations". Many people focused on the ID issue - shouldn't voters show ID to prove who they are? It's hard to argue with - except my entire state uses mail-in ballots. I've been voting since 1998, and I have never once had to show ID. I sign up online, my identity is verified with certain numbers, and I'm registered. Yes, I need my driver's license number. No, I have never shown ID.

As you may be aware, a Women's March occurred on Saturday. It was affirming, rewarding, community-building, concrete action. Even if that is the only thing a person does in their lives, adding numbers to the estimated 4 million (worldwide) is an act on its own. It states not all of us accept an administration aimed at killing the myth of America. This administration rests solely on the reality of the United States, and it is a grim, ugly reality. It is the reality we deserve to be slapped with in our collective face. It is the reality that many citizens are complacent; that we pay more attention to the myth of the United States than its reality. Part of the shock and horror of this election is that cognitive dissonance from waking up and realizing things aren't as good as they're said to be.

There are, of course, those who have been struggling and working all along to bring the myth and the reality together. These are the people we should all emulate. There are also the people who don't realize there's a distinction at all - the ones who scornfully ask just WHICH rights women don't currently have, dismissing the action as a bunch of spoiled middle-class females reacting to a bigoted serial sex assaulter in office. The ones who say this march means nothing, that it's one big collective virtue signal, that it is a waste of time. The ones who are bewildered, dismissive, and condescending are the ones for whom the reality and myth are synonymous. They are the ones on the inside who cannot look out and acknowledge theirs is not the only American experience. These are also the ones I find myself not being able to communicate with; the ones so hard to defend against, like trying to pick up a blob of oil with your bare fingers. It's very hard to explain to someone that the very fact they are insulting those who march is the exact reason the march needed to happen.

The ironic thing? I didn't even make it to the march. Insomnia messed me up. I'm pretty disappointed I wasn't there walking alongside others who want to make a difference. We probably don't even agree on what that difference is, and that doesn't matter. What matters is that the complacency and oblivion are melting away; in their place are growing, footstep by footstep, a new awareness that "We the people..." is not just an old phrase. It is the very literal foundation of our country. "We the people" allowed the circumstances that resulted in this mess; "we the people" will fix it. Bodily. By being together, walking in step, enjoying unity of purpose, making the myth of the United States become its reality. A reality where anything called a "right" is in fact extended to everyone, not chosen groups. A reality that merges with the phrases and slogans we sling around so handily - of acceptance, welcoming, community. It will obviously require more than a single march. It will require hard work, dedication, and inclusion, going forward with future actions at all levels in all communities. It will require an awareness and a compassion for others and the ability to extend a helping hand to anyone.

That's what brings me joy, and relief, now that this march has happened. It is a perfect example of myth becoming reality. It's a glimpse of the future to come. All balanced on the heels and toes of those who care enough to step outside.

______
Edit: Since the Idol deadline was extended, I wanted to clarify about voting: Oregon established vote by mail in 1998, the year I turned 18. I registered to vote on my 18th birthday. However, I do remember volunteering as a poll worker either in 1997 or 1998 (I'm guessing 1998, as I think you have to be at least 18 to do this), and as near as I can remember, acceptable voting ID included a voter registration card only... I can personally attest to the fact that, while one may consider this lackadaisical, not requiring photo ID, we checked and double-checked the voter registration lists and only allowed those with a match to vote. However, many people don't realize that as long as you're in line to vote at a polling place, they CANNOT shut down until the last person in line has voted. When we speak of voter tampering, that is it. When we speak of counties banning Sunday voting, which prevents working-class people with no paid time off from voting, that is voter tampering. So, because I could easily go off on a tangent, I'll just recommend reading those links above for more information on that issue - whether or not you fully agree, it's a good issue to explore, in order to forestall such issues in the future. Think about alternatives such as vote by mail. Oregon has now, in fact, put in a system where you're automatically registered to vote when you apply for or renew a driver's license. Some don't like this, some do. But at the least it does prevent the opposite from happening - thinking you're registered when really you're not.

I had a hockey phase - watching, not playing. Something about the speed, grace, and burly men occasionally grappling each other out of nowhere (same reason I sometimes watch MMA, I'm not gonna lie), and I was hooked for a good... year? I had a basketball phase as well, though that lasted longer (the late '80s/early '90s Trail Blazers were a team of beauty). I'm into football and baseball now, football more so. Horse racing on a sporadic basis. Ever since that one time I lost a winning ticket at the track up in Portland, I've been a bit leery of the ponies, though later - much later, when I got over the fact I'd bet my last $10 and won but threw the wrong ticket in the trash - I was able to appreciate living out a Bukowski poem of my own. Mostly appreciate.

The Pox is really into horses - I already bragged about the Pox a little bit yesterday, but this is a public post, so I get to brag again. The Pox just received an Oregon Literary Fellowship to write about horses and horse-related things. It's the Pox who taught me how to bet on the ponies in the first place (or at least tried, I'm still not very good at gambling), and who reintroduced me to horses after a long hiatus (I won't tell my own sad horse story now though). When she and J.Bola were off to get their masters degrees, I could've tagged along with them, shouldered my way into a program, or at least enjoyed the delights of Fargo/Morehead (hereinafter referred to as F/orehead), but instead I stayed in Portland and occasionally pestered them for writing tips. I called it "my vicarious MFA," though really didn't do much with the knowledge.

I worked. I made extra money for the first time in my life, and I tried to enjoy it. Granted, it wasn't a lot of extra money, and granted much of it was spent on beer and restaurant food, but I was finally free(ish) from the burden of caring for my parents and out on my own for the first time, so I enjoyed it. You see, and there's no good transition here so we're not even pretending to segue; see, part of the reason I moved to Portland was to get away from the family (drug addiction and codependency issues), and I used going back to school for an art degree as an excuse. I could've done that anywhere, but Portland was the choice at the time. I had - still have- always wanted to be a better artist. I would like to make art to sell it. I would also like to be a better writer; make stories, and sell them. But I also have a lifetime of obligation behind me. Despite not speaking to my father for a few years now, I can still hear his voice in my head telling me that while I'm good at these things, I can't support a family that way, so I'll have to choose something else.

Only lately have I really internalized the bitterness in his voice was for him and his obligations, not me and mine... though since the age of 14, he was my obligation. When he talked about supporting a family, it turns out he was talking about himself and mom (which is also another story I won't tell here; in fact, have told too often before). To this day, right now, sitting here typing this - for fun, for practice, for me - I have an underlying sense of guilt that I'm not completely occupied with finding a job, that I'm a burden to my family.

So, you also see, ever since my business collapsed a few years ago, I've been determined to make my old dreams come true. The dreams that made me run away from my supposed obligations, the dreams that I dreamed all the time I was doing what was expected of me. I have ideas. I have a plan. I have things to set in motion. I am simply sitting here not doing them (I am, in fact, trying not to get anxious because a therapist friend just - and I mean that literally - messaged me this: "So I hesitate to say this because I know how your anxiety goes but a sense of foreboding and mental confusion can both be signs of impending heart attack. Are you okay other than those two things?" So, basically, I'm sitting here waiting to die, now, with my dreams definitely not fulfilled).

Years ago the Pox and I had a talk about dreams and paths through life, and I tend to forget this, but after seeing the Pox move forward and achieve yet another goal, accomplish yet another.... accomplishment (sorry for redundancy; I'm still worried I'm going to die), I'm going to remember it: The Pox follows not a path but a trajectory. I tend to follow a path. Step 1, step 2, step 3, SUCCESS. This is not realistic or helpful. There's even a helpful internet image going around lately - success is not a straight line but a squiggle. A trajectory, an arc, an orbit, an arch, a bow, a crescent, a vault, a parabola where puck meets stick no matter what happens in between. Channeling my inner Gretsky, pummeling grown men out of my way to score that goal, to finish this post and get up and take a baby aspirin and my blood pressure because oh my god I'm going to have a heart attack any second now! But from excitement, not fear. Writing this did the one thing I didn't expect it to - motivate me.

edited at 1:11 PST to add: This Facebook status is what prompted the therapist friend to message me about my impending death: "I have a deep sense of foreboding about today, presaged by my mind going completely blank and having to google "angry postman poet guy" because 'Bukowski' so completely evaded me."

I have 3 stories about baseball. Scratch that, I just looked up the definition of a story. I have 1 observation, 1 anecdote, and 1 story about baseball. The observation is that, as a small child, I always wanted to do what my older brother did. I was jealous of everything he had, by dint of being older and a boy, and wanted it for myself. He played Little League, and I never got to.

The anecdote is that, on a bright sunny day in my middle childhood, my father broke my heart by tagging me out during a neighborhood pickup baseball game.

The story is this: In middle school, my 8th grade year, I had a horrible PE teacher. I've no idea to this day what I did to annoy him, if anything, besides being not very good at team sports. Oddly, because my family had been very active, and I definitely enjoyed physical activity. I simply did not like physical education class. Or this teacher, so at least that was reciprocal. I also had asthma and bad ankles and a bad back, plus had a religious waiver so didn't have to participate in the dance unit of PE, which was both a relief and embarrassing at the same time. I also, quite frankly, would have preferred to spend all my time in the library.

That said, on yet another bright and sunny day, we began our baseball unit. My class and another PE class trooped out to a back field together, the teachers strolling and chatting, the kids lugging bins of equipment. I stared off into space as per my usual, dreading my turn at bat, the eyes on me, the inevitability of despair - I'd either hit the ball and have to run - run! - in front of everyone, or miss the ball and disappoint my team. Horror.

When I walked up for my turn at bat, my PE teacher - Mr. Griffin - turned to the other PE teacher and rolled his eyes a little. I saw it, but I figured I'd strike out and be done with it. He'd let me go sit in the grass and pick dandelions once he saw how useless I was. I picked up the bat and held it loosely, staring off into the grass and mentally picking out the spot I would sit in, out of the way, not bothering anyone. First pitch whooshed by, too close, and I swung apathetically. I can't even call it a bunt, it was the baseball equivalent of a whimper. I heard a few laughs, imagined more eyes rolling, and ponied up again. I got a better grip on the bat and swung - missed.

At this point, Mr. Griffin yelled something at me - "Tighten up! Fix your stance!" or something like that. Who knows? It didn't matter, he was a windbag and the bane of my existence for 45 minutes every day. But I did tighten up. All those years of wishing I could be in Little League like my brother, the long summer afternoons of joyfully playing with the neighbors and family, my dad's voice in my ear and his hands over mine, showing me how to turn my body, point my toe down, coil up on myself and make the bat an extension of my arms.... I went into a perfect batting stance. Third pitch, third swing, and a -CRACK- as the bat connected with the ball, slicing it out over right field, over my classmates' shocked heads, right into the blackberry bushes that bordered school property.

Everyone - including myself - was shocked. In fact, I was so shocked that I didn't quite know what to do. As I stood there, jaw open, bat dangling, watching the ball arc through the sky, I heard Mr. Griffin turn to the other teacher and say, "Even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut."

Maybe he meant to whisper it. Maybe he didn't realize I could hear. Maybe he just didn't care. I turned to him, my awesome-shock turning to anger-shock. We locked eyes. The other teacher said nothing, just looked deeply embarrassed. Mr. Griffin didn't even show embarrassment. I had a choice, right then. I could walk into the principal's office, sit down, wait politely to be seen, and inform them that... what? That a class I didn't care about and a teacher I didn't respect had proven to be the same old things they always were? Or, I could run to first base.

I compromised by walking to first base. I gave (what I hope was) a condescending sneer which communicated my utter lack of regard for Mr. Griffin, dropped the bat, and strolled around the bases while the other team scrambled to extricate the ball from the blackberry bushes. Neither teacher would meet my eye for days afterward. I hadn't stood up for myself, but I also hadn't cried publicly so at the time counted it as not quite a win, but definitely not a loss on a personal level.

Sometime later, during the hot months, I barfed on Mr. Griffin's shoes. I've always felt he deserved it, and I hope somewhere inside, he felt he deserved it too.