spending so much on their lifestyles when i was very young.
perhaps before i was born.
an old shoebox. the faded $125 dollar price tag, worn away in spots.
our house sat hunched in the "inexpensive" part of an expensive neighborhood. pops was a middle manager at a bank, an immigrant who had come here and faced a continual struggle to live the so-called american dream. the only things i saw from him on a regular basis were a neglected body, a repressed mind and signs of constant stress.
for a while, i feared him; there was always an undercurrent of his traditional upbringing in his eyes anytime that one of the kids had done something wrong. he wanted to give someone a good beating, but settled for unspoken intimidation and threats of kicking us out on the street. i remember thinking about leaving a few times, but there was nowhere to go.
by the time i was a teenager, money seemed to be getting tight; no more vacations, no more expensive shoes for mom, the house had started to fall apart. the cupboard was more empty than full. tension seemed to spread from pops to mom; her face was often pinched, her manner distant and preoccupied. i started to withdraw, realizing that my brother was becoming increasingly violent, to the point of being a mild sociopath. as it became obvious that my mother would use manipulative tactics on anyone or thing that she couldn't crush by dint of authority, i withdrew from her as well.
my teachers at school were surprised that i often knew things about their subjects that were neither in the syllabus nor the textbook. classes became lessons in the torture of imploded daydreams. in creative assignments, rather than write about myself i would concoct stories that conveyed feeling without personal detail. of course, this was seen as disobedience, and i sat in detention much more often than anyone knew.
eventually, pops lost his job. the middle class illusion was gone along with the house, the lawn, the family savings, and my grandmother's sanity.
my friends changed, my attitude changed. i started to like to fight. there was a certain pleasure in frustrating my teachers, but in the end the battles would be lost. otherwise they would have lost face, lost authority. sometimes i was wrong, but didn't care.
destructive, but not self-destructive. attempts to destroy myself only resulted in my becoming something else. hence, a recurring thought has become "anything i can get myself into, i can get myself out of." there is still no apparent future, but my ability to use foresight to manage the unexpected has improved, by necessity.
i have a friend who's father is a diplomat. although he crows on about his
travels, trials and achievements, everything he has gained comes, directly or indirectly, from his family's support and/or connections. he likes to say "we are so lucky..."
in a way, it may be that i have charmed him, as i have done with many others. i reflect to them the most interesting parts of themselves. eventually they come to identify me with those parts, never knowing that they are actually gazing at a polished reflection of their idealized self-images.
in writing "middle-class" privelege, this is what i mean. something that others referred to in the past, but that i could never taste, feel or touch... i never knew my father: saw him sometimes, heard his angry, frustrated voice every now and then, touched him rarely, was never allowed into his world.
it doesn't matter now. my parents and older brother are perfect role models: they demonstrate exactly what
not to do
unless wants to lose everything,
or have nothing in the first place.
the middle class no longer exists for me.
there is only real success or nothing at all.
audio: buscemi . seaside
