June 14, 2014

  • Narrative Essay: The Fire's Forge

    Our lives, our past, is a thread from the tapestry that we are woven from, the roots we have grown from. Many times we may discover parts of our past we may be ashamed of, afraid of, or perhaps even angered by; but ultimately all of it is what made us who we are. It is to us then, to look upon our past with the unflinching eye and draw from it inspiration and strength, regardless of the trials and tribulations found there. For every moment is a moment to learn more, grow more, and in the end, become more. We are evolutionary in nature, ever changing, and dynamic; but just as we can draw upon the past for strength, so too, can we allow it to become our weakness. The choice, then, is in recognizing the fact that it is a choice, and you are ultimately the driver of your own life's story.

    But every story needs a starting place though, a beginning. Allow me if you will to paint for you, mine; a setting of the stage of sorts, a framing of reference. I have had my own malady playing for me its tune of discord for most of my life; the violence of that night, the night of my first memory, seems only fitting. It was to set the tone for the rest of my childhood. The first cord of discord to play for me was of the shouts and shatters in the other room, as my mother and father screamed and threw things at one another. I think I was three years old at the time, if not a little closer to four. Even the sky shed its tears that night and did violence, as the peals of thunder and flashes of lightning broke through the arguments in the other room. The lights had gone out, and my brother and sister and I all lay huddled in bed, terrified of the night, the darkness, the yelling, the lightning. But, you know, I don’t remember any tears or crying. We must have been so used to it by then. Our parents didn’t survive as a couple much longer, instead becoming two entities separate and distinct; divorced.

    Malady, Melody; Violence, pain, suffering. I have often used those words when I have talked about my life. As if the melody that plays in my background, that song that plays for us its sweetest of notes, leaves a bittersweet taste on my mouth, and a memory that stays with me to this day reminds me of the theme that was always present in my life: Shink, the sound of glass just as it breaks splices the air, and in its wake the silence is deafening. My brother and I had been playing, roughhousing, and he accidently broke the window in our bedroom. It was as if everything in the room had caught its breath at once, waiting, knowing what was coming, as it had come hundreds of times before. The door burst open and my father filled it, looking as if anger turned flesh. The haze of so long, so often, sinks in, and your words blur. I don’t remember what you said that day. I do remember your use of good ole fashioned ‘round and ‘round though; as your large meaty hands grab onto my hair and lift me to standing, and the swinging of your board; an inch thick, and carved with hearts to show your “love” for me. I remember that though, I remember it brought back and forth until you swung it so hard, so often, that it broke upon me. I was going to learn… I was… going to learn. The sobs, the tears, as you reached for your belt, leather this time; the slap of it across my back with your firm grip on my hair holding me up; over, and over again until you were tired, and I? I was reduced to laughter over the absurdity of it all. That must have been a trip, to have me laughing after you just beat me, couldn’t have that could we? I remember, the metal belt coming out that day, chain linked and heavy...

    When I look back on those times, those memories; I am still grateful. I mean, I was still luckier than most, at least I had a roof over my head and food in my belly, at least I was never sent to the hospital. Many people who grow up in violent homes, in turn lead violent lives; and it could have gone so much different for me. I am one of the least violent people I know, and I have used my past as a sort of mirror often; one to reflect upon, providing me with that sense of perspective I need to make sure that I am better for it. I whole heartedly believe, that were it not for my speckled past, were it not for my patron muse playing her sickly sweet maladies for me. I would not have been able to become who I am today; it was that mixture of just right that forced me to one day face my own anger, and tame it. It was that mixture of just right that I needed it to be, in order to become who I am.

    I have seen it before, how the anger or hatred can take root in a person, ever so slowly consuming them. It is as if they think struggling against their past will change things somehow. Unable to bare the burdens of their memories, I have seen people bury themselves in drink; “lost ‘n de sauce” they called it. Well they called it that for as long as they could still be coherent anyway; until they had drunk themselves so senseless they didn’t have to remember anymore, choosing to pass life by in an endless haze of drugs and alcohol instead. I have seen it fracture and break the mind of others, sacrificing their own sanity in order to cope with the burdens that weigh upon them. I have met my fair share of these people, the broken, the ones mutilated by society and discarded. Very few ever find a way to claw their way out once they start spiraling downward. My brother was like this. He turns twenty nine on his next birthday, and he has spent more time in one detention center or another; from juvie, to jail, to prison; than he has out of it. And, unfortunately, my sister has not fared much better either; managing to stay mostly clear of jail except for drug use and illegal prostitution. It’s safe to say, that in my family, I am the black sheep; and in this case that is a good thing.

    We all find our individual methods of coping eventually, with the daemons of our past, even if that way is self-destructive in nature. Mother, father, brother, sister; all caught in that downward spiral; so… how did I manage; how did I manage to be the one to claw my way free? I mean, I had the same past as my brother and sister. Moving every year, sometimes twice a year, as my father dodged both my mother and the law; causing us to be perpetually the new kids, always outsiders. We had the same family outings, as father took us to the various city dumpsters to dig for cans; to provide him with the spare change he needed for booze and drugs, those sweet nectars food stamps would not buy. We shared the same events, the same experiences, when we lived with my father. The only difference being that I happened to take my turn more often for being the eldest. So how did we turn out so differently?

    I went through a sort of metamorphosis in my youth; I was just as bad as my brother and sister ever were, as we drifted from one bad place to the next. I too was violent and ruthless, a caustic reaction to the many bullies one faces always being an outsider, contained only because of the lack of numbers to support me. There was one event however, that finally woke me up. My mother, though she had her own failings, and the men she allowed into our lives were often times no better than my father, had herself never struck me. So when I was fifteen years of age, and she had had enough of me taking my anger out on my brother through violence; she threatened to call the police on me the next time it happened, and I took it seriously. Some part of me didn’t want to become part of that cycle, some part of me needed to figure out how to adapt to life, figure out how to live and function in society; and it was that part that finally motivated me to make the choice to change.

    Change is a choice however, whether one acknowledges it actively or not. Vibing off of the hatred present in me, I could have chosen to blame life, blame circumstance, blame my past; I could have… but I didn’t. The desire to live, and thrive in this environment had too sweet a call for me. So I did what I needed too, I turned cold. I froze the currents of the ocean I was drowning in, so that I might find purchase to pull my head above the water finally. If the hatred itself was consuming me, if the heat of anger kept providing fuel for these actions, than I needed them to dissipate before I could see things clearly. I entered a state of being akin to death, so I could pull myself up and claw my way to the surface for breath. You remember those whom I told you about that fractured their sanity in order to cope? I haven’t only met ones like that; I was one such as that. I had to gut myself and sow those pieces back together properly before I could function; and piece by piece, I did stich myself back again. But it was only possible because I recognized the need, and chose to do it.

    When you are forced to critically examine your life, to look back upon it with that unflinching eye; you are forced into making a choice. “Do I blame all that has happened to me, for my current circumstances? Or do I instead, take that wheel and steer, accepting with it the acknowledgement that I, me, myself, am the sole driver of my life. I am completely responsible for my own life, independent of any previous or current circumstances that have happened or are currently happening to me.” It is the difference between a reactive life and a proactive one, the difference between one’s past becoming a source of strength and inspiration regardless of the shades and colors it took, or reactively allowing it to drag you down, weigh you down, and drown you under its own currents.

    In order to do this well and truly, to take full responsibility and mastery over your own life, to be the navigator instead of letting the currents catch and crush you; some things need to happen first. This is no self help guide, and the road I took lasted 3 years of heavy self-work, and 12 years of continuing down the road that led me to; but one element is pretty key and universal. One must learn to divest the experiences of one’s past and/or one’s current circumstance, and rob them of their claim to you. If you still harbor hatred, anger, and resentment towards your “father” he has claim to you. And, I use the term “father” here loosely, it represents any aspect of one’s past or present that one feels strongly about. This strong emotion causes one to be reactive in nature. All events must eventually be just events; so that a degree of resilience, of strength, is gained from them.

    I could have never turned serene eyes, calm eyes, upon my past, and found there the same sources of inspiration that I do now, if I did not first rob it of its claim to me. Looking at the beatings, and violence, and general lack of actual parenting; and taking from that a desire to actually study what parenting is, with curiosity and determination; there is no heat in that. Looking back on how moving every year has improved me and my character, lending me resilience and adaptability; there is no heat in that. Looking back on our family outings into the trash cans of the city, and taking from it humility and the knowledge that I am not above anything, improving once again adaptability and survivability; there is no heat in that. All aspects of my past, contribute to my current thriving, every experience a font of knowledge, understanding, and strength.

    So to you who find yourself drifting, those of you who desperately wish to gain control once again; to you, the broken and discarded: Take your wheel and steer. Let the fire and heat of your past be that crucible that fuels your own metamorphosis. Let your soul be transformed in the forge of pain and suffering, but remember this. Eventually it must cool, eventually you must temper; eventually you must find your peace, calm your waters, and create your own footholds in this ocean that tries to drown you; and think on this: “It is to us then, to look upon our past with the unflinching eye, and draw from it inspiration and strength; regardless of the trials and tribulations found there. For every moment is a moment to learn more, grow more, and in the end, become more.”