...for the most part childhood was lonely. I learned early on that I didn't fit into the "society of play," that other children seemed so naturally inclined towards. Organized play with others created anxiety, fear, vulnerability. There was always this worry of the group turning on me, the fear of physical reprisal, an uneasieness that adult words cannot articulate. So I stayed in isolation inventing games and friends and activities... ...one day I remember the other children circling manholes, like sharks, up the street on their bicycles. They had been taunting me on and off for most of the afternoon. I tried to ignore them, but couldnt and in a way I wanted them to look on...Kind of like a zoo animal doing something stupid to gain a vistors attention.
...I had spread wineberries under my eyes and on my cheeks like war paint. I dreamt up an imaginary war, where I was this "revolutionary," leading this battallion of who against what. Those details never really emerged. I swung from a plastic tire swing hanging from a tree, slapping the tree with a stick, as if it were a sword. Swooping to and fro offering muted war whoops...
...as the children looked on the rope broke and I feel landing hard on my elbow. I could hear the children laughing and cried partially because of the pain, partially because of panic.
...my Father came outside to look at me. There was an awful look on his face as he heard the children looking on, saw them laughing. It wasn't a look that a youth can decipher or that age can explain...Today I thought of this, of him. How painful it must be for a father to see his son ridiculed to know that there's nothing he can do about it, to feel as powerless in age as his child does in youth. Knowing there was no way to stop me from crying, to stop them from laughing...Things could never be the same.
