Raptors

We lived with our grandparents in California on an acre-and-a-half of land. It had a front yard with grass and various bushes, a ranch-style house, two backyards with grass and cane as a windbreak, a chicken coop, and a chunk of desert. We had elm trees and fruit trees scattered around too.

The chicken coop housed ducks with the chickens. We had to keep the geese we had separate because geese, they make GREAT junkyard dogs: vigilant, sneaky, loud, and VICIOUS. They'd kill the chickens and ducks if otherwise.

My sister had to go to the Emergency Room when she was about 10 after the geese were done with her. She was feeding the foul alone and the geese surrounded her on her way back from the chicken coop. One decided to bite her on her stomach. It shook its head and beat with its majestic wings. She had a terrifying bloody bruise on her belly and purple bruising all down her ribs.

Years later the geese surrounded me. I punched the leader in the head. It bobbled right back up like one of those sand-weighted clown punching bags you have as a kid. It bit me anyway, but I think it was too phased by the punch to beat me.

My mom got attacked once also. She was crawling around under a car she had stowed out there. Worrying about black widows, she overlooked the geese. She ended up with three nasty purple welts on her inner thighs all said and done!

Angel and Devil

Characters

"Glib" The setting; a demon-infested town of old Route 66.
"Cookie Monster" My Mexican friend with MS.
"Tecomde" My mother, before
Angela - Cookie Monster's aunt
Diablo - No good Cracker
"Rice " distant Caucasian cousin of Cookie Monster
"Mayor" Cookie Monster's Uncle, his Diabetic mom's brother. The head of the Mexican Mafia in that town
"Loco " Mayor's renegade nephew, made all these guys look like model citizens
"Other guy" Your token Mexican gang-banger
"Blitzen" girl in our bus-stop group
"Weedon" boy in our bus-stop group - huge Buffy fan, especially when he was stoned

In Glib, I had this friend with MS. I'll call him Cookie Monster. He looked and sounded like him after all. He couldn't stand without a walker, but he learned how to ride a bike. Because of the walker, he had massive forearms. He was quite proud of them. He was always challenging people to arm-wrestle. I actually beat him twice. That's about a 0.5% victory for me though.

He was inspirationally the only kid in that town to graduate from our senior class in a High School 50 minutes away. He went through some shit, though. Thankfully his uncle ran the town of Glib, so people didn't make fun of him. But most people didn't hang out with him either. My mom says he asks about me from time to time, all these years later. I should drop a line, but I'm not nearly as strong as he.

His mom had Diabetes. She found out when they amputated her foot. By then she was so set in her ways, the loss didn't change her. She had another stroke a few months later. That time the ambulance to her home was a hearse to the hospital.

So Cookie Monster's aunt, Angela, moved in to take care of him and his little sister. She always had car trouble, but nobody knew the extent to which it would go.

The night of her birthday, my mom was trippin' on something but I didn't care. She was laughing and not twitching so I figured I'd deal. She found this old Army cargo/freight belt. It had a buckle like the ones all us California boys wore to bold up our baggy pants. But it was so long that I had to roll it up and tuck it in my pocket. As a joke, I crammed it down my pants, to bulk up my package. Then unzipped my fly and let it roll out. We all thought it was so hilarious, we decided to use it to amuse Angela at her birthday party.

That was A RIOT! She was pretty buzzed, so the look of slack-jawed astonishment was compounded. I can't even think about it without laughing out loud.

For some reason, later that night, she went to run some errand with Diablo who had since healed up from his run in with Chuck. On the way out of town there was an accident. The car flipped, slipped under the barb-wire fencing and down the embankment near the bridge where Sammy Davis, Jr. was said to have lost his eye. The car's roof caved in, crushing Angela's larynx against the steering wheel. Somehow Diablo was thrown safely from the car. The Officials who responded to the scene said she died quickly. Of course they said that.

The next day, at the bus-stop, obviously Cookie Monster wasn't there. Neither was "Rice", this mildly retarded white boy who was somehow related to The Family. Just as we were discussing the accident this car comes screeching to a halt right in front of us. Three guys jump out and run up and over the railroad tracks. Two had rifles, "Loco" ("Mayor"'s other nephew) and some guy I'd seen only once before. "Rice" was with them, and he was packing a shotgun.

We hadn't even collected our breath when the shooting started.

They thought Diablo had something to do with Angela's death, seeing as how they were alone in the car, despite the bad blood between them.

"Rice" wasn't seen at school until the following week. "Loco" went on to be chased out of town by his Uncle, only to return later and stab the man who gave me the carbide that got in so much trouble. As for Diablo, well... he was never seen again. At least not in "Glib".

Chuck and Diablo

Characters
Chuck - my pal, more uptight than me even!
Diablo - no-good cracker
"Mayor" ran the town I call Glib. He was Mexican Mafia, thankfully good friends with me ma
"Tecomde" my mother -before
Dusk - yours, truly

There's this town I refer to as Glib where I spent the time I generally call The Darkness. It was a demon-infested town that I inhabited after running away from my abusive grandparents. It was wedged between Route 66 and a dead forest and had one of the countries only remaining factories across the street. Don;t try to find it. You'd be better off in Silent Hill.

There was this white guy amongst all the current and wannabe Mexican Mafia out there. He was one of the wannabes. He had red hair but you'd only know it from his eyebrows. He kept his head Bic'd so you could see the tattoos of horns on his head.

Being at the bottom of the food chain, he had a hard-on for this kid we called Chuck. Chuck's head was large and round. Looked like Charlie Brown.

My mom was good friends with the head of the town. He was head because he was the MM rep there. This town had a post office and an elementary school, but what it didn't have was a city ordinance. No police, no fire department, no doctors. Just us, our rules, and a whole lot of desert thirsty for anything to drink.

I guess one day Chuck got fed up with Diablo. They were in the MM "mayor's" back yard, seeing how Chuck was his cousin. During a heated pushing contest, Chuck grabbed a nearby chainsaw and fired it up. Swatted Diablo in the head with it. Strange you may think, Diablo survived. Scathed. The guys ran out of the shed and dragged Chuck away before he stopped swatting and started cutting. It was still pretty messy, though. Head wounds are awful wet. I know from personal experience, though I wasn't nailed by something as surprising as a chainsaw.

The Skater vs. The Mexican

I appreciated skateboarding growing up in the '90s and all. Can't say much for the kids trying to turn tricks, I mean...no, yeah. So, not much appreciation for the ones now who wear girls' jeans. How do you do any tricks? How do you move? As if being Caucasian didn't screw with your agility enough already!

Nonetheless, I DID find it screwy that whenever a skater-poser would instigate a fight with a Mexican, they'd use their board as a melee weapon.

One day, as I was walking past my former Middle School, I saw a group of "skaters" (there WERE some REAL skaters in the next town over) messin' with some Mexican. They all looked to be about my age, Junior in High School, what is that? 16? 17? Well, the Mexican takes a fighter stance, the skater takes a feminine hay-bailer swing and gets slugged in the gut. While down there, he grabs his board. But, in a rare, fortunate twist, the Mexican pops him in the nose, snatches away his board, and proceeds to bludgeon the kid with it until it breaks. Much to the astonishment of his crew, who stared stricken at the Mexican rather than looking upon their bloodied hero/leader. Just as they all were coming to their senses, the cops come rollin' down the street. The Mexican, oddly traveling alone, made a clean get away. The others got cleaned up by THE MAN.

If you don't find that hilarious you might want to consider never reading my blog again. In my world, that was DAMN funny!!!

By the Way...

Not to confuse or anger crackers, but I'm...WHITE. Mostly Irish, enough Native-American (Blackfoot) to take advantage of if I were that kind of person, Norwegian to make things even more exciting, and Polish to prevent utter perfection.

Here it comes, the infamous smiley :) to let ya know that I have a sense of humor, just in case you lost yours on the bus.

Rasta Imposta

Heh Heh Heh!

I have this new philosophy (No, it's not Rasta --don't jump ahead). I call it NOCCON. Basically it's an acronym for NAME, OCCUPATION, CHALLENGE. It's to remind me that, at work ESPECIALLY, all that people need to know is YOUR NAME and YOUR OCCUPATION. I have a new job (therefore a new chance) and this new blog to tell my stories. Nobody at work needs to know them. I don't have to be the freak anymore. Any story I feel like telling, instead I jot a note and blog it later...

A-N-Y-W-A-Y. My sister's ex-husband's brother is white. Let me redo that: He is WHITE. Alright. he grew up in 29 Palms, California and moved to Where-are-all-the-black-folk-with-soul? Lake Havasu, Arizona. HIS philosophy IS Rastafarianism. He has RASTA tattooed on his arm for all to see.

Knowing what we know about Jamaica's hospitality toward certain types of whities, I'd really like to see him take a trip to the island. It would make for good t.v. I doubt he'd last long enough for a full season. But definitely a mini-series.

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

Rain. Drizzling down. Sluicing through pipes and gutters. Seething, crawling through the deathly-quiet desert. Sloshing off the tops of the palm trees. Desperado crickets chirping from the safety of dryness. An out-of-rhythm clock tick without the tock coming from what? - The light on the telephone pole. This brings the buzz of the power lines a little closer, just a little. The whorsh of cars sailing down the unseen street in the distance. The minute tickle-tackle of the neighboring gravel parking lot settling. A few nomadic pebbles and twigs migrating down various rivulets.

The lamp on the telephone pole borrowed from the memory of the boxy lights on the cafetorium in grade-school, only black instead of brown. The rectangle of light cast out of it is obscenely white; normally only illuminating the garbage bin. And moths, bats, and night-hawks. The clouds don't dominate the sky completely; in the distance are clusters of stars, suspended raindrops of light with their round edges sharpened, like burrs caught on the satin fabric of the atrous night. Palm trees. Pla-Doh rolled too long and used as trunks topped with giant pine-cones for beards, standing under the disheveled umbrellas of scruffy unkempt fronds.

The dust quelled, its specter nonetheless hangs in the air. The baked silicone smell contrasted with the sharp savory scent of creosote. The creosote nearly wreaking, like a collage of cacti, weeds, pine, patchouli, and Satan's Listerine. The palm trees odor is that of gritty pulp-wood and the fragrance they wear is the closest smell to grass out here.

The triple-digit air of the day warms the rain of the night. It loses its refreshing feel, and instead feels like a shower before work. Regardless of the sparse buildings and ample mountains, infinity crowds around. It gains strength from the darkness like Superman gains strength from the sunlight.

The vestige of garlic bread and fettuccine alfredo in our mouths.

Music. An idling engine, like quickened waves, high and low. The rain clatters clumsily over the corrugated steel top of the car-port. The popping, grinding, puffing of the A/C units. The fellow tenants oblivious in their apartments, distracted by canned laughter and inaudible dialog. Ever the sluicing of the rain in the gutters.

The apartments a cretaceous backdrop, teal trim pealing. Mini-blinds in all the windows, light in only some. Tawny metal framing the shadows that slip out: knick-knacks, cats, refrigerators. The dirt on the glass guides the journey of the run-off. The porch light is out-shined by the universal complex light, it in its cake shaped plastic casing on a twisted aluminum arm. The case has a jagged hole, seemingly from the same hulking moving-truck that bent the metal. The landscaping lights of the complex next-door cast up a ghostly mist, like dream scenes in old movies. The yellow safety pole by the back door, chunky cement pouring out of its iron tube, is slanted from having done its job. At bumper height, metal glints through – careless drivers! The cantankerous a/c unit has metal peeling away from a sharp slashing dent near its base. Somehow something slipped past its protector. It rests on unleveled concrete, a small tortilla chip shaped wedge slanting up. The rest of the porch's square slopes down. The car port matches the domicile's drab paint. Its shape is even more generic and forgettable. A blue stuffed bunny lies under the padlocked cabinets, forgotten.

The posts smell of stale wood and sun diluted chemicals. The smell of mold and mildew is virtually unrecognized. Even the metal smells dryer, so dry the rain can't generate rust.

Plip-plopping puddles. A Song. Pinging water pelting metal poles. The myriads of angels whispering sound of the rain.

Headlights. Stationary. Polygonal, lopsided fat diamond shapes delivering a soft, comfortable flavescent spotlight. The droplets carve through the air and cut the light into red, orange, yellow. Moist match flames without the sticks. The manufactured black color of the car. Tall, round, and compact like a dough ball. Cute, like someone else's puppy – a breed you'd never want to see as an adult.

Exhaust and sooty oil from repaired cars climb up the ladder of precipitation. They slip warily on its wet rungs.

Bodies swaying.

The warm rain tastes like a broth made of dust.

Flip-flop sandals plopping sloppy wet. The slide shuffle of the feet next to them. Swishing rain. A Song.

The blacktop is uniform in color despite the texture. The puddles that would be unavoidable temptations to children's feet if they weren't in bed are instead percussion to dancing feet.

Closer than the smell of cars is the scent of cotton, spent detergent, straining softener, and denim. The scent is warm—as if it were fresh from the dryer.

The rain is amniotic fluid to a baby. Scattered grain to a fertile field. The cushion of the shoes offers moral support. A neck supports a thick chain that slinks as the bodies sway. A ring on a finger, pressed to the back of the neck. The closest thing to cold. Earrings scratch his face, stubble scratches hers. He's nervous, afraid because he can't watch her feet. He's rebellious: who cares if we look silly! Who's gonna see us?

A wet wisp of her hair slips into his mouth when she repositions her head on his chest.

Rain gushing off their heads. The sandy voice of Rod Stewart croons his rendition of “A Kiss to Build a Dream On”. The air that's pushed out with a smile wafts up to his ear. Their breathing is steady, synchronized. Their shoes squelch like soap on a bathing body. Their clothes slurp on them like a tongue on ice cream. A moist whisper is emitted from skin being caressed. The rain pips off their arms, clips on their ears. His chain zigs from time to time, sounding like a zipper.

She is short with full round inviting curves,cartoon-round emerald eyes, a petite nose, and lips that pay homage to Raphael's cherubs. He feels her fragility as he pulls her warmth closer to him. She has a wondering look in her eyes: Is he the one? Her adorable feet are exposed in the pink flip-flops. Toes huddled together like puppies snuffling at the door while Master matches key to lock. The wet fabric of their clothing acts like adhesive urging them to bond closer still, accentuating feminine lines and masculine contours. The round stone of the engagement ring is in a vintage setting. It flashes between a shimmering glint and a determined shine, a promise versus an oath. Her earrings are cheap fake gemstones. Her mascara is running, but not from tears. Her head beneath his nose has that shampooed smell that only a girl can manage. A scent that every man fantasizes about. Her skin makes him hungry with its apple-pear lotion coating.

Their skin is warmer than the air, cooler than the rain. He uses her goosebumps as an excuse to rub her body with his hands. Their knees rub each others thighs, enticing. Her eyelashes tickle his cheek as she blinks away the rain. Finally, when their eyes lock, they're too close for their lips not to brush. His hands slide up to the back of her head pulling her in, then down her arms to her elbows stopping the dance. This kiss is special. It is a solid foundation. Hopes will rest on it. Dreams will be built on it.

" 'Oh Sh!t.' I know what that means!"

My friend, who died in December, he was my driver/partner at my old job in Arizona. I was a Service Tech for an electronics company. We drove around the tri-state area picking up t.v.s for our company's repairman to fix. Unless it was something simple, in which case I'd handle it on-site. Nothing special on my part, just intermediate repairs anyone could do if they cared to try. Only difference is that if YOU crack open your t.v., your warranty is null and void. If I did it was $50-$95 an hour.

We had nick-names we gave ourselves on the job. My partner's was SandSurfer. That's a story for some other day perhaps. My name ended up as Diamond-Cutter. Again, another time. This tale is about my original nick-name in the truck: "Trickle."

We had a Maintenance call on an old RCA big-screen. Sand-Surfer and I called RCAs ORCAs, like the killer-whales because RCAs are so lousy. No, I can't be sued for that statement, I was working on RCAs prior to and during the class-action lawsuit against RCA concerning the universally defective SSB board. Anyway, we get to the client's home. It's this old couple. Reminded me of my grandparents: the old man was passive and hospitable, the old lady was as bitter as piss. And that was BEFORE I screwed up.

Thankfully we were in town that day and not Nevada or California. That way we didn't have far to lug the t.v. I think it was around a 55 incher. Old triple CRT rear-projection set-up from the mid-80s.


On a maintenance call, I had to dismantle the major parts of the t.v. and clean the interior screen, the mirror, the lenses, and under the lenses if dust was there and was accessible. Typically the rule was that if the lenses had cross-head screws you could clean under them. If they had hex-screws, you left them alone. Or lugged the unit into the shop for the certified repair-tech to handle. As if RCA didn't suck bad enough though, this unit had good ol' flat-head screws. What's that mean?

Well, unfortunately I assumed that it meant that I could clean under the lenses. And I thought that I wanted to, too, because it looked all nasty in the tubes. I was still pretty new to the job as I recall and didn't know that a lot of times what appears to be dust is actually algae. Yeah, algae! Apparently ethyl-glycol isn't SO toxic that it won't support some life if kept at the right temperature. Basically, ethyl-glycol is antifreeze. Cooler than that is that not only does it keep the cathode-ray-tubes cool but it's one of the few liquids that won't diffuse light as it passes through. That's why the old rear-projection big-screens have their three tubes filled with the stuff. And why some tubes shouldn't be opened in homes. However, not all companies had sealed tubes involving a secondary, removable lens.

So as I crack the lens off the tube after safely removing the screws, out dumps all this fluid. Spilling over my hand and onto the mainboard. Oh, did I mention that the fluid is VERY conductive of electricity? No? Well, not only did I neglect to remember that, but also that my standard procedure did not involve unplugging the set. Dangerous, I know, but it usually saved me from having to reprogram the custom settings into most (albeit newer model) televisions. So, I feel and see this fluid spill out ALL over the boards and immediately after smell the burning ozone that confirmed my worst fears. An average mainboard ran from$500 to $1000 if my memory serves right. I'm not even there to fix this thing, I'm only there to clean it as per warranty-contract, and I've DESTROYED it! Of course I don't play it COMPLETELY cool, I utter to my comrade: "Oh shit..." He, wide-eyed, responds: "Does that mean what I think it means?" And from the living-room couch, because people LOVE watching their t.v.s--especially if they're dismantled and being cleaned-- from the couch this old cantankerous broad screeches: " 'Oh shit.' I know what 'Oh shit' means!"

What it meant was that we had to replace everything but the trim on that old t.v. And that Sand-Surfer always rode my ass about it. "Are you sure you want your screwdriver? You REALLY sure you wanna do that, huh--Trickle?"

Identity of a Man, Through a Woman

MOM
Chrysochlorous eyes, old beyond their years by several lifetimes. The rays of a warm sun after a cold winter morning were the curls around her face. When she made herself up she was the most beautiful woman on earth, to her son. A smile, always too quick to spring to her lips - always just beneath a surface. She couldn't get a good job because she dropped out. She couldn't keep any job because she silenced her doubts with crack cocaine. When she lost enough jobs and wracked up enough warrants, she'd run. She'd gotten good at it; she ran away from home at 14, she ran away from her first child - her daughter. But there must be something there, whether it's guilt or a hunger for love. Because she dragged her son through it all. She never forgot to feed him (even if it was just barely edible); never sent him off to school without adequate clothing (she'd drop him in the Salvation Army box to fish stuff out), and always provided shelter of a sort ( a literal shelter, friend's house, abandoned building, tent, car, some man's house...). Of course she couldn't find a good man, but maybe she could change a bad one, if not herself. If they changed for the worse, she'd just run.

I didn't want a man, I just wanted her. Her lived in clothes and stale tobacco hugs, her chirpy singing in the morning, her ever-ready smile, her bedtime stories, her burnt food, the sun we shared after a cold winter morning warming the car we slept in up in the mountains.

I remember her pain. The pain in her eyes as she explained that she had to take Tylenol up her nose because her throat hurt - and that I should knock. The pain in her face when I said I'd rather live with Grandma; she had never hit me, let alone beat me, before that day. She told me in earnestness that I'd grow up to be smart and strong. How could she be so sure? HER son. What did this creature know of such things? This creature that was little more than a flickering flame at the bottom of a lantern's cracked and grimy cyclone?

GRANDMA
Warm chocolate chip cookies - my favorite - and Grandpa's promise of more to come if I chose to stay. But Grandpa didn't wear the pants anymore; he made a mistake with some woman in Thailand, and Grandmother castrated him with it.

I somehow still appreciate the savory smell of grilled onions, the nauseatingly clean smell of bleach, the superstitious smell of pot roast. It wasn't just pot roast that was ominous, it was dinner in general. The salty criticisms, snide remarks, the yelling and screaming that was invariably served for dessert. There weren't too many musical tones in that place. The ones I do recall seem ironic now, if you think about it: the theme songs to "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy".

Thin celeste colored ice on a sidewalk. That was Grandma's eyes; the cold and venomous eyes of a snake.

Her fluffy hugs and monochromatic moo-moos shielded diamond-bearing fists. The sweetness of chocolate-chip cookies was overcome by the coppery taste of blood in my mouth.

Toys, that could only be played with after chores. Chores that never stopped coming, unlike the chocolate-chip cookies. Two in the morning, dragged out of the guest bed I'd been sleeping in for 5 years now and beaten bloody again. I had left my ice cream bowl in the sink. Maybe this is why Mom was so hurt when I said goodbye, why she acted so scared. Maybe this is why Aunt Mercy is so weird.

SISTER
I know why the caged bird sings: it's supposed to. My sister didn't look like a bird, but to see her move commanded your thoughts to birds in flight. Unlike me, she was dark, long, sinewy, stream-lined. Her hugs were gentle, frail, bony, fluttery - like her voice. Her voice was fluttery, like she wouldn't dare express full confidence; like a caged bird always sounds out of place, because it's not free.

It was us versus the world. Unlike most siblings, the only rivalries we participated in were who could stuff the most Atomic Fireballs in their mouth, or who could shoot the most shot-glasses of lemon juice without making a face!

I fell in love with classical music watching at her recitals. I reaffirmed my demands for freedom watching her run her marathons. She always smelled faintly of some powder. Talcum when she was in ballet. Gold-Bond when she dropped it for track & field - despite the repercussions.

When she could no longer kowtow to Grandma, like our mother she towed her children around in search of a father-figure.

Her eyes were puddles of refreshing rain-water contained in mud holes.

AUNT
Aunt Mercy had eyes the green of used, dirty money. Her hair shone like polished gold. She had a sly smile. Her size belied her movement, which flickered like the candles she burned throughout her home. When she hugged you - or made contact at all - it was always distracted. Not like it was forced, but like it was restrained.

She gave me my first Snickers bar; salty-sweet, delicious. I also tried potato-salad for the first time outside her home - gritty, awful. Her home. She'd grow frantic if you disturbed the tassels on her throw rugs. Everything smelled of incense, scented-candles, disinfectant. She smelled of beer, and of the hunt. Despite her alcohol-slurred speech she spoke in soothing tones - the better to con people with, her means of living. I don't mind potato salad these days. I don't really care for Snickers, though.

Grandpa's body finally caught up with his spirit and died. Aunt Mercy was there when it happened; she was the only one in the room. She said his suffering had finally come to an end. He had known about the cancer for three weeks. Everyone understood. She seized all the property. Grandma had a stroke and fell into Mercy's custody.

Perhaps she finally felt empowered, controlling the fate of the woman who controlled her. If not, then maybe when she took her mother's life too. I wonder sometimes, if she ever felt love, or if she ever will. I wonder, too, if she'll ever be strong enough to show love. I intend never to find out; I know enough about the darkness to identify those consumed by it.

WIFE
Another woman. A different one, not family. This one brings the essence of musicality into my life.

As my body and mind fought over which gives me more pain, I was soothed by this girl as we danced in the rain. In my storm-tossed heart is a safe, quiet place built by this girl and her warm embrace. Because of this girl who hides my tears, I've accomplished the responsibility of my years.

She chooses only the prettiest songs to sing. She holds me at night, like I hold her in the morning. Laying beside me, through her language of hums, I've learned the specialness of sun on trees - and apple blossoms.

Though I'm often distracted by her loving sighs, I can hardly get mad when met by virid entrancing eyes.

Though she's already done it, she still tries to please me. Only she knows how I like my coffee! She prepares my “gourmet” meals for the entire week. Still, she says I'm the one who's humble and meek. She's able to clean our home phenomenally quick. But she'll take the time to make me chicken-noodle-soup from scratch when I'm sick. Unmatched as a woman - especially as a cook! Yet she can recommend (to any man) a good movie or book. So, I found the courage to love again, and I love her - as much as I'll love my children. And I'll be glad to share, with them, my best friend.

They'll grow up to be smart and strong, like my wife says I am in the songs she sings. Her view of me reminds me of a flickering light once calling a boy such things.

ME
My mother is still without a home of her own, though she knows now that she has someone who loves her. All people make mistakes. All the more reason we shouldn't be so unforgiving – especially with ourselves. Anybody can change, they just need someone to turn up their wick, help them clean up and let the light shine through.
But, then again, some people don't need to change themselves; they simply need to alter course.

When I could finally meet my own eyes in the mirror, I saw chrysochlorous eyes. I saw strength, intelligence, my mom.

I am a man. I am perhaps the first person in my family to find their identity.