My life, in 8 billion words or less

I was born at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on June 12, 1982 at 10:29am. For the first 14 years of my life, I lived at 2844 South 68th St, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My aunt still lives there.

I had an amazing childhood. My best friend – a year younger – lived next door. Him being a year younger allowed me to develop and practice my ‘leadership’ and ‘brotherly’ skills early. After bonding with him, a few new kids moved in down the block – a perfect mix for a perfect neighborhood of friends.

We lived on one of those typical Milwaukee blocks: mostly rectangle houses, with a few duplexes, a couple two-stories, and an alleyway to separate them all. The alley became the main artery – the path that connected all of my relationships with my home. Even though I can still remember quite a bit about my past, I will always wish I could remember more. (I remember once while I was tripping on some random drug, I recalled an obscure dream I had when I was a kid in it’s entirety. Very surreal.)

All of the kids on my block were best friends with each other, and best friends with me. We always hung out when we could, we had our forts and club houses and pre-defined roles when we played games. It was absolute bliss. I never new any worse. When I would come home to my family, I was always welcomed with love and warmth. Sappy, but true, and I couldn’t be more thankful. What I didn’t know about life at that point could fill a thousand football stadiums: college-lined notebooks filled with complex problems that would eventually tarnish my view of the world. I think I might have an obsession, in fact, with building a time machine that could return me to that time – at that age – while still retaining the knowledge of life. That way, I won’t make all of the mistakes I’ve made after having learned the hard way already.

Anyway, it was only until my sister was born did I get my first taste of unbridled reality. I love my sister to death. I would do anything for her, just as one would expect. But having the title of ‘only-child’ revoked is somewhat traumatizing, especially for a 7-year-old. I had nine months to prepare, and was able to fully understand what was happening, so I wasn’t too caught off guard. But my life as I knew it was over. No longer was I the only source of love an affection, I was now the brother. The ‘big’ brother, in fact. I loved it and hated it all at the same time. I remember my mom asking me once if I thought that I received less attention since my sister was born. I said no, but really meant yes. I almost regret saying no, but I think it worked out for the best anyway, as I certainly didn’t want to take any attention from her. I was grown up enough, and had a life to live on my own. I wasn’t going to be the center of attention forever, so I might as well grow up already.

My family was raised Catholic. I never bought into it – ever, actually – but just kinda rolled with it. I knew it meant a lot to my mom, her parents, and her beliefs. Most of the time it didn’t get in the way, but there were several Saturdays and Sundays that I wished I was at home instead of church. Anyway, this also led to a defined list of words I was never to say. The usuals of course, but also words like retarded, or ‘shut-up’ were not allowed. I remember the first time I broke these rules though, and it was a feeling I have yet to experience again. I was at school, elementary school – probably second or third grade – on the playground. I was being called names like usual, but this time I decided enough was enough. I fought the urge long enough, and I was ready to say it. I took a breath, stopped in my tracks and yelled ‘Shut Up!”. It was the most amazing sense of self I would ever experience. It felt so good to express myself in such a unknown way. Granted, just yelling shut up in retaliation was no feat by any means, it was the beginning of a long journey of entitlement. A steep hill that I would eventually get stuck on several times. I still struggle with ‘how I SHOULD feel’ versus ‘how they WANT me to feel’. But for the most part, that was the first time I really broke the outer layer of the bubble I had grown up in. A protective shield my parents had set up for me without me even knowing. It took a lot to get prepared for the harsh reality out there, but I was ready for it, and I think I took it all pretty well.

A year later or so, I received my first and only ‘detention’. I was on the playground at recess, hanging around with the girls as usual. We usually stuck by a corner area that we could call our own. Along one of the walls were two large windows that had been boarded up and sealed off with caulk. Well before recess that day, and unknown to me, a fresh layer of silicone was applied to these seals. I rested my hand on the sill and slid my fingers right into the goop. As I was pulling my hand from the mess, a teacher’s aide came up behind me and asked me if I was playing in the sealant. I tried explaining to her that it was an accident, but she didn’t believe me and said, “I really think you’re going to have to have a detention.” I immediately felt my stomach drop to the floor and could feel the hot tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. The nerd. The kid who was always picked on. The teacher’s pet. Me. Detention? How was that possible? After finding out that my punishment was with the meanest teacher in the school, I was ready to end it all.

This teacher had a reputation of forcing kids to stand on one foot, while holding textbooks in both hands and on the remaining foot. I was scared out of my mind. When I arrived for my appointment, it was to my surprise that she said, “Just go sit over there until the bell rings.” One of the easiest things I’ve done so far! No sweat. I could handle life if it was this easy!

Although I love my dad more than anything, back then he had a very short temper. I was scared of him. Terrified to make him upset. Getting bad grades, getting in trouble at school, fighting with my friends were all grounds for a good yell. He would never hit me, and has never to this day. And it wasn’t even the yelling I was afraid of. No, I respected him so much that my biggest fear of my father was him being disappointed in me. Having to see the look on his face and the tone of his voice when I did something to disappoint them was enough to break me. And it did on several occasions, until I learned my lessons or avoided those situations completely.

All in all, I did very well in elementary school. I had a good following of friends, and even a crush or two. The funny part about that: all of my crushes were other boys. I didn’t know any better, of course, and just thought that was normal. There were pretty girls too, so I guess you could say I was just appreciating the beauty of my fellow human beings. I didn’t really learn what it was to be ‘gay’ until later, and boy did that complicate things.

To be continued…

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