Ashy Knees and Stone Washed Jeans

Once while visiting my in-laws, I saw a picture of my husband as a child. He was about 7, and was wearing a tight t-shirt, red I think, and cut off stone washed jeans with ashy little legs and those 80's style glasses that looked more like protective goggles than anything that could improve one's sight. As a man, my husband is clean cut, wearing a low fade with no hint of the potential curl his fairly straight hair can have. As an ashy kneed little boy, he had a head full of hair, curly, shiny, and black, which only empasized the disparity between the size of his head and the size of the rest of his body. Whenever he mentions his childhood, I think of that image, with him walking on the side of the road in beat up, formerly white hight tops of no recognizable brand kicking the rocks in his path, carrying a Voltron lunchbox with a bookbag that was far to large on his back. I don't know how much truth there is to this image, but it's one that I hold dear. When given the opportunity to day dream, I imagine what a day in the life of this little boy must look like, and how much different it must have been from mine. . .

If he were 7 then I was 9 and living the life of an inquisitive child who never wanted for anything. I spent my days at school waiting for it to be over and my mother to come and get me from the afterchool program where I would cross stitch and make friendship bracelets. As a child, I enjoyed being outside in the sun, and as a result, my hair had faded to an Aboriginal red, worn in braids, and I managed to have ashy legs as well, as I have always suffered from overly dry skin. My glasses we also too large, and were designed in a way that made strangers stop me on the street and inform me that my glasses were upside down. I don't know if you've ever put on glasses upside down, but know that doing so requires some effort, and keeping them that way requires even more effort, so one would have to be a certified idiot to not notice their glasses were on upside down. But clearly, as children, we are at the mercy of our parents whims and awkward fashion sense, and decisions like those are often made hastily as you just want to get the hell out of the doctor's office. The rest of my fashion decisions revolved around Bart Simpson and cut off stone washed jeans. My book bag was too large, and I never had a lunch box as I always bought my lunch at school, but I did manage to kick every rock foolish enough to wind up in my path. . . That little girl couldn't be further from the woman I am today.

So in my day dreams, when I have the time to really committ to them, I think about the little boy and the little girl, both with ashy legs. I think about their mothers and how the little boy's mother loved herself more than her son and how the little girl's didn't love herself enough, and only loved her children. I do not think of the boy and girl in their teenage years. I don't care to ponder first kisses or our respective band or orchestral experiences. I just think of their lives on a random day at 7 and 9, both enjoying the sun of the south, both eager to learn in school, both with ashy little legs.

At some point, these awkward looking kids came to be not so awakward looking, and the split screen image of two kids carrying too big bookbags becomes one picture screen with two adults milling around the kitchen, talking about financial plans and starting a family. We chat about work and our futures and don't spend much time talking about the past anymore. At some point in our relationship, all we had to talk about was a time called "then." Now "then" has been replaced with "will," and in an effort to ensure we never tread on "then" again, so that "then" never causes us to look back, we simply never talk about "then."

But I still think about "then," and I see him on his stroll down the street after school, I on my ride on the school bus, and both of us, looking to the same sky, la misma sol, and wondering what was next for us even though, at that time, there was no "us." Just a "me" and a "him" in different places but at the same time. And no matter how different our days were, we were still the same skinny kids with cut-off stone washed jeans and ashy knees.

The First 48

On November 7, 2002 at 3:47 a.m. I received a call from my grandfather requesting my presence at his home as soon as possible as my uncle had "gone crazy." As my car pulled up to my grandparent's home on the south side of Chicago, dozens of police officers milled around the front of the home seeking a way to gain entrance. On the ground beneath my grandfather's window lay the body of my uncle, knife in hand, eyes wide open. Within the house, in the closet in my grandfather room lay my grandmother's body, strangled, bludgeoned and stabbed beyond recognition, preventing an open casket at her funeral. That night comes back to me in flashes, triggered by a smell, a sound, a familiar phrase that I thought I had forgotten but still sits in my unconscious. . . Two years and some days later, I stood at the side of my father's body, grasping a still warm hand and trying with every fiber of my being to will some life into it. I remember his face, prostrate in death with some sort of resuscitation system protruding from his mouth, but that memory comes and goes. In similar flashes, I always remember his hands, and how large and callous they were, and the fact that they were still warm and pliable, as if he would wake up at anytime to tell me not to change the channel because he was just "resting his eyes."

Since then, it occurred to me that I watch a lot of crime. My husband and friends find this to be morbid, but I spend the majority of my television time watching people who have or will have some direct involvement with the penal system. At first it was Law and Order, but soon the crimes became predictable and boring. I used to watch forensic files but there are only so many paint and fiber samples out there before you realize - OKAY you can't get away with crime. I get it. So now its reality t.v. I will watch ANYTHNG - prison documentaries, court shows, serial killer documentaries, medical examiner specials, you name it. . . And then I found The First 48. For those of you not familiar, its an hour long show that focuses on the first 48 hours after a murder has been committed. It features real footage, real crime, and no fairy tales or reenactments. I mentioned this show to my mother, who whistled in disgust and told me that she couldn't stand to watch anything like that because "it's just too sad."

And at that moment, it occurred to me what that is exactly why I like it.

The flashes of the body always show the hands and the feet, a dramatic piano chord emphasizing the change in camera angles. The officers work so diligently to try to figure out what happened and depending on where they are, Little Haiti or Liberty City or Phoenix, or Memphis, and do their best to catch the killer. I like to think that the officers who were at my grandmother's house spent as much time piecing together a story, but I can only dream right? There are family members who need to be notified. I wait with baited breath as a mother, who looks much like mine, is told that her youngest son has been found dead in the street. She falls to the ground, much like my mother did, and wails. I study this and I wonder how grief became such a universal feeling, and that nothing is more of an assault on the senses than the cries of someone in grief. The stoic are forgotten, as I was, the one who chose not to share with the world that I was in complete misery. Instead I watch the grief of others, unable to outwardly identify and commiserate. Every night I tune into A & E, knowing what every wail, every question, thought, blank stare and fallen tear means.

Its not something that I am proud of. I troll the news reading the most grotesque stories and wait for whatever MOST SHOCKING episode is coming on next to see if there is the opportunity to understand and identify with. Does that make me sick? Iono. Probably. When I'm sad, I listen to sad music. Why? Because whoever wrote or sang the song understands what the hell I'm feeling right now, and that's all i really want - Someone who can say "Hey, I been there, too, and in fact, i wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it go." If I were ever asked why I watch these shows, I would become defensive and deny that there is anything wrong with it, and to me, there isn't. I am surrounded by people who will never know what its like to make funeral arrangements or write an obituary for someone who you just spoke to yesterday, and every day I lead them to believe that I am just like them - that I don't know what's its like to have to keep your composure when your heart is broken. But for an hour every night, and if i'm lucky even two, there is at least someone out there who knows what its like to hear that your world - from this day forward and forever, will be changed and it will TOTALLY SUCK- and I find comfort in that.

Six Glags Over. . . Death . . .

Little Joey, in his newly won Superman cape, thought that if he took off as fast as he could, he would take flight just as Superman would, because apparently, its all in the cape. And for about 10 feet, he built his momentum so much that his mousy brown hair blew back and lifted his tiny little arms, prepared to take off into the atmosphere. But he put his head down, and this mistake almost proved fatal as Joey bounded directly into the belly of a woman approximately eight times his size. She let out a guttural "oomph" and placed her hands on his shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him back in the direction from which he came. Embarassed and very, very angry that his cape appeared to be a dud, he walked back over to his mother and his twin, who was donned in a more sensible Batman cape, red faced and looking for blood. Having witnesses this entire exchange from afar, I attemtped to smile at Little Joey as we walked past, but he was more interested in removing that smug look on his brother's face, ignoring his mother's taunts of, "You didn't really think you could FLY, did you?"

For my son's 10th birthday (that's right. I said TEN) we went to Six Flags Great America. For the record, I fucking HATE amusement parks. ALL of them. As an albatross around the neck of fun, I find amusement parks to be offensive systems designed to prey upon the basic human need to be entertained by presenting such humans with contraptions that can, if inappropriately used, kill your dumb ass dead. One loose screw and that is all she wrote, which is why I choose life over three minutes of feeling like I am going to die, which I would only experience after waiting TWO FUCKING HOURS in a never ending maze of metal bars and pre-teen white girls. . . Shoot me in my head, please and thank you.

Did I mention it was hot? Hot and crowded and just chocked full of teenagers. The only thing I hate worse than teenagers is female circumcision. That's right, I said it. If someone said "Be a teenager again or else we'll cut off your labia with a rusty tin can, then sew up your vagina with used dental floss," I would think to myself "Who needs labia ANYWAY?" Fat ones, skinny ones, ones whose shorts were too short, ones whose pants were too big, some matching, some dressed like they didn't have parents. So we had to wade through these musty children in heat through glaring sunlight and humidity to look at other people pretend as if being swung around in a circle at 75mph is one of life's greatest pleasures. . . Clearly, they need to get out more often .

So i brought my partner albatross in crime, BFF Danielle, with me so that I would have someone to complain to as I hold purses and bookbags of the people who choose to risk their lives on these precarious contraptions. Danielle doesn't even get on escalators if she can avoid it so I knew i would have some company as I take advantage of the BEST thing these hell holes have to offer: Carnival food. Turkey legs, corn on the cob, funnel cake, slushies, italian ice, funnel cake, and one more funnel cake. And then we played Dance Dance Revolution. I have never played it before and I can only come to one conclusion:

This is THEE best game EVER MADE. . .

This is the kind of game my fat ass needs to keep the weight off. I havent seen the home version but I can imagine it sucks because you really need to whole contraption to get the real effect. So Danielle and I looked like Oaktown 357 on crack, doing these poorly coordinated dance moves to really really bad Japanese house music. We also played House of the Dead, and if you are ever in a house that has been over run by the living dead, Danielle is who you want to have with you. Not only is she a damn good shot, but you can offer her as a sacrificial distraction so you can run away. . .

Really. Its the most fun I could muster. . .

BUT my son had a great time, and that's all that really matters. . . We make sacrifices for our children . . .