From hillbilly to high class

A little backstory and the inciting incident.

By JC Penney catalog standards, I was a cute kid. I possessed sandy blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a mischievous grin. However, as I became acquainted with the darker aspects of the world and observed people's actions, the twinkle in my eye faded away. Over time, my hair eventually turned jet black, mirroring the construction of a fortress and the creation of an alligator-filled moat to guard my heart.

Before I was ten years old I had been sexually abused three times. Twice by two separate babysitters and once by some random girls who took me into the woods. I share this information with you since it will be an insight into my future relationships and the vast collection of gold medals for my olympic emotional running. It is something that still affects me to this day, however with some therapy plus the understanding that I did not create this situation. I am working through it.

Recall that small Midwest town I mentioned earlier? There wasn't much for a young, creative, and angst-filled soul to do. I discovered remarkably creative ways to get into trouble throughout my youth. This was in a time before cell phones, where no one could keep tabs on you or track your every movement. Being a skateboarder wasn't cool back then; instead, it was likely to get you body-checked into a locker while strolling down the junior high halls, with your Thrasher, heavy metal, and Mad magazines spilling to the floor. These experiences added fuel to the fire, intensifying my angst and anger at the world.

I thought I was a punk. I was a poser.

*the images on the grip tape will confirm what a young clueless idiot I was.

My extracurricular activities began catching the attention of the local police department. My mother, displeased with this development, found herself reluctantly having to act like a parent. This meant putting down her drink, extinguishing her cigarette, and taking responsibility for her feral child. Which she never did. It was another hint of the ongoing issues of abandonment. From an early age, my mother would ship me off to spend summers with my father in CA, evading any responsibility for me or my actions

I only knew this man from holiday phone calls and cool presents from CA.

My first trip to CA, I must have been eight years old. I distinctly remember the musty scent of the dark purple plastic Samsonite suitcase, the soft satin pouch for toiletries, and the peculiar divider with clips. On departure day, my grandparents accompanied me to the airport, as my mother never did – a stark manifestation of abandonment issues. Once checked in, I was handed over to an airline hostess who affixed little golden wings to my shirt, signaling that I was flying alone. She guided me to the plane, settled me into my seat, and off we went.

My first trip to CA.

This was an era when people dressed up to fly. It was an occasion, a moment to take pride in travel, filled with the wonderment of flying. Unlike today, where people show up in pajamas and flip-flops, back then, the experience was treated with a sense of deserving elegance.

Every summer thereafter, I was sent to CA to spend the summers with my father. Being in construction, he spent his days working, and I would just hang out. Reflecting on those times, I'm not entirely sure what we did. There are a few memories that stand out—trips to LA to catch the Dodgers play, a journey to SF in his gutted Econoline van, the vibrations of the 101 highway accompanying my listening to The Police on his original Sony Walkman..

Breaking the law, Breaking the law

I started hanging out with a rebellious crowd. We would skip classes, smoke cigarettes, and blast heavy metal music from house speakers in the back seat of a rusted-out muscle car. Our misadventures gradually escalated in their unlawfulness. One dreary winter's day, a friend stood outside my history class, signaling me to join him in the hall. Three hours later, I found myself sitting in that same rusted-out muscle car in the middle of nowhere, serving as the lookout while my friends broke into a small country road bar.

I grew increasingly nervous as they didn't return immediately. Eventually, they rushed back to the car with arms filled with potato chips, sodas, a couple of hundred dollars, and four handguns. I was given a Dirty Harry looking 45mm revolver.

The inciting incident

Fast forward to the spring of the same year, I was sixteen. In the nights, I'd been sneaking out, stealing my mom’s car to joyride around our small Midwestern town with my friends. I had a trial date for my involvement in the burglary of the small country bar. Things seemed to be aligning for me to become a complete waste of a human being, though I didn't recognize it at the time. Reflecting now, I realize I was spiraling down a slippery slope towards becoming a real piece of shit. As I hadn't directly robbed the guns and money from the bar, I was offered a deal: I could reduce my felony charge to a misdemeanor and receive four years of probation if I agreed to move to CA to live with my father and avoid becoming future property of the Wisconsin Department of Corrections . The trajectory of my future seemed quite clear.

One day, my mother surprisingly allowed me to use her car to visit a friend. In a cruel twist of fate, the one time she trusted me with the keys, I ended up flipping the car into a ditch and totaling it. Miraculously, my friend and I were unharmed. In response, my mother kicked me out, and I stayed with my grandparents for three weeks until it was time for me to relocate to Montecito, CA to live with my father.

A place of solace

My grandparents provided me with a haven of peace and quiet, shielding me from the unpredictable and walking-on-eggshells environment of living with my verbally, emotionally, and physically abusive mother. In the 80s, every parent seemed to have the right to discipline their child with physical force. To escape this, I spent every weekend with my grandparents, engaging in activities like reading, playing with hot wheels, and watching Saturday morning cartoons. Their stoic, Depression-era upbringing established a realm of order and predictability. Knowing the precise times for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, along with the menu a day in advance, created a sanctuary. I believe that without this refuge, I may not have escaped the clutches of the prison system

Back to life Back to reality

I only discovered later in life that my father didn't want me to live with him either. At that time, he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, had two children from a previous marriage, and was expecting another child with his current girlfriend. Adding a complete dumpster fire of a child, whom he barely knew, into an already unstable situation did not seem like a safe or comfortable element to introduce.

Tickets and boarding pass please

With a bit of backstory created, let’s get on board the great space coaster and begin our adventure. In our upcoming publication, we discover a pivotal person in my life who played a crucial role in altering my life's trajectory and becoming that maternal support I desired.

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LISTEN: Here is a track by a great artist that I have revisited recently. It embodies the tone of a midwestern winter.

READ: ‘Parable of the Sower’ by Octavia E. Butler. I just finished reading this gripping book a few days ago. If you are looking for a dystopian story set in our current times, look no further. It’s amazing.