Give;Keep
The drive down to Texas was among other things, introspective. Or as I like to think of it: quiet think time. Really, it was something more in line with a detox clinic on wheels. My behavior, and myself, indeed, had become toxic. Just look at pictures of me from that going away party at 215 Park Street and you can see what kind of bad-way that I was stuck in. Stuck in? I lived in a bad place; but my place was exactly where I put myself. No regrets…buy the ticket, take the ride.
Illinois was long. Arkansas was hot. Little Rock—the Clinton Library—was cool. I found it easy to smile out the window at the unfamiliar look of Texas' dirt because I had successfully escaped the North without ohio getting in the way. And the long, speechless silence that was the norm on our drive South was some how the best time of my life. I've never been more terrified in my life. Dad couldn't hear shit anyway, and we drove across the country from North to South with the windows down so the music was loud. I thought a little each time I put a new CD in, and then explained a little bit about it to Dad; he doesn't need to know good things about a band to like the music. It only need be music, and loud enough to hear over the wind blowing up from the freeway. Dad was dropping me off at kindergarten again. I remember sitting in that tiny-assed little seat attached to his bicycle. I remember how hard I fought when I thought that my Mom didn't need me anymore. But strangely enough, I also remember how excited I was to go back the next day. That could be Dan and Mikey's doing, but that's neither here nor there…
ACL Fest is long. Hot. Dusty. The women by far out shine the 8 stages of music that fight each other for dominance. It could be that I had been thinking about the drive South two years ago. It could've been Bart, who asked me many months ago why I always defend my Jewish heritage and not my Catholic. I had been thinking about, the defining moment of a cross country outline for a future Chautauqua, was when all the errands were done. It was when we could do nothing else to busy ourselves. It was when for the first time in 3 days of silent thought dotted with honest inquiry that we experienced our first awkward silence. "Now Dad, we go to the bar." So I did the only logical thing: I sat and drank beer with my Pop until it was time for Uncle John to come get him to take him to the airport. His eyes said "My baby. My son." Tears.
I really wondered for a time about that whole Bart thing: why do I defend my Jewish blood more than my Catholic? I came to the conclusion that I never had to defend my Catholic blood. Bart accepted my answer at the time, though I don't think it was as in-depth as he was hoping. I wondered right up until I was walking down the street toward downtown Austin and the bar, with Pop, and I just asked him. "What happened to Grandma and Grandpa during the Holocaust?" I never got any of that from them. Jess got more than I did. But still. I guess it doesn't really matter. It's a matter of what you are willing to give, and what you are stout enough to keep. That may or may not be what gives you an identity. No digression necessary. The little I did know about my Pops' folks, and what happened to them, before ACL Fest and the long walk back downtown were more important to me because it was borne from the fiercest hate that can come from men.
Turns out, that my Pops' blood line started out in Romania (Itali-roma-garian?). Funny how you can have ties to a place that you have no conscious awareness of. But I'm not getting into that. It must have been a peculiar conversation to listen to while you were sipping on something cold to drink, under that tent, last day of Austin City Limits while a guy in a red Bob Marley shirt and his son with all his tattoos and shaved head talked for hours about Hungarian Jews. Grandpa getting drafted into the Russian army after they liberated Auschwitz. And so on, and so on…It may have even been a learning experience for them? It was for me.
Like I said: it comes down to what you'll Give, and what you'll Keep. What I Keep.
Illinois was long. Arkansas was hot. Little Rock—the Clinton Library—was cool. I found it easy to smile out the window at the unfamiliar look of Texas' dirt because I had successfully escaped the North without ohio getting in the way. And the long, speechless silence that was the norm on our drive South was some how the best time of my life. I've never been more terrified in my life. Dad couldn't hear shit anyway, and we drove across the country from North to South with the windows down so the music was loud. I thought a little each time I put a new CD in, and then explained a little bit about it to Dad; he doesn't need to know good things about a band to like the music. It only need be music, and loud enough to hear over the wind blowing up from the freeway. Dad was dropping me off at kindergarten again. I remember sitting in that tiny-assed little seat attached to his bicycle. I remember how hard I fought when I thought that my Mom didn't need me anymore. But strangely enough, I also remember how excited I was to go back the next day. That could be Dan and Mikey's doing, but that's neither here nor there…
ACL Fest is long. Hot. Dusty. The women by far out shine the 8 stages of music that fight each other for dominance. It could be that I had been thinking about the drive South two years ago. It could've been Bart, who asked me many months ago why I always defend my Jewish heritage and not my Catholic. I had been thinking about, the defining moment of a cross country outline for a future Chautauqua, was when all the errands were done. It was when we could do nothing else to busy ourselves. It was when for the first time in 3 days of silent thought dotted with honest inquiry that we experienced our first awkward silence. "Now Dad, we go to the bar." So I did the only logical thing: I sat and drank beer with my Pop until it was time for Uncle John to come get him to take him to the airport. His eyes said "My baby. My son." Tears.
I really wondered for a time about that whole Bart thing: why do I defend my Jewish blood more than my Catholic? I came to the conclusion that I never had to defend my Catholic blood. Bart accepted my answer at the time, though I don't think it was as in-depth as he was hoping. I wondered right up until I was walking down the street toward downtown Austin and the bar, with Pop, and I just asked him. "What happened to Grandma and Grandpa during the Holocaust?" I never got any of that from them. Jess got more than I did. But still. I guess it doesn't really matter. It's a matter of what you are willing to give, and what you are stout enough to keep. That may or may not be what gives you an identity. No digression necessary. The little I did know about my Pops' folks, and what happened to them, before ACL Fest and the long walk back downtown were more important to me because it was borne from the fiercest hate that can come from men.
Turns out, that my Pops' blood line started out in Romania (Itali-roma-garian?). Funny how you can have ties to a place that you have no conscious awareness of. But I'm not getting into that. It must have been a peculiar conversation to listen to while you were sipping on something cold to drink, under that tent, last day of Austin City Limits while a guy in a red Bob Marley shirt and his son with all his tattoos and shaved head talked for hours about Hungarian Jews. Grandpa getting drafted into the Russian army after they liberated Auschwitz. And so on, and so on…It may have even been a learning experience for them? It was for me.
Like I said: it comes down to what you'll Give, and what you'll Keep. What I Keep.
posted by texas_wolverine at 11:13 PM
1 Comments:
You really had zero exposure to Catholicism as you grew up, because my parents abandoned it when we moved to Michigan, and I never believed it anyway. I could never force something on my children if I didn't truly believe it myself. Consider yourself spared--look at the family in Pennsylvania if you want an example of what you would have gained in the process.
Nicely written.
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