Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Tuesday
I think what I'm really doing is image transfer. I'm basically taking all my old 8mm home movies and dumping them onto VHS. And because they pass through the filter of my mouth brain, the images get distorted or the focus shifts away from what was important.
Am I a credible narrator? How much gets lost?
The family was invited to a street festival down on 14th street, by one of the bakery's wholesale accounts. It was summer. We were like animals in a cage really, my brother and sister and me. Let out into the world I'm sure we were hard to manage. We probably ran through the restaurant and in and out too many times and through the planted flowers and shrubs outside. And jumped from curbs and interrupted the adults talking and laughed too loud and asked for money and soda and candy. And we probably pointed at all the colorful outfits and dancers and asked what it all meant and when we could leave and why was this and what was that. There were men dancing and celebrating in a way I'd never seen before. Looking back I bet this was a party to celebrate pride. I remember one man dancing on a table. Another walked past and our eyes met. He smiled at me and I felt hit by an electric bolt. Blood rushed to my face.
Not much later we walked back to our car, up a hill, away from the restaurant. My father was ahead of me. And he turned and balled up his fist and slammed it down on top of my head. I can't recall what I'd done in the moment to provoke him. I was probably complaining. Or acting wild. But I didn't see it coming and I started to cry. And for some reason that made it worse. I wonder if he expected to pound me into silence, 3 stooges style. But I wasn't quiet. I was hot and tired and embarrassed and I sobbed. And he was angry and I needed an excuse, anything that would shift the attention away from me and whatever it was I'd done to bring his rage on. The party goers where away, down the hill and I cried out "Someone touched my butt!" and pointed down the hill as if to tattle. Because maybe I'd held that man's gaze too long. Maybe I'd been too interested in the dancing and laughing and touching. Maybe I was being punished for something else all together. So I tried to separate myself from the weirdos down the hill and bury this new live wire I'd found vibrating through the middle of me.
The family was invited to a street festival down on 14th street, by one of the bakery's wholesale accounts. It was summer. We were like animals in a cage really, my brother and sister and me. Let out into the world I'm sure we were hard to manage. We probably ran through the restaurant and in and out too many times and through the planted flowers and shrubs outside. And jumped from curbs and interrupted the adults talking and laughed too loud and asked for money and soda and candy. And we probably pointed at all the colorful outfits and dancers and asked what it all meant and when we could leave and why was this and what was that. There were men dancing and celebrating in a way I'd never seen before. Looking back I bet this was a party to celebrate pride. I remember one man dancing on a table. Another walked past and our eyes met. He smiled at me and I felt hit by an electric bolt. Blood rushed to my face.
Not much later we walked back to our car, up a hill, away from the restaurant. My father was ahead of me. And he turned and balled up his fist and slammed it down on top of my head. I can't recall what I'd done in the moment to provoke him. I was probably complaining. Or acting wild. But I didn't see it coming and I started to cry. And for some reason that made it worse. I wonder if he expected to pound me into silence, 3 stooges style. But I wasn't quiet. I was hot and tired and embarrassed and I sobbed. And he was angry and I needed an excuse, anything that would shift the attention away from me and whatever it was I'd done to bring his rage on. The party goers where away, down the hill and I cried out "Someone touched my butt!" and pointed down the hill as if to tattle. Because maybe I'd held that man's gaze too long. Maybe I'd been too interested in the dancing and laughing and touching. Maybe I was being punished for something else all together. So I tried to separate myself from the weirdos down the hill and bury this new live wire I'd found vibrating through the middle of me.
# posted by joel @ 11:23 AM 
