Ancient History

When I was about 12 years old, give or take, my family took me on a little weekend "vacation" to a place called June Lake. We were to stay in the lake house of a coworker friend of my step monster.

I remember very little of that trip, however what I do remember is very significant in the shaping of my young identity and as such, I will never forget it.

My step monster was an interesting character (I'm being generous here.) In general he was a racist, sexist, abusive asshole, however he was also oddly into the arts. Looking back, dude was probably just very sad and closeted. I mean really, a racist, sexist, TAP DANCER from Wyoming who hated women but LOVED MUSICAL THEATRE? Yeah. Ouch.

Anyway, at the time he had been a bartender for a musical dinner theatre company (no really, as I write this out, I'm getting it,) and this house we were to stay at was owned by some of his performer friends from work.

I've always been a little bit of a hussy, not going to lie. I wanted to feel loved, even if I knew it was meaningless. Sometimes even especially if I knew it was meaningless.

(Mom, if you read this, please understand that I am taking liberties with artistic freedom here and my memory is just as bad as yours so this is as much fiction as it is memoir.)

That being said... there was a boy at this weekend long lake house get away. He was dreamy. He was dreamy in every way and I never forgot it. He sang to me. He sang to me Mr. Sandman, by the Chordettes. He sang to me Earth Angel, by The Penguins. We hid away from the other kids to talk about poetry and love and music. He was 16. He was a few years older than me, but oh we had so much in common and had so much fun. Just talking though. He never made a move. Now that I think of it... he was a 16 yr old boy who sang THE CHORDETTES to me and never made a move. Yup.

Well, kiddo, I still think you are dreamy, wherever you are. I am still waiting for the man or woman who will sing to me that I am "peaches and cream" and all of that.

I think sometimes that being an anarchist requires that you look deep into your own history and explore where you come from, and how your own biases have influenced the way that you look at the world.

I think that being an anarchist requires that you let go in ways that make you at least a little bit uncomfortable.

Big change doesn't come effortlessly. It comes with pain and suffering and agitation. You have to scratch at the skin a bit, get a little dirty, you have to see things for what they are, not for what they want you to see them as.

That 16 yr old boy, he showed me that I was desirable in a way that wasn't sexual. That was really special to me. I have never and will never forget it. I felt wanted, without feeling like an object.

What is tragic about this story... is that I don't think that I have felt that since. So here's to you, kid from my past, you rocked it. I hope that you are out there somewhere enjoying the hell out of this life <3