Too Much To Tell

Okay, so here I go.

But before I begin, the sober drought is over; after 31 days of sobriety, I had my first drinks last night and came home with a feathery birthday hat of I don’t know whose birthday.

On yesterday’s blog, I chose a piece of art titled “Combing My Hair.” After posting it and running out the door for most of the day, I found myself flooded with thoughts. There was so much more to the piece than I realized.

For the majority of the past 20 years, I have kept a buzz cut and have had no need for a comb.

There are two people that came to mind, Papa and Father Leo.

One day during my high school years, Papa asked me to borrow a comb, oblivious to the messy and moppy head of hair that I kept dyed a blue-black for that ‘Goth’ look. I looked at him with that are-you-serious face. “Don’t you see what I look like,” I thought. I felt invisible.

One morning a few years later, as we headed out to work, Papa demanded that I get a haircut and then proceeded to blame everything on me including his problems with Mama. At the end of that day, I tried to kill myself. For now, I won’t go into the details, not because I feel uncomfortable talking about it, but because it’s too long of a story, maybe another time.

On the first day of my sophomore year, Father Leo, the principal at St. John Bosco High School did notice the messy hair. Along with 20 other boys, I was pulled out of my classroom and asked to report to the principal’s office. Each one of us was in violation of the school’s dress code. The first thing Father Leo asked was if I had a comb at home; he thought my hair was too messy. Other than that, he said there was no problem. What he didn’t notice was the checkered pattern I had shaved into my head, a la Cyndi Lauper. I was smart enough to not only sit at a certain angle while talking with him, but I had slicked the long part of my hair to cover up the real violation.

Almost 2 years later, I was being called back into his office. A few minutes before my last exam of my junior year, he pulled me out of class. He told me that I didn’t belong at St. John Bosco High School because I didn’t have the 'right attitude' of what a boy at St. John Bosco should have. If I didn’t change, he said he was going to be writing a letter to my parents during the summer letting them know that I was not welcome at the school anymore. I hated this man. Throughout my entire 4 years, he never once said hi to me. Even while walking the hallways, he would look the other way as if I didn’t exist. Here was a man of God who never bothered to see beyond the façade to see if I was okay.

Luckily, change came over the summer. Though it had nothing to do with him, I changed my appearance and even that caused shock on that first day of my senior year. I finished high school with a bad taste for God and religion. I sort of got my revenge on graduation day when my little sister Moni went up to Father Leo and in front of a group of parents she said, “You’re a fucking asshole!” I was close enough to hear it, but far enough to not let him know that she was my sister. It was the best graduation gift.

And so, if you’ve read up to this point, thank you for listening.

Funny how a piece of art triggered so much. I was going to repost the image, but I’ve decided to post another piece and see what this one brings to mind. The piece here is titled “My Birdie and Me”; like yesterdays piece, Angel Botello also inspires it.

Have a most beautiful Friday day!