A Common Pornography Part 3
I was totally unfamiliar and ignorant of what he had to deal with because of his skin color. I knew the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r though, and I knew I never wanted it anywhere near my lips, though there were surely times when I was angry enough to use it. But it would be a knife I'd never be able to pull out. A bullet that would spike his heart and stay there. though, and I knew I never wanted it anywhere near my lips, though there were surely times when I was angry enough to use it. But it would be a knife I'd never be able to pull out. A bullet that would spike his heart and stay there.
Mark scrambled up and ran off somewhere down the alley. Matt walked away in the other direction. Gary came outside then and found me, stunned and alone in the yard. He spoke to me calmly but in a tone of voice that said he was leaving. "If you ever want to get out of here, you can always come and stay with me," he said. I wasn't even sure where that was-North Carolina or Ohio maybe-but I could tell he totally understood my situation, as if he had lived through it himself. I let his words calm me. I let them give me hope for some kind of escape. And though I never took advantage of his offer, I still remember those words.
Seventh Grade
I was a terrible seventh grader. I made no effort with schoolwork and rarely bathed. I was one of just four boys in concert choir, the reasons I joined still a mystery to me. Perhaps the last fragments of pop-star dreams still squirmed inside my queasy gut. One boy in choir, Mike Rome, was very mean to me. He'd point out when my hair was especially greasy or had dandruff flakes. I started to get pimples as well. My hormones had a war with my body and slaughtered it from the inside out. On the day when Ronald Reagan was shot, our cla.s.s was interrupted by the announcement squawking over the intercom. Our teacher, Miss Haff, an obese woman whose body resembled one of those Weeble toys, turned on our cla.s.sroom television. We watched in silence as they showed the shaky footage of John Hinckley Jr.'s attack. As the day wound down, I secretly hoped that Reagan would die. I craved a tragedy for everyone. terrible seventh grader. I made no effort with schoolwork and rarely bathed. I was one of just four boys in concert choir, the reasons I joined still a mystery to me. Perhaps the last fragments of pop-star dreams still squirmed inside my queasy gut. One boy in choir, Mike Rome, was very mean to me. He'd point out when my hair was especially greasy or had dandruff flakes. I started to get pimples as well. My hormones had a war with my body and slaughtered it from the inside out. On the day when Ronald Reagan was shot, our cla.s.s was interrupted by the announcement squawking over the intercom. Our teacher, Miss Haff, an obese woman whose body resembled one of those Weeble toys, turned on our cla.s.sroom television. We watched in silence as they showed the shaky footage of John Hinckley Jr.'s attack. As the day wound down, I secretly hoped that Reagan would die. I craved a tragedy for everyone.
After the cla.s.s, Miss Haff asked me if I could stay after and finish an a.s.signment. I had no clue how to do it. She asked me why I wasn't paying attention in cla.s.s. I started balling my eyes out. She tried to console me and told me I was going through p.u.b.erty and that it was a tough time. She hugged me until I stopped hyperventilating. I felt covered by her. I was disgusted and then relaxed.
At the end of that school year, our choir was having b.u.t.tons made for everyone as a souvenir. We could have our real names or a nickname on ours. We went around the room, each person saying what they'd like on their b.u.t.ton. When it came to me I blurted out, "Desperado." The other kids grimaced my way and some of them giggled. Mike Rome called me Desperado for the next year, but not in a nice way.
United
As I became more insecure in seventh grade, my brother Matt was starting to make real friends in high school. He was the first black student ever to attend Kennewick High, and because of that, he was probably the first and only black person they knew. At this point in his life, Matt still didn't have a good idea who his father was and never felt like he could pry into the matter. A nagging feeling of not knowing who he was always shadowed him. Some people asked him if he was Mexican and some asked him if he was adopted. When he signed up to play on the high school football team, the coach wanted him to play running back and said he was going to make him "the team's Walter Payton." The implied stereotype of the comment weighed heavily on Matt's mind for a long time. more insecure in seventh grade, my brother Matt was starting to make real friends in high school. He was the first black student ever to attend Kennewick High, and because of that, he was probably the first and only black person they knew. At this point in his life, Matt still didn't have a good idea who his father was and never felt like he could pry into the matter. A nagging feeling of not knowing who he was always shadowed him. Some people asked him if he was Mexican and some asked him if he was adopted. When he signed up to play on the high school football team, the coach wanted him to play running back and said he was going to make him "the team's Walter Payton." The implied stereotype of the comment weighed heavily on Matt's mind for a long time.
Besides, his favorite sport was actually hockey. But there wasn't a hockey team in Kennewick. And at the time, I don't even think there were any black players in the NHL. I remember the New York Rangers were always playing on the USA Network and that was Matt's favorite team. I'd hear him shouting and cheering from his bedroom (he was lucky enough to have a TV in his room). He really got into it. Sometimes I'd watch the Rangers with him, but I couldn't get excited about it.
I much preferred watching football with him. We would usually turn down the volume and pretend to be the play-by-play announcers. We were big fans of Howard Cosell and Brent Musburger. This was also around the time when we tape-recorded fake talk shows with fake commercials, inspired by Martin Mull's old show, America 2-Night America 2-Night.
At school, Matt mostly hung out with three guys who also felt like outsiders. Anthony was j.a.panese, George was Mexican, and J.D. was Ukrainian. They called themselves the United Nations.
J.D. was Matt's closest friend and they did things pretty often after school. The first time that Matt went to J.D.'s house didn't go well though. He rode his bike there after school and knocked on the door. Apparently, J.D.'s mom didn't know that her son had a black friend. She opened the door with a look of panic on her face and told Matt that he couldn't come in. "You shouldn't be friends with J.D.," she said. "If my husband finds out, he will shoot you."
Matt got on his bike and rode home in tears. J.D. heard about what had happened and confronted his parents. He told them that Matt was his friend for life and that he would not allow them to treat him like that again. After that, Matt spent a lot of time at J.D.'s house and his parents never had a bad thing to say.
Still, Matt did wonder if there was a gun in the house, and if it had ever been fired.
Monday Mornings
I was addicted to football statistics. to football statistics.
Every Sunday during football season I would jump up and down and yell at the television.
Then, on Monday mornings, I would sprint the two blocks to the newspaper machines at the post office. My dog, Scooter, would lope alongside me and I pretended he was a linebacker trying to tackle me. I'd always bought a USA Today USA Today or a or a Seattle Post-Intelligencer Seattle Post-Intelligencer because they had the best stats; I'd cut them out and later add them up during my first-period cla.s.s. I never liked the Seattle Seahawks because I had an unexplainable dislike for local teams. My favorite football team was the St. Louis Cardinals (who later became the Arizona Cardinals). Picking my favorite team as a kid was mostly based on who had the coolest helmet. I liked the profiled cardinal head and the dark red of their uniforms. All my friends liked the other popular teams of the seventies-the Cowboys, Steelers, and Chargers. The Cleveland Browns didn't have anything on their helmets. I couldn't fathom why anyone would like them. because they had the best stats; I'd cut them out and later add them up during my first-period cla.s.s. I never liked the Seattle Seahawks because I had an unexplainable dislike for local teams. My favorite football team was the St. Louis Cardinals (who later became the Arizona Cardinals). Picking my favorite team as a kid was mostly based on who had the coolest helmet. I liked the profiled cardinal head and the dark red of their uniforms. All my friends liked the other popular teams of the seventies-the Cowboys, Steelers, and Chargers. The Cleveland Browns didn't have anything on their helmets. I couldn't fathom why anyone would like them.
As I ran back home I would imagine myself as a wiry punt returner like Terry Metcalf or a powerful running back like Ottis "OJ" Anderson. My dog was actually named after Ottis Anderson. I had heard that Ottis had the nickname Scooter when he was younger.
The newspaper in my hand turned into a football and I would dodge tacklers, set records, and make highlights that would never be shown.
Tackle Football
Matt and I played football a lot growing up. Most of the time we'd play with the neighbor kids in Miss O'Hara's yard, which was about half the size of a real football field. We'd ask her first and most of the time she'd say yes, unless she had company and didn't want to hear all of our yelling. We called her yard O'Hara Stadium. We had to be careful because there was a water faucet sticking up, about groin-level, right in the middle of the field. Amazingly, we avoided any serious injuries there. played football a lot growing up. Most of the time we'd play with the neighbor kids in Miss O'Hara's yard, which was about half the size of a real football field. We'd ask her first and most of the time she'd say yes, unless she had company and didn't want to hear all of our yelling. We called her yard O'Hara Stadium. We had to be careful because there was a water faucet sticking up, about groin-level, right in the middle of the field. Amazingly, we avoided any serious injuries there.
I loved playing football but played only one season in high school. I didn't like having to memorize plays and I didn't like getting hit. I was a wide receiver and I caught one pa.s.s the whole season (a screen play). I preferred the backyard style of game played with the neighborhood kids or, later on, with Matt and his friends, who were all older and much bigger than me. I'd tag along each Sat.u.r.day to Underwood Park. One of Matt's friends was the older brother of a short, stocky girl named Jane who was trying to get permission to play on the high school football team. She'd play with us sometimes and she was really good, not afraid to hit and be hit (we played tackle). But one week she ran into the pole that marked the back of one of the end zones. It knocked her out and she stopped coming around after that.
My size worked to my advantage with these guys. I was speedy and elusive, the guy you'd have to watch out for on the "long bomb" route. Or I'd catch short pa.s.ses and run out of bounds before I could get clobbered.
Hostages
One morning in early 1981, I was at my friend Brian's house, where I had spent the night. His family had lived just down the street from mine but was now in a much bigger house in an area where a lot of new houses were being built. Brian was a year younger than me but he always played football with Matt and me and the other neighborhood kids. He had a good arm and I always thought he'd be a star quarterback. early 1981, I was at my friend Brian's house, where I had spent the night. His family had lived just down the street from mine but was now in a much bigger house in an area where a lot of new houses were being built. Brian was a year younger than me but he always played football with Matt and me and the other neighborhood kids. He had a good arm and I always thought he'd be a star quarterback.
We were in his front yard, playing catch, when his mom came out and excitedly told us that the American hostages in Iran were going to be set free. Although I didn't understand the situations behind the hostage crisis, it was something that I thought about for a lot of that year when it was happening. As in: What would I do if I were held hostage for 444 days? What would I do if I were held hostage for 444 days? It was a hypothetical source of worry and paranoia for me. I was starting to doubt America's power. It was a hypothetical source of worry and paranoia for me. I was starting to doubt America's power.
Brian must have been asking himself those same hypothetical questions, because we looked at each other and I could tell he was as relieved as me. We started jumping around and whooping it up. We dashed into the wide new streets of the housing development and ran along them, up and down the paved hills, shouting, "The hostages are free! The hostages are free! The hostages are free!"
CCD
From sixth to eigth grade, Dad made me go to a Wednesday-night Catholic Bible study thing called CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine). It was held in a building behind the church. I have very little recollection of it, because I constantly skipped it. Instead, I would hang out at the bowling alley next door for an hour, playing video games. I was obsessed with these new machines, my favorites being s.p.a.ce Invaders, Battlezone, and Pac-Man. I even bought the books that showed you different play patterns to use. I prided myself on making up my own strategies though, and I was really good, topping the high score and creating calluses on my thumb at the same time. eigth grade, Dad made me go to a Wednesday-night Catholic Bible study thing called CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine). It was held in a building behind the church. I have very little recollection of it, because I constantly skipped it. Instead, I would hang out at the bowling alley next door for an hour, playing video games. I was obsessed with these new machines, my favorites being s.p.a.ce Invaders, Battlezone, and Pac-Man. I even bought the books that showed you different play patterns to use. I prided myself on making up my own strategies though, and I was really good, topping the high score and creating calluses on my thumb at the same time.
Dad never found out that I was skipping so much. I did go to the cla.s.s just enough to earn a certificate. It said I was a confirmed Catholic.
Protestant
I went to a friend's church with him when I was sixteen. It was much more exciting than the dull Catholic church that Dad and I went to. I told Dad I was thinking about switching churches, not realizing it would be a big deal. a friend's church with him when I was sixteen. It was much more exciting than the dull Catholic church that Dad and I went to. I told Dad I was thinking about switching churches, not realizing it would be a big deal.
He was not happy about this. Mark had gone to Ma.s.s with him before, when I was a baby, but somehow was able to get out of it eventually. I was the only family member who went to Ma.s.s with him. I used to wonder why Mom didn't go either, but Dad explained to me once, with a dismissive wave of his hand, that she wasn't religious. He thought I was having a spiritual crisis and made an appointment for me to see the priest, to have a talk with him at the church offices.
Dad explained to me that the church I wanted to go to was a Protestant church and that the word Protestant Protestant came from came from protest protest. "The Protestant Church is for people who protest the Catholic Church," he explained. "The Catholic Church is the original faith and Protestants were the people who left the Church."
The priest chided me lightly with a mix of pity and disappointed detachment when I visited him the next day. I looked around at the office, which was down the street from the church, and wondered if he lived there. There were alarming signs of normalcy-a television, regular clothes draped on the arm of a couch, some mystery paperbacks, a dusty refrigerator. I nodded and half-listened to his lecture, but mostly my mind wandered. I realized that the part of Ma.s.s I would miss the most was communion. For some reason that was never clear to me, I wasn't supposed to eat an hour before church started. So by the time everyone lined up for the communion wafer, I was starved and ready to consume what essentially was a snack to me. In fact, I thought it would be amazing to break into the church some night and steal a whole box of the things. I imagined myself chomping away on them as I watched TV.
The priest cracked my daydream by asking if I wanted to put my soul in danger by abandoning the church. I felt bad because I hadn't been listening close enough to what he'd been saying, so I simply said no, I didn't want to endanger my soul. I would remain a Catholic.
After church the following week, the priest shook my hand and gave me his best look of forgiveness.
Centipede
After this "lapse of faith" (as Dad called it), he acted a little more cold to me at church, sitting a couple of inches farther away and never looking my way. At one Sunday evening Ma.s.s, I suddenly started to feel warm and queasy. I was stuck between an older obese man on my right and Dad on my left. I told Dad that I needed to go to the bathroom, but he acted like he didn't hear me. It was still early in the service and one of the third-string priests was monotoning some particular pa.s.sage so heavy with ancient metaphor that it made my sickness speed up my throat. I threw up a little on my pant leg and Dad looked at it and shook his head, as if to say, You'd better not do that again. The obese man on my right had his eyes closed as if he were sleeping there. I looked at Dad and hoped he would let me out. When everyone finally stood up for the main gospel, Dad looked at me and said, "You stink. Go wait outside." of faith" (as Dad called it), he acted a little more cold to me at church, sitting a couple of inches farther away and never looking my way. At one Sunday evening Ma.s.s, I suddenly started to feel warm and queasy. I was stuck between an older obese man on my right and Dad on my left. I told Dad that I needed to go to the bathroom, but he acted like he didn't hear me. It was still early in the service and one of the third-string priests was monotoning some particular pa.s.sage so heavy with ancient metaphor that it made my sickness speed up my throat. I threw up a little on my pant leg and Dad looked at it and shook his head, as if to say, You'd better not do that again. The obese man on my right had his eyes closed as if he were sleeping there. I looked at Dad and hoped he would let me out. When everyone finally stood up for the main gospel, Dad looked at me and said, "You stink. Go wait outside."
I walked over to the bowling alley instead and played Centipede for twenty minutes, watching the clock carefully. A white smear of sick dried on the left leg of my black pants.
Jaynee
A year or so after the fire, we were still living in the small, windowless apartment. A ten-year-old girl named Jaynee and her mother lived in the apartment above us. I don't think she had a father and her mom was rarely seen. Whenever Dad wasn't rebuilding the old house, he was hanging out with this little girl. They'd watch TV, go for walks, and play games together; things he'd never do with my brothers or me. Matt and I were curious what the deal was. They seemed to be keeping secrets. I even remember Jaynee going to Ma.s.s with us once. We suspected Dad of being a pervert. (Even before Jaynee, we noticed how he would always stare at young girls.) so after the fire, we were still living in the small, windowless apartment. A ten-year-old girl named Jaynee and her mother lived in the apartment above us. I don't think she had a father and her mom was rarely seen. Whenever Dad wasn't rebuilding the old house, he was hanging out with this little girl. They'd watch TV, go for walks, and play games together; things he'd never do with my brothers or me. Matt and I were curious what the deal was. They seemed to be keeping secrets. I even remember Jaynee going to Ma.s.s with us once. We suspected Dad of being a pervert. (Even before Jaynee, we noticed how he would always stare at young girls.) We began following them on their walks and watching them through the window curtains when they would watch TV, sitting close together on the couch. Even Mom sensed something and acted tense whenever Jaynee was around. The whole family, except Dad of course, began to secretly hate Jaynee. We'd sometimes split up with walkie-talkies and spy from the bushes or trees that lined the alleyways and ditches of our neighborhood. I don't think we were jealous of them, but on some nights we'd lie in bed and hear sounds from upstairs. We wondered what was inside her heart.
Rebuilding
This is how I learned what the word I learned what the word monotony monotony means. means.
Instead of using the money from the insurance company to hire builders for the house, Dad decided to "save money" by doing it himself. What he hadn't bargained for was that it would take him much longer to get it done that way. So for four years we lived in an apartment that was too small and too ugly. Matt or Mark or I would take turns helping Dad do different things at the old house. The first few things, like smashing down walls with sledge hammers and sorting through ashen remains, were fun. But then came the boring stuff like measuring and insulating. Our big job then, as Dad's a.s.sistants, was to keep the tape measure in place, or hold the flashlight when the afternoon became night.
We'd have to do this for hours each day. If it seemed like we weren't needed, we'd ask Dad: "Can I go play next door with Darren?" And he'd say: "No, I might need you to hold the flashlight."
Each morning would become a game between my brothers and me of who could leave the apartment fastest. The last one always lost. "Say, Matt, I mean Mark, I mean Kevin, don't go planning anything today. I'll need your help over at the house."
The whole rebuilding process was slower than anybody ever thought it would be. Help Help became the most painful word for my brothers and me to hear. became the most painful word for my brothers and me to hear.
Mt. Saint Helens
The day that Mt. Saint Helens blew, I thought it was Doomsday. I spent the morning in church with my dad and when we came out around noon, the sky was dark and ashen, as if the sun had disappeared. Instead of going to the church bas.e.m.e.nt for doughnuts, everyone stood frozen and talked quietly on the front steps of St. Joseph's. Mt. Saint Helens blew, I thought it was Doomsday. I spent the morning in church with my dad and when we came out around noon, the sky was dark and ashen, as if the sun had disappeared. Instead of going to the church bas.e.m.e.nt for doughnuts, everyone stood frozen and talked quietly on the front steps of St. Joseph's.
Someone said, "Well, it really happened."
It was probably a half hour later when I finally caught on to what was happening.
The next morning, I went out with the neighbor kids and we gathered as much ash from the sidewalks and car hoods as we could. We filled up tiny bottles that formerly held Gerber baby food. Someone said the bottles would be worth money someday.
It was spring break when this happened, and when I went back to school the next week, everyone had bottles of ash to show.
Hydroplanes
The hydroplane races that happened on the Columbia River were a big event every summer in the Tri-Cities. The population of about 100,000 swelled to 150,000 for race weekend. The scene at the actual race site was like a big wild party, with people lined up along both sides of the river-the Pasco side and all through Columbia Park on the Kennewick side. There were bleary-eyed union workers freely swigging beer, stereos cranked up loud, scantily clad headbanger girls, the smell of sweat and cocoa b.u.t.ter lotion, and some fistfights here and there. that happened on the Columbia River were a big event every summer in the Tri-Cities. The population of about 100,000 swelled to 150,000 for race weekend. The scene at the actual race site was like a big wild party, with people lined up along both sides of the river-the Pasco side and all through Columbia Park on the Kennewick side. There were bleary-eyed union workers freely swigging beer, stereos cranked up loud, scantily clad headbanger girls, the smell of sweat and cocoa b.u.t.ter lotion, and some fistfights here and there.
I wasn't allowed to go until I was thirteen, and then only if Dad went with me. So, that year, after church got out on race day morning, we headed to the river. Not wanting to pay the steep $5 charge, Dad parked somewhere along the outskirts and showed me a dark irrigation tunnel that we could sneak through to get to Columbia Park. For a moment, it wasn't like I was with my dad at all. He wasn't a humorless, G.o.d-fearing bore, but rather a rule-breaking outlaw. I almost expected him to take off his shirt and light up a joint as we walked.
When we emerged at the other side of the tunnel-an excruciating half hour later-we pushed aside an old fence and climbed up a rocky bank to get to the park. Some people saw us come in this way, but they were either embarra.s.sed for us or didn't care. This place, where we snuck in, was the same place the bones of the famous Kennewick Man were found a few years later.
With nowhere to sit and watch, we strolled back and forth along the river, struggling to see the race through the people cheering for the boats. It didn't matter to me though. I was busy gawking at the slumped drunks, loose bikinis, muscle cars, motorcycle gangs, and skinny, pony-tailed stoners. Dad was also transfixed, especially by the bikinis.
It was like how I imagined Mardi Gras, or a college football game would be.
That was the year the Pay 'N Pak hydroplane did a double flip and almost killed its driver. I remember the sound that came from the crowd when it happened-the collective gasp, the exhale, the sudden silence.
Vibrator