I keep remembering I read once that if you do not write from the heart, people will know instantly you are a faker(R). So its like this: I keep forgetting that they are not there anymore. You will probably raise your eyebrow, this is what you do these days, no matter who you are: "what's up with this drama for this guy, get over it, man!". Well, as my friends know that I have the habit, I will do it as I want to until the universe explodes in my face, regardless of everybody saying everything. So, it is useless, if I want to have the trip with my beloved parents, there is nothing you can do. Everybody in this life is so eager to help you be like the rest of the world, normal. What is normal? To have a job in a multinational company, to have kids raised by institutions, tot take your old ones to the institutions and abandon them there, to live a plastic life, to party almost all the time, to show off, to have an bank account, to have an apartment in a blockhouse in the very middle of the posh areas, to be gossiped, to be paparrazzied, to be envied, to have secret lovers, to have the nicest shoes from the actual collection, to rule over other's lives cause you know better what is best for them. This is what you want? So, have it, all these you can have it back, if the world comes over your head, who do you gonna call?
I cannot call my parents anymore, that is for sure. Unfortunately for you all, they are here with me all the time, so I must prove myself. It was easy before their final departure. They were at home, I could have done everything when I was out, when I returned home I put on my innocent smile and try to look pure. Speaking of faking. I do not know about you, but my mother always knew when it was something wrong with me. Despite all my jokes, smiles or stunts, she knew every time. "What happened?". I couldn't believe, I could have lied and mislead all the women in the world. Except her. Because, although a woman, she was more than that. She was MOM. And as every woman in my life ever, I wanted her all mine. All the time.
It is difficult to say who understands me better. My father always let me break free. My mom always wants me to be around, safe and sane. I realize now, always too late in this life, that all I needed was their understanding and support, regardless of the right thing. But they were the kind of people to do the right thing.
I remember that all my beatings from my father were really one of the best moments of my life. Do not panic, even if we are not hispanic, corporal punishment represents a great sign of affection amongst the members of the family in the Romanian society. I remember how angry I was to the parents who beat their offsprings in the street, maybe this is because my parents spoiled me with a great deal of fun every time they wanted to punish me as a kid. I remember my father chasing me with his belt around the house, me running around the table, him pulling the seats to catch me, me jumping over, him being stuck, mom laughing of us, me hiding under the table bursting in laughs and him trying to hit me with the belt but also convulsively laughing hard, holding his belly without a belt.
Two specific times I remember they hit me and it really hurt. It was one of the first days in school. First dictation. I mess it up big time. She is so nervous, she brings me home not speaking a word to me. All the way I hoped she will be ok at home. But she puts me violently at the table, taking the notebooks and manuals out and beginning private learning. She becomes to shout, she ignores granpa (her father) and suddenly slaps me very hard. It was not the hit, I was a very energetic kid and I hit myself (most dangerous blows) all the time. But the fact she took me by surprise. She hit me just for that? It is a stupid dictation.
At one point, one of the kids from my street, a good friend as I assumed, stole me some stickers. Maybe it was not the fact that my father brought me as a gift, but the country of origin: Poland. On those gray overwhelming and oppressive days, everything from abroad made all the difference. As I discovered them on his bike, I confiscated some stamps and threatened him with some beating for his act. He went to my father and told him his side of the story so, here I am, celebrating my victory with two girls in their coutyard when my father shows up very determined and he is twisting my ear like they do to all kids, at least in Romania. I was so mad because he wouldn't listen, that I was right! But he kept saying that I brought shame on him. But I am wright!
I keep recollect the physical feeling of my mom's palm and my father's ear twisting like it was literally yesterday. I almost feel my cheek and ear hurting. And deep inside.
I fought a lot with my father as a teenager. Verbally speaking. I always said I will do better. And I did not understand his words: "We'll see, we'll see...". It is like the old fable about the Zen Master. But this is another posting.
Also I fought with mother. I was clever enough to ally with them one after the other, depending on the conflict. We were shouting a lot, but this was all the chemistry, the harder we shout, the happier we were. It was like an instant relief of all problems just by shouting, eventually laughing.
Mom was always making jokes. She took minor things very serious and major events very lightly. So, everything was flowing flawless and naturally. No major worries, just stupid ones. Life. But one particular moment was memorable for me.
As a young man, I did a lot of mistakes. Once, I beat my own records of mistaking, being with lover at home in the morning, even I had an official relationship with some other girl. Surprise, official girl calls and says she is coming to me. It was not enough that I had to ask lover to go, and she was more important in my heart and soul, but not official! How stupid I was! Not enough that I upset her. Mom caught all the scheme. Only a few words she told me, with a voice I could not recognize. Metallic, sharp, accurate. "It is wrong what you are doing. For both. For yourself. Never do that again". But... (in my head).
So, now I feel responsible for what they raised me for. To be proud and tall. To stand for what is right. What is right and what is wrong? We'll see.
I keep forgetting everyday home is so empty without them. I always have this strange feeling of expectations. At home to see mom and on the street to see dad. So I just talk to them all the time. Crazy, yes, but happy and proud because of that. Spare me. They loved me in a way nobody else should. New love is new life. This is what they would have want for me. The best. See you around.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvEpsDNQ75g
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