Hello from a Starbucks on Clinton Street,
It is in downtown Iowa City, where I once wandered as a student in 1982. Hard to believe it was that long ago, but it is the beginning of another academic year and there are students everywhere. I have been managing things as I work toward getting serious on my bus build, and to be honest, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, perhaps a bit frightened, and most importantly, a bit displaced. There has been significant reflection on the idea of place over the years; additionally, my consideration of family and belonging have been constant elements of how I understand life. As humans, we are incredibly dichotomous; we simultaneously desire something and push it away, or so it seems. Even though I am well aware of this sabotaging tendency, as well as wish I could remove both the feelings and the actions, it seems Paul’s statement in Romans about that which I hate I do is alive and well within me. I should also be kind, acknowledging a number of people have worked diligently to welcome me, to allow me to feel loved and appreciated, and that has been something experienced for many years, but often I do not manage that care, that love consistently or adequately. Perhaps the important question is simply why?
While I have often pondered, regularly examined, and continually reflected on this seemingly contradictory behavior, what seems most apparent to me as I write this post is perhaps it is fear; perhaps it is somewhat an impostor syndrome, believing, in spite of myself, that I am unworthy of belonging. While I can more than adequately determine what I was told as a child is utter bullshit, the deep-seated feeling created is just maybe it was true. I was not planned for a biological mother; I was not expected nor appreciated from an adoptive mother, and those two events set up a strong sense of abandonment and malignity that I have struggled to overcome for almost seven decades. While there are certainly moments, and even periods, I have felt respected or capable, the belief that I was a desirable person has not been something often experienced. What does it mean to be desirable? It is certainly more complex than many think. There is the physicality of being alluring, and many first consider that aspect – equating it with being seductive, perhaps even fascinating. But desirability has to do with so much more – what makes one preferable, gratifying or acceptable? That goes far beyond one’s initially noticed attributes. As I have often noted, I will never win a beauty contest nor would I qualify as a Chippendale, so I must have something more enduring. I remember a young freshman student once batting their eyes when I told them they needed to revise a paper. The long-story-short was I informed them that intelligence was life-long and more abiding. Beauty or cuteness would change with age.
I recently wrote about the reality of aging, and while I am still the same basic person I have always been, how I express things, how I respond to situations or others has moderated, and yet, the underlying reasons or the things that most affect me emotionally have remained rather constant. It is, in spite of the counseling, the intelligence, the concentrated work I have done, and even the degree to which I understand how such events, though decades in the past, can still cause me to respond as I might and feel as I do. I still believe the post written to my adopting mother over a decade ago is the most consequential thing I have ever written, and it has helped me move beyond the hurt and damage in ways probably beyond what I know, and yet, there are still those moments. The frightened and confused little boy can still come to the fore. The demeaning and abusive words still have the power to cut deeply and quickly. The sense of being unworthy, undesirable, penetrates my soul in a way that all the success, all the schooling, and all the things accomplished disappear and the boy who heard he was undeserving to be in their home can fill my ears and sting me in a way that is still incredibly powerful.
There are moments I wonder what is the piece, the element of my life still needed to bury those demons once and for all? What might I do? How can I achieve whatever it is that will exorcise that brutal monster, who or which, in spite of everything achieved, can still convince me it is not enough? Much like I hide the physical malady that has been my daily companion since the Fall of 1997, I can most often hide the emotional malady that was created when I was adopted in May of 1960. To be fair to my adopting parents, I do not believe either intended to be difficult, or certainly, by today’s standards, abusive. I do believe my father wanted my sister and me with every ounce of his being. My mother, I suspect, was both unsure of, and under-prepared at best, to take on two additional (one pre-K and the other barely kindergarten age) children, but to be kind, I honestly believe she did the best she could. During my most recent trip and time in Iowa, I met with childhood friends, some of whom it’s been 50+ years. Amazingly, each of them, unprompted, spoke of what they saw in our household and how they felt badly for us. One in particular spoke of how they reached out to my sister, Kris, and even helped her run away to avoid the abuse. What was more remarkable was how their reflection helped validate some of the things I remembered or felt, and even in that moment how I felt as they spoke. There was no anger, but there was a sadness for my sister and brother, but also for my mother. What a terrible way to see life. What a horrendous way to experience daily living, even on her side.
Even now as I write this there is a sort of melancholy because I see all the ways it has affected me. How it has influenced periods of my life, from relationships and their failures to schooling and some of its successes. From times where I avoided responsibility to way too many times when I used excessive drinking to cope. Even now as I embark on this excursion, this nomadic existence, it is both escape and freedom. It is taking charge of my life and feeling like I have little control over anything. Again, there is the dichotomous reality I have existed in over what seems forever. This song certainly is a prequel to their more well-known “Dust in the Wind.” It realizes the temporal nature of our brief journey, and while there is a sadness to the song, there is the sort of Psalmodic lament reminding us that life will continue and we need to move forward. Living only a lamentable life is no way to walk our journey. There is a beauty in reflection and realization. There is opportunity in it to move forward. My choice to travel, somewhat in solitude, should not surprise me, and it probably does not surprise those who understand me. Earlier in life I needed people for validation. That is no longer the case. There is no reason to be validated, there is only an opportunity to “carry on” as a “wayward son,” the person who was told he was not worthy, who has never been a biological parent, and yet the figurative father to many. I have honestly been blessed by so many. Driving has always been cathartic to me, a time for thinking and examining. Now as I continue on to Tennessee to build, the road is laid out. The possibilities are endless.
While the video below is not with some of the original members of Kansas, which is still perhaps my favorite band, and one I saw in concert a number of times, it is a poignant live version.
Thank you as always for reading.
thewritingprofessor55 