i never write about my boyfriend. he’s the private type and and i think everything i feel and everything i’d write about him is far too immediate to describe online-and sometimes verbally-for his taste.
he wouldn’t want the general public to have open access to all that stuff, and i’m sure he doesn’t want to know where every single thing lies in my heart anyway. what with all the elaborate shelving and cataloging of things…
nah. he knows plenty already. more, i’m sure, than he usually wants to know, but surprisingly, less than he believes he needs to know.
i can, i think, write about me here. it’s what i do, right? well, the truth is, i feel untrusted in this relationship. it’s surprising considering my interest in and level of commitment to the relationship. tables turn in life i guess; i’m endlessly fascinated by the constant evolution and recycling of things, situations, feelings, and lessons. maybe i’ve been just like him under different circumstances?
things do come full circle i realize time and time again. you learn shit, and you apply it. but you don’t really know it until you’ve really learned. your. lesson.
god, if we don’t get the point of tragedy (and for some, the tragedy is death; for others, it must be staying alive), what good are we for the rest of our lives?
anyway, this is getting too philosophical, and i’m getting even further from writing about this man that i spend time loving (maybe that was my intention). ohh, but there is another man in my life i could write about. with him, the relationship is infinitely more troubled. he has a mental health issue; despite it, i have little tolerance for him. i asked him the other day, when he called from prison, if he was taking any medications. since my father died, it looks like he’s my ward now, at 10 (-15?) years my senior… he said, “naw, i ain’t on nothing.”
when i was younger and my family was intact, when my dad was living and he, my mom, and my other brother (the one 2 years my senior) all lived under one roof, i remember my mother always grabbing one of her many little notebooks or avon calendars, stuffed with all kinds of miscellaneous information (notes, scriptures, lists) and phone numbers-so many impromptu address books-and while talking to somebody on the phone, even while into it with somebody, she’d start writing down stuff they said, “to have a record of it.” i feel those same impulses when dealing with certain people. so before my call ended, i managed to get several questions answered and jotted down a few notes on his responses.
* “send one of the packages with a lot of candy it in”; candy calms him down
* reads a lot of books (“anything divine intervention”)
* they cannot tell him when he goes to court again
* failure to register as a sex offender (class c felony); possession of marijuana & paraphernalia (“just a pipe”) charges (nov. 5)
* have him booked under the wrong statute–pedophilia or sexual offense against a minor
* caught the bus, lost all belongings upon arrival in june
* people in wisconsin helped him get a bus ticket down south (on mlk & wright st., brother ronald/shaheed)
* got locked up first day there (warrant in wisconsin) (june arrival)
* loves to sing rock music; plans to start a rock band upon release
you guessed it, it was my vagrant, adopted, step-brother, tim.
you know what else is interesting? tim is being held under erroneously filed charges of some kind of sexual assault on a minor. he is calling me (his next of kin? wow.) for help, money, whatever, and i remember him attempting to molest me when i was 6. i woke up to realize he’d crawled into my bedroom and stuck his hand in my panties. i remember his hand square on my butt and i screamed at the top of my lungs. he always has been such an animal.
(L to R, tim, dad)
when i look at him, i realize how some people become homeless, aimless, street walkers, beggars, sleeping under bridges, drooling and spitting and inappropriately irate, walking around in fugue states or with misplaced aggression, poorly, scantily, or overly dressed (i recall tim having a serious problem with keeping the tongues inside his laceless shoes). he was given so much help, so much support, guidance, care, and he never gave a damn. let him tell it, he’s simply a disabled american.
and now my father has died, after trying his best to help him get a life in the five years since his last stint in prison, of course, to no avail. dad finally gave up on him, moved south to settle into his final resting place, and i am glad every day that his last days were peaceful, withOUT the company of tim. he’d made his way south months before dad died, but of course he was in jail when dad died. of course he was the last to know. and of course he keeps calling me collect day after day after day after day after day. it’s a shame. i can no longer tell when my other brother is calling (collect) because to my caller id, all prison calls get the same treatment: 1-866-numerical jibberish.
my other brother offers substantive conversation, shared memories, and fascinating prison tales (most recently about his role as kitchen manager of seven “sociopathic criminals”) where tim only offers requests for money, argument, and confusing conversations which i have to manhandle to gather straight answers.
good ol’ tim….with a flair for remembering numbers…
i truly hope he stays locked up.
Nonfiction Woman 