The Suburban Generation

Grandmother
My grandmother was an angry woman. She grew up during the Great Depression and had a hard life. Three of her four children died while she was in labor. When I was five, she moved in with us. The peaceful life I had once known was quickly shattered. As soon as my parents would leave for work, the abuse would begin. Her weapon of choice—other than words, of course—was a large, wooden spoon. She didn’t hit me all day, thank God. There were a few minutes where she’d stop to pour herself another glass of bourbon. After all, just one glass wouldn’t get her through the day.

Dad
They say every man grows up to be his own father. I wouldn’t know. Until I was ten years old, the only way I knew my dad was from a few Polaroids. We talked a little bit every other week on the telephone. You know, about the weather, our dogs; innocent things that weren’t really relevant. You see, my dad drove an eighteen-wheeler. Most of the year, he was hauling Norelco razors and Sony televisions across the country.

Eventually, he got tired of driving trucks for a living. He told my mom that he couldn’t stand watching his little boy grow up without him. I guess he was expecting me to open up to him. I guess he was expecting me to understand why he was never there. I guess he was expecting me to be his loving son. The man hadn’t been in my life for the last decade. I didn’t know what to say to him. “Uh, hey dad. How ‘bout them Cowboys, huh?” We never really talked because neither of us knew what exactly to talk about.

After a few years of awkward co-existence, I took the initiative to break the ice. It took me awhile, but I finally managed to gather enough nerve to walk into my dad’s office. Before I lost my nerve, I managed to squeak out, “Hey dad, wanna shoot some hoops?”

“Yeah, sure, son, give me a bit. I’ll be done with this in a few minutes.”

I was excited to finally do something with my dad. After all of these years, I’d finally find out who my dad really was. Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. The sun set. I guess I wasn’t going to play basketball that day. The first time I’d asked anything of my dad, he didn’t come through.

Cathleen - Sister
She’s actually my half sister, but my dad doesn’t like me to say that. He says we’re all blood, and we should love each other. Honestly, I don’t think she cares about me at all. The reason I say that isn’t because she never makes an attempt to call—I don’t, either, so I can’t really dislike her for that. For years, she’d give me the newest edition of Trivial Pursuit. I hated that game with all of my being. At the top of every Christmas list, I would write: “Do not give me Trivial Pursuit. I hate that game.” She must have thought I was kidding, because hey, I still get them, even now.

Aunt Patty
She’s a Southern Baptist. Everything that comes out of her mouth deals with Fire and Brimstone. When I was younger, she took me with her to church. The sermon started out innocently enough; everyone was praying and reading psalms aloud. In the middle of the pastor’s speech, a woman jumped onto the pew in front of her. Her entire body went slack; her shoulders rolled forward and her head fell to her chest. After what seemed like an eternity, her head snapped back violently, which caused her to bend backwards in half. Her arms hung at her side, limp and lifeless. A deep, booming voice came from her lips—she spoke a language I had never, and still to this day, have never heard. I have never stepped foot in a house of God since.

See, my mom was never happy with my dad; she stayed in the marriage for me. To make the marriage bearable, she’d drink. She’d drink a lot. On more than one occasion, I had screamed at her: “Stop drinking! Just stop drinking! For the love of God, mom, please stop...” She’d never listen, though. She’d just push me aside and grab another beer. The day my dad signed the divorce papers was the day she stopped drinking.

They say once you’re an alcoholic, you’re always an alcoholic. Once you go dry, you find something new to fill the void. My mom chose to fill the hole in her life with New Age dogma. Crystals? They cure cancer. Feeling sick? You just need a Raiki healing—it takes all of the bad energy out of you. For the longest time, she tried to talk to me about her beliefs but I could never take her seriously. I think I really did hurt her feelings. She’s a big girl, though. She’ll be okay.

Aunt Sally
Aunt Sally works at a Crazy Farm. Whenever we go up north to visit her, she tells us stories of the most shocking events of the year. Last year, a patient who couldn’t feel pain ripped his eyeball from the socket and lobbed it at the wall. This year, an employee committed suicide in my Aunt’s office. When they cut her open, they found an entire bottle of vicodin and aspirin in her stomach.

To work at an asylum, you have to be a little crazy yourself--and dear Lord is she ever. Every item on the McDonald’s menu—even the dollar menu—is tattooed on her ass. When I met her for the first time, she didn’t shake my hand. She didn’t say, “Hello, Ryan, my name is Sally.” No, she giggled, dropped her pants and mooned me. Back then, it was just a few hamburgers, a coke and some fries. Now, McChickens and McGriddles accompany the Big Macs and Whoppers. If McDonald’s keeps it up, she’s going to run out of canvas.

Me
Elementary School
My teachers hated me. Work that would take the other kids thirty minutes to do would take me five. When I would finish my work, I’d get bored and find things to do. I’d play with the toys in the corner. When kids would get too close, I’d throw plastic dinosaurs at them. I made Barbie and Ken have steamy doll sex. I told dirty jokes I’d heard on TV. I didn’t know what “boner” meant, but it sure made my friends laugh. The way I acted cost me a lot of gold stars and countless notes home to mommy. It wasn’t until second grade that one of my teachers had me take an IQ test to see if I qualified for the Gifted Program. Most of the stuff seemed common sense; I just had to fill words into the blanks and play with puzzles. I passed with ease, and transferred schools immediately.

Middle School
I was the token fat kid. While everyone else was hitting puberty and getting more muscular, I was wallowing in my own self-pity and hanging out with my best friends: Ben and Jerry. Life was hard, real hard. At school, I was constantly getting picked on for being overweight. Not even my teachers gave me solace. In fact, one teacher, Mr. Cohen, would go out of his way to make things worse for me. Rather than call me by my real name, he would call on me by saying, “What’s the answer, Six Feet of Nothing?”

Mr. Cohen
He was an old man, I’d say about fifty or sixty, who hated the world. The man ran his classroom with an Iron Fist and a vicious tongue. He wasn’t worried about losing his job—he’d been teaching for nearly three decades at that point.

Mr. Cohen had a distinct hatred for this one kid, Josh. When Josh spoke, he seemed to end every sentence with a tone that would connote he were asking a question. He also dragged every word out for seconds. One day, Josh had the hiccups. Mr. Cohen told him to get water or get out of his class. “No, Mister Cohen, that’s not fair. I’m not leaving.”

Mr. Cohen laughed at him and said, “You’re not, huh?” He quickly walked to the back of the classroom without saying a word. He filled his coffee mug with water, still not talking and walked over to Josh. Mr. Cohen laughed and poured the water on top of Josh’s head. “Maybe that’ll cure your hiccups, ‘eh?”

Josh ran out of the room crying and all anyone could do was stare in terror. “Anyone else have the hiccups? No? Good. Where was I?” The class went on as if nothing had just happened.

High School
I finally hit puberty. God didn’t hate me after all, I guess. I was still fat, sure, but I was slowly starting to lose weight. In my sophomore year, my weight lifting coach, Coach Marts, took a special liking to me and took me under his wing. He taught me everything I know about weightlifting, nutrition and follow through. By my Senior year, I was the strongest and most muscular kid in my high school.

Since I was so late to bloom, I never really fit the mold of any clique. I never really had a certain type of group of friends. I hung out with people whose company I enjoyed, people who would help me when I needed it most. In high school, I realized that it didn’t matter how “cool” I was or how much money my parents had. The things I owned, they didn’t define me. What did matter was who I was.

The Suburban Generation-Draft 1

Family
“Out of sight, out of mind.” That’s how I’d describe my family. See, I live over one thousand miles away from the nearest relative. They don’t write me, I don’t write them. They don’t call; I don’t call. It’s a mutual thing. It’s not that I have anything against them; it’s just the way it’s always been. Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I do have something against them. All of them.

Dad
They say every man grows up to be his own father. I wouldn’t know, though. Until I was ten years old, I knew my dad only by a few Polaroid’s of him and my mom together and some late-night talks on the telephone every other week.

When he finally came home, he was expecting a warm-welcome home. Maybe me to be his loving son, but I didn’t know anything about him. All I knew was when he was home, he was drunk. After awhile, I wanted to get to know him better, to maybe live a normal life, like all the other kids. After I’d gained enough courage to walk into his study, I managed to squeak out, “Hey dad, wanna shoot some hoops?”

“Yeah, sure, son, give me a few minutes and I’ll be out there.”

I was so excited. I was so excited to finally do something I’d seen all of the other boys do with their dads. Ten minutes passed. Thirty. An hour. The Sun set. I guess I wasn’t going to play basketball that day. The first time I’d ever asked my dad to do something with me, he refused. That was the last thing I ever asked of him.

Cathleen: Sister
She’s actually my half sister, but my dad doesn’t like me to say that; he says we’re all blood, and we should love each other. Honestly, I don’t think she cares about me at all. The reason I say that isn’t because she never makes an attempt to call—I don’t, either, so I can’t really chastise her for that. Apparently, she thought I had a lust for some game called Brain Teasers. I loved it so much, at the top of each Christmas list, I’d write: “Do not get me Brain Teasers. I hate them.” She must have thought I was kidding or something, because for the last eight years, I’ve gotten them.

Aunt Patty
From what I’ve been told by my parents, she used to be quite the hipster and was heavily into the Rock n’ Roll bar scene. How that could be, I have no idea. I have never seen her more than arms reach away from the Holy Bible. Hell, I’ve never seen her in anything other than a frock. No one in the family really talks to her, and that’s just fine with her, because, as she has so eloquently put it, “[we’re] all going to hell.”

Mom
I love my mom. She’s a wonderful person. Fucking bat-shit crazy, yeah, but a wonderful person. My parents got divorced recently, and when my mom told me, she expected it to be some shock. I calmly told her, “It’s about fucking time.” See, my mom was never happy with my dad; she stayed in the marriage for me. The thing is, though, is she’d drink her way through it. Every night, she’d hit the bottle. There was more than one occasion, I would scream at her, “STOP DRINKING. JUST FUCKING STOP DRINKING. YOU’RE RUINING YOURSELF, MOM. Please, mom. If you love me, just stop…” After the divorce, she finally quit cold turkey.

Aunt Sally
She’s the wife of my Uncle Gregg. She works at a Crazy Farm. Every year, whenever we get together, everyone wants to hear about the most shocking event of the year. Last year, it was when one of the patients removed their eyeball from the socket and threw it against the wall. This year, it was an employee committing suicide in her office. I guess to work at a Crazy Farm like that, you have to be, to some extent, insane, and dear God, is she ever. She has a tattoo of everything on the McDonald’s menu, even the value menu, on her ass. When I was seven, I saw first-hand that it was just a few hamburgers, coke and french-fries. Now, it has McChickens and McGriddles. If McDonalds keeps it up, she’s going to run out of canvas.

Me
In elementary school, I always got in trouble. Work that would take them thirty minutes to do would take me five minutes. When I was done with my work, I’d talk out of turn in class, I wouldn’t raise my hand and I’d tell dirty jokes I’d heard on TV. I didn’t know what “boner” meant, but what I did know was that it made everyone giggle. It wasn’t until second grade that one of my teachers had me take an IQ test and Advanced Placement Aptitude tests. Most of the stuff was common sense, and I got to play with neat puzzles. I transferred schools immediately to one with a “smart kid” program.

Middle school is that in-between time; the early bloomers get all the chicks, and the late bloomers don’t. The late bloomers are stuck for a few months with a high-pitch squeal that cracks at the most in-opportune times. Like, oh, I don’t know, say, when you’re giving a speech to your seventh grade teacher, the one who calls you “six feet of nothing”, about his hometown. Other than puberty-driven angst, middle school was un-eventful.

High School molded me into who I am today, but I am still a boy. I have no idea who I really am, or what I want to do with my life. I tell people I do, but, just like most others, I have no idea. No idea at all.

The Suburban Generation-Draft 2

Out of Sight

“Out of sight, out of mind.” That’s how I’d describe my family. See, I live over one thousand miles away from the nearest relative. They don’t write; I don’t write. They don’t call; I don’t call. It’s a mutual thing. It’s not that I have anything against them; it’s just the way it’s always been. Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I do have something against some of them.

Grandmother
My grandmother was an angry woman. She grew up during the Great Depression and only one of her four children made it to the age of twenty. When I was five, she moved in with us. My life changed dramatically. As soon as my parents would leave for work, she would start hitting me. Her weapon of choice—other than words, of course--was a large, wooden spoon. She didn’t hit me all day, thank God. There was a five-minute period where the flurry of attacks would stop. After all, one glass of bourbon wouldn’t get her through the entire day.

Dad
They say every man grows up to be his own father. I wouldn’t know, though. Until I was ten years old, the only way I knew my dad was from a few Polaroid’s. We talked a little bit every other week on the telephone, but nothing too serious came up. See, my dad drove an eighteen-wheeler. Most of the year, he was hauling Norelco shavers, or Sony televisions across country.

Eventually, he got tired of driving trucks for a living. He got a job at home, one with stable hours. I guess he was expecting me to open up to him, for me to understand why he was never there. He expected me to be his loving son, but he hadn’t been in my life for the last decade. All I knew about him was when he was home he was drunk. When I got older, I wanted to actually know who my father was, to maybe live a normal life, like all the other kids. After I’d gained enough courage to walk into his office, I managed to squeak out, “Hey dad, wanna shoot some hoops?”

“Yeah, sure, son, give me a bit. I’ll be done with this in a few minutes.”

I was excited to finally do something I’d seen all of the other boys do with their dads. Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. The Sun set. I guess I wasn’t going to play basketball that day. The first time I’d ever asked my dad to do something with me, he never came through.

Cathleen - Sister
She’s actually my half sister, but my dad doesn’t like me to say that. He says we’re all blood, and we should love each other. Honestly, I don’t think she cares about me at all. The reason I say that isn’t because she never makes an attempt to call—I don’t, either, so I can’t really dislike her for that. But for years, she would give me a few “Brain Teasers”. I hated them so much, I would write, at the top of my Christmas list: “Do not give me Brain Teasers. I hate them.” She must have thought I was kidding, because hey, I kept getting them year after year.

Aunt Patty
She’s a Southern Baptist. Every other sentence out of her mouth has to do with Fire and Brimstone. When I was little, she took me with her to church. In the middle of the sermon, a petite woman jumped onto the bench. What happened next seemed to come straight from “Stigmata”. The woman’s entire body went slack, and her eyes rolled up into the back of her head. After what seemed like an eternity, her head jerked back violently and a man’s voice spoke through her. When she stopped speaking, she collapsed onto the floor. After a few minutes, she woke up and had no recollection of what had just happened. That little episode scared the shit out of me. It also turned me away from organized religion.

Mom
I love my mom. She’s a wonderful person. She’s a little crazy, yeah, but a wonderful person. My parents got divorced recently. When my mom told me, she expected it to be some kind of shock. I told her, “It’s about fucking time.” See, my mom was never happy with my dad; she stayed in the marriage for me. To make the marriage bearable, she’d drink; she’d drink damn near every night. On more than one occasion, I screamed at her: “Stop drinking! Just stop drinking! For the love of God, mom, please stop...” The day my dad signed the papers was the day she quit drinking.

They say once you’re an alcoholic, you’re always an alcoholic. Once you go dry, you fill your life with something else to keep you busy. My mom, she chose to fill the void with New Age dogma. Crystals? They can cure cancer. Feeling sick? You just need a Raiki healing—it’ll get all of the bad energy out of you. You’ll feel better instantly. For the longest time, she tried to talk to me about it, but I could never take her seriously. I think I really hurt her feelings, but hey, she’s a big girl. She’ll be okay.

Aunt Sally
She works at a Crazy Farm. Every year, whenever we get together, everyone wants to hear about the most shocking event of the year. Last year, one of the patients ripped their eyeball from its socket and threw it against the wall. This year, an employee committed suicide in my aunt’s office. I guess to work at a place like that, you have to be insane yourself. And dear God is she ever. She has a tattoo of everything on the McDonald’s menu--even the value menu--on her ass. When I was seven, I saw first-hand that it was just a few hamburgers, coke and french-fries. Now, it has McChickens and McGriddles. If McDonalds keeps it up, she’s going to run out of canvas.

Me
Elementary School
I was a real troublemaker back then. Work that would take the other kids thirty minutes to do would take me five minutes. When I would finish my work, I’d get bored and find things to do to pass the time. I’d play with the toys and would throw dinosaurs at kids when they got too close; I’d made Barbie and Ken have steamy doll sex; I told dirty jokes I’d heard on TV. I didn’t know what “boner” meant, but it sure made people giggle. It also got me a lot of shots to the ass. It wasn’t until second grade that one of my teachers had me take an IQ test to see if I was qualified for the Gifted Program. Most of the stuff seemed common sense, and I got to play with a lot of neat puzzles. I passed with ease, and transferred schools immediately.

Middle School
Middle school is that in-between time; the early bloomers get all the chicks, and the late bloomers don’t. The late bloomers are stuck for a few months with a high-pitch squeal that cracks at the most in-opportune times. Like, say, oh, I don’t know, when you’re giving a speech to your seventh grade history teacher, the one who calls you “six feet of nothing”, about his hometown.

Mr. Cohen
He was an old man, I’d say about fifty or sixty, and he hated the world. He also taught history to the gifted seventh and eighth graders. The man ran his classroom as if it were Boot Camp. He had no problems shouting at us, and calling us names. He also had no problem throwing water or books at us. At the time, I would have told you he was the living anti-Christ, but now, when I look back at it all, I realize he helped to mold us boys into men. Our generation is being raised in broken homes, houses with no fathers. He filled the roll my family was missing--he was my father figure.

The Suburban Generation-Draft 3

Family
“Out of sight, out of mind.” That’s how I’d describe my family. See, I live almost one thousand miles away from the nearest relative. They don’t write; I don’t write. They don’t call; I don’t call. It’s a mutual thing. It’s not that I have anything against them; it’s just the way it’s always been. Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I do have something against all of them.
Grandmother
My grandmother was an angry woman. She grew up during the Great Depression and had a hard life. Three of her four children died while she was in labor. When I was five, she moved in with us. The peaceful life I had once known was quickly shattered. As soon as my parents would leave for work, the abuse would begin. Her weapon of choice—other than words, of course—was a large, wooden spoon. She didn’t hit me all day, thank God. There were a few minutes where she’d stop to pour herself another glass of bourbon. After all, just one glass wouldn’t get her through the day.

Eventually, he got tired of driving trucks for a living. He said he couldn’t stand watching his little boy grow up without him. I guess he was expecting me to open up to him. I guess he was expecting me to understand why he was never there. I guess he was expecting me to be his loving son. The man hadn’t been in my life for the last decade. I didn’t know what to say to him. “Uh, hey dad. How ‘bout them Cowboys, huh?” We never really talked. Neither of us knew what exactly to talk about. After a few years of awkward co-existence, I took the initiative to break the ice. “Hey dad, wanna shoot some hoops?”

“Yeah, sure, son, give me a bit. I’ll be done with this in a few minutes.”

Cathleen - Sister
She’s actually my half sister, but my dad doesn’t like me to say that. He says we’re all blood, and we should love each other. Honestly, I don’t think she cares about me at all. The reason I say that isn’t because she never makes an attempt to call—I don’t, either, so I can’t really dislike her for that. For years, she’d give me the newest edition of “Trivial Pursuit”. I hated that game with all of my being. At the top of every Christmas list, I would write: “Do not give me “Trivial Pursuit”. I hate that game.” She must have thought I was kidding, because hey, I still get them, even now.

Aunt Patty
She’s a Southern Baptist. Everything that comes out of her mouth deals with Fire and Brimstone. When I was younger, she took me with her to church. The sermon started out innocently enough; everyone was praying and reading psalms aloud. In the middle of the pastor’s speech, a woman jumped onto the pew in front of her. Her entire body went slack; her shoulders rolled forward and her head fell to her chest. After what seemed like an eternity, her head snapped back violently, and caused her whole body to contort. She was nearly bent in half backwards. Her arms hung at her side, limp and lifeless. A deep, booming voice came from her lips—she spoke a language I had never, and still, to this day, have never heard. I have never stepped foot in a house of God since.

Mom
I love my mom. She really is a wonderful person. She’s a little crazy, yeah, but a wonderful person nonetheless. When my mom told me that she and my father were getting divorced, she expected the news to come as a shock. I told her, “Good. It’s about damn time.” See, my mom was never happy with my dad; she stayed in the marriage for me. To make the marriage bearable, she’d drink. She’d drink a lot. On more than one occasion, I had screamed at her: “Stop drinking! Just stop drinking! For the love of God, mom, please stop...” She’d never listen, though. She’d just push me aside and grab another beer. The day my dad signed the divorce papers was the day she stopped drinking.

They say once you’re an alcoholic, you’re always an alcoholic. Once you go dry, you find something new to fill the void. My mom, she chose to fill the hole in her life with New Age dogma. Crystals? They cure cancer. Feeling sick? You just need a Raiki healing—it takes all of the bad energy out of you.

Aunt Sally
Aunt Sally works at a Crazy Farm. Whenever we go up north to visit her, she tells us stories of the most shocking events of the year. Last year, a patient ripped his eyeball from the socket and threw it against a wall. He couldn’t feel pain, and felt compelled to lob his eye at the wall like a softball. This year, an employee committed suicide in my Aunt’s office. When they cut her open, they found an entire bottle of vicodin and aspirin in her stomach.

I guess to work at a place like that; you have to be insane yourself. And dear Lord is she ever. Every item on McDonalds’ menu—even the value meals—is tattooed on her ass. When I met her for the first time, she didn’t shake my hand. She didn’t say, “Hello, Ryan, my name is Sally.” No, she giggled and dropped her pants and mooned me. Back then, it was just a few hamburgers, a coke and some fries. Now, McChickens and McGriddles accompany the Big Macs and Whoppers.

Me
Elementary School
I was a real problem child back then. Work that would take the other kids thirty minutes to do would take me five. When I would finish my work, I’d get bored and find things to do. I’d play with the toys in the corner. When kids would get too close, I’d throw plastic dinosaurs at them. I made Barbie and Ken have steamy doll sex. I told dirty jokes I’d heard on TV. I didn’t know what “boner” meant, but it sure made my friends laugh. It also cost me a lot of gold stars and countless notes home to mommy. It wasn’t until second grade that one of my teachers had me take an IQ test to see if I qualified for the Gifted Program. Most of the stuff seemed common sense; I just had to fill words into the blanks, and play with puzzles. I passed with ease, and transferred schools immediately.

Middle School
Middle school was rough for me. It seemed as though everyone but me had hit and gone through puberty. A buddy of mine could grow a full beard by the time he was fourteen. All the girls, they went for the boys whose voices didn’t crack. The same boys who were starting to have muscle definition. I was not one of them. I was a late bloomer. I already had self-esteem issues, and my seventh and eighth grade history teacher, Mr. Cohen, didn’t help any. Whenever he’d call on me, he wouldn’t ask, “Ryan, what’s the answer?” Oh no, he’d say, “Hey six feet of nothin’, what’s the answer, huh?”

Mr. Cohen
He was an old man, I’d say about fifty or sixty, who hated the world. The man ran his classroom with an Iron Fist. He had no problems shouting at us and calling us names. He wasn’t afraid of losing his job, either. One time, the really nerdy kid in the class had the hiccups. Apparently, Mr. Cohen was tired of him constantly hiccupping. To cure his hiccups, he threw a cup of water all over the kid. At the time, I would have told you Cohen was the living anti-Christ, but now, when I look back at it all, I realize he helped mold us boys into men. Our generation is being raised in broken homes, houses with no fathers. He filled the roll my family was missing--he was my father figure. He helped me to become the man I am today.

The Suburban Generation-Draft 4

“Yeah, sure, son, give me a bit. I’ll be done with this in a few minutes.”

Aunt Patty
She’s a Southern Baptist. Everything that comes out of her mouth deals with Fire and Brimstone. When I was younger, she took me with her to church. The sermon started out innocently enough; everyone was praying and reading psalms aloud. In the middle of the pastor’s speech, a woman jumped onto the pew in front of her. Her entire body went slack; her shoulders rolled forward and her head fell to her chest. After what seemed like an eternity, her head snapped back violently, and caused her whole body to contort. She was nearly bent in half backwards. Her arms hung at her side, limp and lifeless. A deep, booming voice came from her lips—she spoke a language I had never, and still, to this day, have never heard. I have never stepped foot in a house of God since.

I guess you have to be insane yourself to work at a place like that. And dear Lord is she ever. Every item on the McDonalds’ menu—even the dollar menu—is tattooed on her ass. When I met her for the first time, she didn’t shake my hand. She didn’t say, “Hello, Ryan, my name is Sally.” No, she giggled, dropped her pants and mooned me. Back then; it was just a few hamburgers, a coke and some fries. Now, McChickens and McGriddles accompany the Big Macs and Whoppers. If McDonalds keeps it up, she’s going to run out of canvas.

Me
Elementary School
I was a real problem child back then. Work that would take the other kids thirty minutes to do would take me five. When I would finish my work, I’d get bored and find things to do. I’d play with the toys in the corner. When kids would get too close, I’d throw plastic dinosaurs at them. I made Barbie and Ken have steamy doll sex. I told dirty jokes I’d heard on TV. I didn’t know what “boner” meant, but it sure made my friends laugh. It also cost me a lot of gold stars and countless notes home to mommy. It wasn’t until second grade that one of my teachers had me take an IQ test to see if I qualified for the Gifted Program. Most of the stuff seemed common sense; I just had to fill words into the blanks and play with puzzles. I passed with ease, and transferred schools immediately.

Middle School
Middle school was rough for me. It seemed as though everyone but me had hit and gone through puberty. A buddy of mine could grow a full beard by the time he was fourteen. All the girls, they went for the boys whose voices didn’t crack, the same boys who were starting to have muscle definition. I was not one of them. I was a late bloomer. I already had self-esteem issues, and my seventh and eighth grade history teacher, Mr. Cohen, didn’t help any. Whenever he’d call on me, he wouldn’t ask, “Ryan, what’s the answer?” Oh no, he’d say, “Hey six feet of nothin’, what’s the answer, huh?”

Mr. Cohen
He was an old man, I’d say about fifty or sixty, who hated the world. The man ran his classroom with an Iron Fist. He had no problems verbally abusing us. He wasn’t afraid of losing his job, either. Some poor kid had the hiccups and kept interrupting Mr. Cohen’s speech. Mr. Cohen told him to leave the classroom or drink some water. The boy refused to do both. Bad idea. “You wanna be a smart ass, huh, kid? Alright.” Mr. Cohen walked to the back of the room and filled his mug up with water and told the boy again to drink it. He again refused. Mr. Cohen poured all of the water all over the poor boy’s head. When the kid got up and ran out of the room crying, Mr. Cohen asked, “Does anyone else have the hiccups? If so, tell me now. No? Good. Anyways, where was I?”

At the time, I would have told you Cohen was the living anti-Christ, but now, when I look back at it all, I realize he helped mold us boys into men. Our generation is being raised in broken homes, houses with no fathers. He filled the roll my family was missing—he was my father figure. He helped me to become the man I am today.

High School
The only word that can effectively describe high school is drama. Hormones tiptoe from synapse to synapse, clouding people’s judgment. Football players thought they ruled the school; cheerleaders thought they were God’s gift to Earth; the list could go on. Myself, I didn’t fit into any category. I floated around and mingled with people I thought were quality human beings. When I came to high school, I was finally confident with myself. I wasn’t overly cocky, but I knew where and when to hold my ground and on more than one occasion, I was forced to.

Someone I had never talked to in my life had called me out in front of my friends. I guess he expected me to back down or to be scared because he played Varsity Football. Maybe he thought his other football friends were going to jump in with him. He was wrong. It started off as a semi-friendly wrestling match, but quickly escalated into something much more when he intentionally broke my nose with his forearm. When my nose broke, I wasn’t phased, I kept going. He was more freaked out about my bloody face than I was. In the end, I picked him up off of the ground and slammed him face-first into the sand. When he walked away, head hung in defeat, my friends and I laughed as he spat up bloody chunks of sand.