EMERGENCE

I realized something today.
My dad never took me swimming.
He never taught me how to swing a baseball bat.
He didn't teach me how to work with tools.
Instead, he taught me how to throw cards in a hat.
He taught me how to box.
He taught me how to drink.
My dad was emotionally distant most of the time.
I never knew when he would turn on me.
I didn't blame him for it.
I never wanted to cross him.
He could be a brutal man, sometimes.
Anyway, things were always alright if I obeyed him.
On my thirteenth birthday,
I hoped for an electric racecar kit.
I dropped hints to my dad for weeks.
On my special day, he came home late and drunk.
He happily handed me a crumpled, brown grocery bag.
It was filled with party hats, whistles, and other tavern crap.
It all was very fitting for a New Year's Eve party.
"Happy Birthday, son", he rasped to me with his whiskey voice.
I forced a smile.
I didn't want to hurt his feelings.
Then, I watched him as he staggered off to bed.
Children of alcoholics grow up fast.
We need quick wits to survive.
Most of us conceal our pain.
I hid my horrific family secrets.
I replaced my frowns with false smiles.
I viewed the world as an extension of my dysfunctional family.
There was no safe haven for me, except in my room.
My whole world was there.
My books.
My records.
My dreams.
I was king in my room.
I spun golden threads for the fabric of my future dreams.
I ached for them to become realities.
I threw cards in a hat.
I threw punches straight and with force.
I carried all the damages with me.
They lived in my gut.
Like a crumpled brown bag, I was filled with tavern filth.
It finally burst open.
All the lies fell on the floor.
Now I saw myself, and I saw the world.
I accepted my reality.
Finally, with relief,
I became me.