I was pretty much raised by my mother.
My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.
The mother, my mother.
A documented miracle.
I got a few of ’em.
A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.
We left with holes in our shoes.
This is no lie, we hid.
The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.
Home was not safe anymore.
When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.
Fuck us all.
The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.
It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.
We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.
So I did.
We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.
My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.
Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.
You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.
You want to be the best?
Find seven more.
The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.
Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.
No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.
It is all fiction.
Life is a lie.
It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.
I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.
I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.
You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.
Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.
My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.
It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.
A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.
More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.
The grass is orange.
It is any colour you want it to be.
Happy Father’s Day Momma.
I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.
You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.
Because you are.
I love you, forever.