Infancy. Childhood. Boyhood. Manhood. He has no direct memories of infancy. His mother is the keeper of that scrapbook. One story she relishes telling – even to this day – is he was a breathholder. When he was around nine months old, it was a regular occurrence for him to hold his breath and pass out when his mother left the room. The alleged genesis was one afternoon when he was left alone with his grandmother. His mother describes his breathholding as a phase. W, his partner, reads much more into it. She of the masters in early childhood development believes he still has early childhood mommy issues. She tells him this regularly. Such fun!
He recently came across this letter he wrote to his mommy. He guesses he was in childhood. Best guess – note the cursive handwriting – probably third grade.
Dear Mother,
Remember you said if we have any complaints write them down. Well I am going to. I am complaining about one thing. The shoes I have to wear tomorrow.
Just picture as if it was (sic) you. You have to wear these ugly shows which you can’t stand and you have another pair you don’t mind wearing. You go to school. Everyone laughs and makes fun of you. You are real embarrassed. You feel like burning the shoes. I know you wouldn’t want this to happen to you. The only reason your (sic) probably making me do this is to learn a lesson from it. I have really learned my lesson. Now please don’t make me go through with this.
Love, me
The handwriting. Not bad for a third grader. It is legible. Unlike today. He uses a death grip that makes his writing illegible. Even to him.
As for the shoes that made him so distraught, he believes they can be seen in his third grade class photo. Not so bad, really. But they weren’t cool like the loafers Warsaw is wearing seated just to his left.
As for the person obviously excised from the class pic (upper right), that is a conundrum. With ominous undertones. Perhaps it wasn’t a hit job. Perhaps it was a girl he had a crush on. He tore out her photo and slept with it under his pillow. When his mommy let him have a wallet, he kept the photo there. For years.
More likely, years later, when he indelicately removed the photo from the scrapbook that his mommy made for his 40th birthday, they were left behind.
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
