Akting Out

I was listening to Alicia Keys, trying to calm my nerves as I completed my first flight into San Francisco. I thought the flight itself would be terrifying, but it was actually pretty pleasant, if not cramped. I imagine being above the clouds like that is the closest I’ll get to Heaven while I’m still alive. No, what was nerve-wracking was the thought of seeing my parents after so much time apart. When I left California, I was angry and all but on the run. Now, coming home under my own steam to make things right felt like coming full circle.

I’ve often said that in order to really know a place, you need to walk it. Put your feet to the pavement, absorb the sounds of the area and get a feel for its heartbeat. Returning to my old streets was like coming back to the house you had grown up in; an uncomfortable sense of familiarity and loss, in which things both changed and remained the same. Bayfair Mall had been one of my primary hangouts when I was younger. I used to shoplift and dodge cops from its various stores. Now, it was nearly unrecognizable.

Electronics Boutique? Long gone. I think all games stores are Game Stop now, anyway…
Waldenbooks? Gone.
Red Robin? Gone, although to be fair, it was gone just before I left.

The mall, located at the edge of San Leandro, is about half the size it used to be and shaped like a U. Almost nothing was familiar, and I felt out of place. Still, there are certain things that’re just unmistakably California; like how the sun paints the sky a radiant, deep pink that opens into the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, casting a pleasant shadow over the mall and outlet center beyond, accompanied by a breeze just warm enough to be comfortable, just cool enough to be relaxing…and I’m home.

It was here I met my parents for the first time in almost ten years. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel; I’d processed every possible emotional response—and how to deal with it—on the plane.  Would I be angry? Would I hold him against a wall and demand some long-sought answers? Would I be happy to see him? He was still my father, after all. What if I felt nothing? All these questions raced through my mind one last time as I waited for the inevitable.

Blessedly, it was none of those emotions as I saw him—them—pull up in a car I did not recognize. I had honestly wondered if rage would get the better of me in that moment. Truthfully, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I was surprised.

It’s funny how the memories you form as a child stay etched into your mind as an adult. I always remembered my father as this immortal giant who could tear the house in half when he lost his temper. Now, I was nearly twice his size…and he was so much older. The darker part of me—Busterwolf—was hoping for the ultimate showdown. One look at his eyes said it would never happen—and it wasn’t necessary. One thing about my father and I was that we never needed words to know where the other was coming from. My father is also a proud man; apologies come rarely, and today was no exception. But I read it in his eyes. I hoped he saw mine as well.

Ten years is too long. After all that time, it didn’t matter which one of us was right or wrong; both of us were neither. In the end, we were still father and son.

It was good to see all of them. My parents are in great shape for the age. I hope the exercise I do now pays off in later life. My parents don’t eat out all that much anymore, but they made an exception for me and took me to an old seafood restaurant that used to be a family favorite. I got my typical fried shrimp, they picked up the tab, and we took photos. I even took some one-on-one photos with my dad, and out of respect for their privacy, I will not upload those to the internet.

I was only there for two days. I didn’t get the time with my dad alone that both of us wanted—we have a lot to talk about—but I’m confident that I’ll get another chance. It won’t be ten years before we see each other again. Besides, this was day two; day one was reserved for my children.

Seeing the utter shock and disbelief on my kids’ face when I walked into the door of their home was enough. It was more than I deserved. I was then body-tackled by a remarkably strong fourteen year old and an energetic six year old, and we were off from there.

Nothing quite like playing with young kids to make you feel your age. A back-and-forth game of scrimmage at a local park looked like it would be a stalemate until Terry came from nowhere, jumping in front of a kid on the other team to make a miraculous interception (damn, that’s my kid!!) and nearly run it back for a touchdown. I may not have had much to do with my son’s upbringing for the past six years, but I take full credit for his determination.

I got another piece of his determination when we had our first sparring session in years. I had spent the first five years teaching him Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing, the rest he learned in the street and from his cousin. And he has great instincts; I showed him how to clinch once. The first time I put him in one, the wiry little f***er reverses me, clinches me from the side, and drives his knee into my leg like a jackhammer. I nearly submitted. I’m still limping.

I can’t talk about Brandon all that well because, well, I don’t know him that well. He loves everything, but not to a fault. He thinks the world can do no wrong, but has his phobias. He’s fiercely protective of his cousin, as they’re about the same age. He prefers boxing because he “doesn’t like to kick” and has asked that I show him how…which means I need to up my game.

When I was younger, I used to brag that I was alone in the world; I came from nowhere, I had no family, and I was going nowhere. Someone I work with said that your world view changes when you get into your thirties. She was right.

I’ve still got a long way to go, but I’m a lot further than I was. It was good to go home…and I’m glad I have a home to go to.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Fourteen years is a long time to be cut off from the world. Most people I know can’t imagine not speaking to their parents for very long, and almost everyone I know will not go very long without seeing their parents, no matter the circumstances. I used to think that was weak. Do for yourself; you’ll be just fine. Now, I’m not sure anymore.

I have not seen my parents in fourteen years, and neither of us have indicated a great desire to see one another. The endless battling between my father and I was the main source of contention in my old house. In the end, they are better off without me, and vice versa. Read to the end of this before you pass judgment.

Not every family gets along in the traditional way; sometimes, people are better left separated. My sister and parents all still live together and have a great life. Dad has gotten a lot of his anger issues under control, my sister has finished college, and my mom gets to take it easy more often. I, of course, have a very good life at the edge of Middle America.

There’s a cold finality that sets into the center of your being when you know you can’t go home. Life becomes very simple; fend for yourself. Learn to survive on your own, or die. And dammit, you know what? I got really good at it.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when I realized I didn’t need anyone to take care of me, but it was coldly liberating, I remember that. Complete and utter freedom; free from what anyone else thinks, free to follow your own rules (and suffer the consequences), free to do as you will. I finished high school on my own, saw my first son brought into the world, all while living in the Tenderloin, where there was one bathroom per floor in most hotels.

Fighting was a rush and a release. First, I wasn’t that good at it (although I thought I was), but as I got better at it, it became so easy to let go of everything and lose myself in the moment. I didn’t have to think about the child I left behind, the hatred for my father that fueled me, I didn’t even have to think about what I’d do for dinner that night; I just had to beat the holy shit out of the person across from me.

Something I never confessed was that every single time I finished a fight, without fail, the first thing I always felt was regret. I used to think it was because of how badly I beat the other guy (I would often imagine my father while I was fighting. I went over the line in quite a few of my early fights).

But when it comes down to it…I haven’t seen my parents in fourteen years. That’s a long time, in fact, it’s too long, to live with so much hate in your heart.

Living on my own for this long, transitioning from homelessness to stability and gainful employment has taught me to think and rely on myself no matter what. I will always believe that the mind is one’s greatest resource. Learn to solve your problems, learn not to be afraid, learn to analyze and rationalize your fear. Learn to adapt; if what you are doing is not working, then try something new. Your own shortcomings are no one’s fault but your own, but if you look at them as opportunities to better yourself instead of placing blame, you can go very far in life. That I’m still alive is proof of that.

But…there’s always a but.

I cannot get close to people. Intimacy scares me more than anything else in the world. People almost inevitably let you down, right? People are out for themselves, and they’ll say the nicest things to your face while plotting your destruction. Need no one. Have nothing in your life that you can’t walk away from. Let know one truly know you and gain an advantage over you. Never place your fate in another one’s hands.

I’m almost thirty-four years old; the world is a different animal than the one it was when I was in my twenties.  I have screwed up virtually every single relationship, platonic or otherwise, that I’ve been in. It’s a day-to-day struggle to keep my self-destructive tendencies in check because I hate getting close to someone…anyone.

My biggest regret? The shitty relationship I have with my kids. I can say what I like about my father, but he was there in my life. I’m a voice on the phone to my youngest son. Yes, my kids scare the hell out of me, too. All those questions I have to answer.

I have pushed away so many beautiful, wonderful people who did nothing wrong but try to love me. In the end, I found some skewed, screwed-up reason to get away from them, and I vanished.

I may be a coward, but I face my fears. This is why I’m going home for a few days…
I already set the wheels in motion. The flight’s been booked, I even got the time squared away from work (how’s that for God’s will? All the time I’ve missed, and I am not only free to go see my family, I will be not lose time for it). And now, about one week from the trip, I’m about scared shitless.

I don’t think seeing my father and mother will be like some miracle cure-all; it will be a start. I miss my hometown. I miss BART, I miss the red brick street of the Civic Center, I miss the smell of the bay on the breeze, I miss the view from the fourth floor of the Virgin Megastore, I miss the ginormous five-floor main branch of the San Francisco public library. I miss playing with my kids…hell, I miss my kids. Terry went and turned fourteen without me. We talk on the phone, but it’s not like I’m actually there, you know?

I’m tired of that fire-like fear that boils up inside me and makes me awkward when someone looks me in the eye for too long. I’m tired of expecting the worst in people (and I’m fed up of always being right, when it comes to that) I don’t want all of this rage and hatred anymore.

I have to go home for a bit.

Anyway, that’s your foray into my head for the week. Thank you for reading. God bless and be safe.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Ah, the long, difficult, and storied relationship of me and my father.  I was tremendously angry when I first started telling stories about my childhood; my father had always been so good at getting away with everything. To the world, I was the demon child, and he was the valiantly-struggling parent. So when I started writing, my goal was to make sure the world knew “the whole story”. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more until enough people heard me, and hated my father as much as I did.

Mission accomplished; the world knew.

But God works in mysterious ways, and as more and more people despised my father, I found myself…getting over the whole thing. Now I find myself cleaning up my own mess; explaining to people that my father isn’t quite the bastard I made him out to be on MySpace.

Now, before you call me a fraud, let me explain something; not once did I lie about anything my father put me or my mother through. What I omitted, however, was that I was not the best child. In fact, I really was a little demon, and I have the juvenile record to prove it.

Now, you can do the what-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg argument until the cows come home (I think I’ve been in the country too long, if phrases like that come naturally). My very first memory of my father isn’t pleasant, and I began acting out as soon as I could walk. Was my father overly strict because he didn’t want me to act out, and I rebelled? Or did I act out because I knew no other way to get attention? Truthfully, I think I acted out because I just flat-out didn’t care. None of it matters; it’s all in the past.

Amazingly, my father is about to celebrate a birthday, I’m in my thirties, and my oldest son is a slightly-out-of-control honor roll student. And a bloody teenager. Everything comes full circle.

It took me a long time-getting into my thirties-before I figured out who I was and what I wanted, and honestly, my father played a huge role in that. No one ever hit me as hard as he did. No one ever hurt me as much as he did. No one ever pushed me to the brink like he did. The real world? Other people? Please. The real fight took place at home. Home was where I was forged. Dad often used to say that I was soft, and that part of the reason why he rode me so hard was because he wanted to toughen me up.

It worked.

He taught me how to think faster. He taught me how to respond to situations faster than most people. He taught me to think for myself and stand by my actions. He taught me that the world wouldn’t give a damn about me; if I wanted to make something happen, then I had to make it happen. He taught me self-reliance.

He taught me that failure has a price. He taught me to be my hardest critic. He taught me to never stop climbing until I get to where I want to be. Inadvertently, he taught me to be acknowledge my successes (something I never saw him do) but at the same time, never become complacent. Never become satisfied. Never think you’ve learned all there is to something.

I apply my entire being to an endeavor, whether it’s the martial arts, writing, or this job I’m about to close my first week on (and not doing so bad on, so far). I don’t know how to go half-ass on anything, and I have little patience for people that do. I have no patience for people for go half-assed and then bitch and moan when they don’t get anywhere. I’m not low-key; I live out loud, I like to laugh, I like to be a bit immature at times, I like to have fun, meet new people, and experience new things. I’m wicked loyal to video games and I love being a dork. And I make no apologies for who I am.

My father has his issues-who doesn’t-but I proudly say that he kept food on the table, and every time he gave his word on something, I stopped worrying about it. I learned what that meant from him.

He may have been a colossal prick, but he’s still my father, and I’m proud to call him that. I am who I am because I was raised to be strong. I can deal with the issues.

So thanks, dad, sincerely.

And I’m doing okay.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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It is a setting fit for new, pimply-faced teenagers and the children eager to reach that stage. For those that may not understand, it may be the worst type of sensory deprivation, but for those that do, we can imagine nothing better.

Our senses are blissfully and endlessly stimulated in this place; a place of electronic madness, poorly-lit hallways lined with cabinets that assault your eyes and ears with a constant barrage of flashing imagery and seemingly random beeps, tinny tunes, and sound effects from worlds being obliterated for lack of one quarter. The smell of day-old cheese sauce and hot dogs that should’ve been thrown out ages ago are unavoidable if you get too close to the front counter, but still resonate in the rear room. And everywhere, there is the barrage of taunts, jeers, friendly insults, and challenges as rivalries are born, settled, and laid to rest. This, my friends, is the arcade.

On this night, I’m eleven years old, and this is my second home. Unfortunately, I have long since lost track of time.

Not that I’m eager to get home, knowing what I’ll face regardless of my time of arrival. Presently, the Mad Gear gang has kidnapped Jessica, the Mayor’s daughter, and my sole priority is saving her. For the first time, I’m nearly at the end of this journey, and I plan to see it through.

I’m so engrossed in the game that I’m completely oblivious to my surroundings, save for what I know to be there.

So when the presence of darkness overshadows me from the rear, my stomach bottoms out through my groin, my throat goes dry, and I wish I could disintegrate into nothingness. It’s the cologne that gives it away, and I wonder if everything will finally be made public. Will he lose his temper in public? Will everyone finally see him for who he is?

Not today.
Today, there is only an uncharacteristically gentle hand in my right jacket pocket. I know the voice as it leans into my right ear, but its warmth is unfamiliar to me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear a stranger was propositioning me. His words are an invitation, not a warning. “Come home when you’re ready.”

I count to ten. When I turn, I’m alone.
I fish a twenty dollar bill out of my jacket pocket. I have no idea what to think—except I’m suddenly hungry.

First, I rescued the Mayor’s daughter.

Then, I took part in defeating Shredder with three other strangers.

I had my traditional meal of two Big Mac’s, Large Fries, and a 20-Piece McNugget set.

I received no blowback when I got home that night.
The rest of the money went to a jacket I have to this day, although I outgrew it long ago. Far and away, that was the best twenty dollars I ever spent.

Or received.

del.icio.us Tags: Arcade,Dad,$20 Childhood

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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