Akting Out

Me: “I’d love to fly one day. Actually break free of Earth’s gravity under my own power and just take off.”

Sam: “We should jump out of a plane someday.”

I’m not a religious person; more of a spiritual one. I believe in karma almost as strongly as I believe in God; every last thing we do, in this life, or the next one, we will answer for. I know this as surely as I’m writing this blog.

I figured that part of my karma was watching people all around me settle down in permanent relationships. I’ve always thought it was the most awesome thing in the world; to have someone know all of the worst things about you, and love you anyway.

Samantha once told me that she loved me because of my faults; they made me who I am.

And then I’m reminded; almost nothing is unforgivable, and everyone deserves a second chance. We just have to earn it.

Samantha and I met six years ago; despite being, well, whatever I was, with no fixed address, I still thought I had what it took to be a husband and father. Anyway, we were states apart when we met by chance, but that first conversation we had was epic; we chatted for nearly four hours (which is funny, because I can’t talk to anyone for four hours) about everything ranging from our favorite football teams (she’s a diehard Packers fan) to our unifying faith in God. A deeply religious good-girl with a wild streak and weakness for bad boys, Samantha had a smile that was visible from across the world and eyes that see straight through you. Those eyes scared the hell out of me, back then; all of those walls I had spent years building up had come crashing down in a single day.

Keeping Sam at a distance wasn’t as easy as I made it out to be, even across the country. Nothing about me frightened her; I told her the worst thing I had ever done in my life and she didn’t even blink. I wanted to scream at her; CAN’T YOU SEE HOW BROKEN I AM?! RUN! GET AWAY! GET AWAY NOW!
But she didn’t. No matter what I said, no matter what I did…she was right there, never further than an email or phone call away. I honestly think that was the first time in my life I had known complete and total acceptance from the opposite sex. Yeah, I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.

Although we didn’t become a couple for years, we managed to stay friends. Finally, three years ago, unable to stay in Michigan without getting arrested and having burned everyone I was close too, we finally met.
The first night we met, she cooked for me; sour cream chicken. We stared up at the stars and asked each other what we wanted out of life.
And although the circumstances were all wrong back then, we decided to give being a couple a shot.

Things were not all bad, nor entirely our fault; Samantha has a beautiful daughter I quickly bonded with, and she spoke to my kids over the phone. But the beginning of our relationship marked my going straight; I had no idea how difficult the adjustment would be. Plus, the rug was yanked from under her after her family fell apart and her mother, decided to leave the state. I was working overnights, she was working during the day, we barely saw each other on the weekends, and when we did, we usually took the chaos of our lives out on each other. But our fights were never hateful; we never called each other any names…just two very intelligent, very passionate people with similar beliefs and different pathways battling it out.

Still, the good times were awesome, although I couldn’t see it back then. Sam’s humor was very G-rated (I likened it to Disney) and it used to grate on me. She could meet someone once and years later, they’d still remember her. I didn’t like it because I wished I could connect with people like she did. I rode the emotional roller-coaster harder with her than anyone else, even becoming engaged for a moment.

She was the only woman I ever came that close to marrying.

Still, in the end, with us unable to come to any common ground, we reluctantly called it quits.
And then, something amazing happened; we got ourselves together.
She moved to Texas, continuing to raise her daughter and pursue the same dream she’s been after as long as I’ve known her. She lost weight. Her confidence went through the roof. She gained the ability to see the world through other’s eyes.

And me, well, I (somewhat) got over myself.
Put all the anger away. Made peace with my family. Saw my kids. Began resolving my diabetes. Figured out what I wanted to do in life. Even *gasp* maintained employment at the same job for more than two years.
When my last relationship collapsed (which was more my fault than I’d like to admit), I reached out to Sam, just to see what was up; I hadn’t talked to her in over a year.

Occasional conversations turned into an every-night thing (Skype rocks) as we filled each other in the happenings of our lives. To be completely honest, it didn’t take long for old feelings to reach the surface again. So when she made plans to come up here to visit old friends, I offered to let her stay at my place. The rest is history.

Samantha is crazy and she’ll be the first person to tell you that. She’s stubborn, hard-headed, a little too intelligent for her own good, extremely driven with an unshakable faith in God that guides everything she does. Plus, she doesn’t realize it yet, but she really doesn’t believe in fear or excuses. And don’t ever, ever lie to her. Trust me on this, please?

I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get a second chance with this woman; after everything, I didn’t think I deserved one. And with us living, once again, states apart, nothing is guaranteed and we both know that. We also both believe in earning what you want, so I look at it as God throwing down the gauntlet and asking me; “How badly do you want this?”

I’m not self-destructing this time. I’m not falling back into the same patterns that cost me everyone else. So here’s hoping.

And for now, I’m glad I got a second chance at The One That Got Away. J

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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A couple of weeks ago, my girlfriend and I are at the local Wal-Mart, finishing my grocery shopping. As we wrap up, I see a faded blue beat-up pickup truck. A sloppy, heavyset woman, determined to keep her back to me, is standing outside the passenger door. I spot the stuffed confederate dice hanging from the review mirror. One of these dice very prominently displays the word “Nigger”.

That explains the haircut, I think to myself. Her entire head is shaved, except for the top, which is oddly shaped into a ponytail. I wondered if she thought that was attractive.
Suddenly, I notice my girlfriend trying to urge me into the car.
The woman holds a baby in her arms; that’s when the anger hits me. Her boyfriend/husband/fellow klansman, all of one hundred and ten pounds with maybe five teeth in his mouth, begins laughing like a monkey playing with its own feces as his child starts crying.

I get into the car, trying not to think of what that child will grow up to be. I tell myself that it’s not my problem, but for some reason, I feel like it is. I couldn’t care less about their viewpoints, but what they will put that child through should be punishable in court.

But that will never happen.

There’s a very nasty old man who lives on the first floor. He’s walking proof that hate can keep you alive for a long time. I try to avoid him, but since we live in the same building, it’s almost inevitable that our paths cross.
Later that day, I’m doing laundry. As I converse with one of my neighbors (a very nice black lady), the man comes out of his apartment and maneuvers between my neighbor and I. He stops in between us and glares at me. I hold it with him for a few minutes. This man has lived in the building for nearly two decades; he’s very used to getting his own way. He’s certainly not used to anyone standing up to him.

I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I just stared him down.

He stepped past me again, returning to his apartment. When he came back out, he stepped past my neighbor and I again, not making eye contact with either one of us. My neighbor pressed herself against the wall as tightly as she could and looked to the ground. At this point, I wanted to pound the life out of the man. I imagined she was alive when even glancing in his direction would’ve gotten her beaten, or worse.

Later that day, I made a mistake.
As the old man and I passed each other in the hallway, neither one of us made an effort to avoid the other. We slammed into each other, and with me being so much bigger, he got the brunt of it.

I could’ve moved and avoided the whole thing. Then again, he could have too. We were both wrong.

He whirls on me and screams; “Are you blind?!”
“No,” I reply calmly, “Are you?”
His eyes are ice and his hand goes into his pocket…
I immediately take an aggressive stance—if he pulls something out of his pocket, he’s going to make my choices very easy—but I did not attack. His hand remained in his pocket.

Another staredown commenced.
I have no warrants in Missouri.
My girlfriend is upstairs.
He’s an old man.

God is trying to reach me, I can feel it, but as I stare this physical manifestation of hatred down, I can see in his eyes exactly what he’d like to do to me, what he may have done as a younger man…and I want him to try. May God forgive me; I wanted him to advance on me so I could attack him and beat him and crush him and break him until there was nothing left.

I hated him as much as he hated me. I only knew his name. I didn’t know anything about his life up to that point; where he came from, where he’d been, or what experiences had shaped who he had become. None of it mattered. I hated him.

Logic prevails. My girlfriend is from a much different world than I am, and she does not need to be exposed to this kind of thing. “Walk with God.” I tell the man, keeping my eye on him as I return to my apartment. It took twenty minutes for the adrenaline to leave my system.

Love and hatred are dark mirror images of each other; each eschew logic and reason and act as pure emotion. They can be equally creative or destructive. Love creates. Hate destroys. Sometimes it just takes a small push to turn one to the other.

Love requires work.
Hate doesn’t.

I think back to the day my son was born. I was nineteen. I had no idea what I was supposed to be thinking or doing. I just knew I wasn’t going to run.
I remember watching them pull him out of my ex-wife, and the way he cried was always laaa instead of waaah. I remember watching them clean him off, wrap him up, and place him in a plastic container.
Looking down on him from outside the maternity ward, I wondered if it was like that for every father; scores of new life, yet you instinctively know exactly which one you helped create. I didn’t see any other baby except Terry, my brand new baby son.

I was dressed in faded blue jeans, shredded at the knees, my favorite blue jean jacket, a black t-shirt, and naturally, the hat and gloves. And I had just had a son.
This beautiful little boy is going to look to me and expect me to define every last little detail of the world. His views, his successes, his failures, it all depends on what I show him. What I tell him.

I did not know him. But I loved him.
Separated for years, emotional bond frayed, I still love my children very much. I love it when they call, when Terry tells me that he made the honor roll, that his favorite subject is science. I love it when Brandon exhibits typical six-year-old greed and tells me how he’ll be good if I get him Optimus Prime and Bumblebee.

Some may say it’s easy to use blood relations as examples of unconditional love. I wonder if most of struggle with the concept of someone loving us when they don’t have too; someone outside of us who sees exactly how screwed up we are, and wants to be with us anyway.

I wonder how many people get married without knowing truly what they’re in for. I wonder when divorce became so easy.

I believe that when someone looks you in the eye and vows to spend their rest of their lives with you, when you’ve developed that deep a connection with another human being, who was at one time a stranger, you’ll never know anything better.

It’s true; hate can keep you alive a long time.

Luckily, so can love.

Thank you for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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