Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Graphic Arts was a long time ago.

Last week I went to my daughter's school for parent night.  I was a little excited (I am a dork), since I went to the same high school.  They had us follow our child's schedule, and spend ten minutes in each class, listening to the teacher's description of the courses.  I didn't expect to feel like I was 16 again, but then, I kind of always feel that way.  And I didn't expect to feel so brought back in time.  I must be hitting menopause, because my emotions are all over the place this season. That is usually the case in the fall. Still, it's my favorite season.

It hit me in her digital photography classroom. I hadn't been in that classroom since the tenth grade, a long fucking time ago.  And honestly, that class is really the only one I remember.  I remember having fun in there.  But I mostly remember being sad.  I remember skipping class often to take pictures and smoke cigarettes in anyone's car.

I enjoyed the photography and silk screening and all of the time there was for little meaningful/meaningless conversations with my classmates.  Also, Mr. Madden was pretty cool to me, and I know I didn't make that easy.

Believe it or not, I was a disrespectful, loud-mouthed, class-clown back then. Shocking right?  So even though my problems were real, most teachers got pretty sick of me. I think Mr. Madden cut me a lot of slack.

Sitting in that classroom, I let my mind drift, trying to put myself back there.  I felt the heaviness of what it was twenty-six years ago.  I remembered being in that darkroom one day, my eyes trying so hard not to cry, and not making it. I remember feeling like an alien, because my home life was full of a bald mom, chemotherapy, CAT scans and stress. Everyone pretending that she was going to beat the cancer. I remember being so angry and believing everyone owed me something for not being real.

I remember often asking Mr. Madden, "can I please go to the bathroom?" and him always letting me.  I think we had a deal where I could just leave without asking, if I needed to.  He knew I was struggling.  But I used her death as an excuse to not try. It worked like a charm, although there are easier ways to roll.  I mean, what where they going to say to me when I said I needed some time? I manipulated people with her dying, quite a bit.

I know I have been talking about the profound effect my mom's death had on me a lot.  Maybe it is because my daughter is at the same age I was when it all went bad.  I am 41 and I have accepted the events of my past. But all of this looking back and writing stuff out, makes me go there.  So bare with me and my depressing ass.  I'll get this out of my system eventually.  I just get oversensitive in these places.

I don't regret the past, but sometimes I stare through that door too long.

And in case anyone from my school is curious, they are taking a part the dark-room as we speak in that old classroom. Goddamn technology.

On a lighter note (ha ha), I've lost like fifteen pounds.  I'm half way to being $1,000.00 richer.  I'm freaking starving man. Just think of all of the food I can buy with $1,000.00!  I can hardly wait!!
This is my scale, but I am not on Weight Watcher.  Although, I know that works if you stick to it.


  1. You don't remember our trip to Mexico with the Spanish class?? If not, I have the pictures.

  2. Oh, I have pictures too my friend. But that trip started from South campus. I should have clarified. I don't remember anything from North campus.

    Funny, I remember our trip to Mexico very well, but I don't remember Spanish class at all. My memory is selective. But we sure had fun.

  3. I just found your blog via MODG, and your honesty and courage is inspiring, for real. I've read through your posts and it is SO real I almost feel like I'm reading your diary, and it gives me the warm fuzzies that you are sharing your experience and pressing on. Keep at it!

    1. Thank you Lydia! That is so nice. I'm glad I give you warm fuzzes, what a great compliment. I really appreciate your words.