big birds; flying across the sky: part 1

We’ve already been told how his grandfather had molested both his mother and her older sister; and how he subsequently; violently sexually assaulted our young man years later. The ongoing fear our teenager felt, probably was simply due, to never wanting to return to that situation or anything like it; ever again.

In other words; in not wanting to make waves; to cause stressful circumstances in an already unstable marriage; the pressures of practices, tournaments; the necessary money it would inevitably take to fully engage with another sport; like baseball or even basketball; our young man had decided, probably as far back as the seventh grade; to keep as low a profile as he could; so the marriage between his mother and father; his perceived life saver at the time; would have the best chance of staying together; long enough; for him to grow big enough; to take care of himself; in spite of any lingering; overarching machinery of familial secrecy; at the core of this particular clan of Boldens; whose blood and kinship lines he shared then; just as he does — today.

So, why the abstinence? That remains as baffling a question for this writer; here in the present; as it most assuredly was for the young adolescent boy; the subject of this narrative; having taken place many years ago.

When our young African American boy attended parochial school he wasn’t necessarily shy with any one; girls or boys. In fact the word: reticent, comes to mind; as a much more accurate and general description of his over all demeanor. Yet, in previous years there were times when bigger kids; mostly boys would humiliate him without his really knowing, at the time, how to handle himself.

A case in point; on the morning school bus, as a child in Ypsilanti, some of the older boys; mostly athletes and all white; all much larger than he; started gesturing to him; holding the tips of their thumb and index finger together; forming a circle; with their palms facing up; the remaining three fingers of their hand, extended straight out; telling our young black boy to blow through the circle; which he did; every time the boys asked; much to their delight; that is until one day, an older white girl told our young friend that blowing through the circle meant he wanted to suck their cocks.

Our young black boy knew their was nothing he could do; except stop letting those boys use him like that. The whole thing was something he never forgot; the memory of which just sort of stayed with him; all ways present in the back of his mind.

Every time another boy would try to befriend him; either in school or elsewhere; with some rare exceptions; our young man; haunted by what the boys did; all those week day mornings on the bus going to school in Ypsilanti; and not being able to tell anyone; as well a vague shadow memory of his grandfather; who abused his mother, her older sister; and years later, himself; and again: not being able to tell any body; other members of his gender, subsequently were never really trusted; either socially nor emotionally.

They were generally studied; rehearsed for; play acted; pretended and role played; from one “what if” scenario to the next; so much so, that over time; the boy; having perfected his outward appearance of normalcy; forgot what he really was inside his heart and mind; thoroughly and utterly confused; and scared; most of the time; really, really scared; a trait some part of him warned; was far from attractive; and frankly; if some one found out he was that apprehensive; they might, as his father always joked: lock the door and throw away the key.

Hence, over the coming years, as his body and mind would change; consciousness about his appearance; about his career; about the opposite sex; all of it added up to what would generally look like; to any casual observer; to be; a young black boy; trying so very, very hard to do what; fit in; not make waves; not make trouble; not be gay; to be more black; to not be too black; to be smart; to be kind, funny; personable; accepted; good and not evil; to learn something about life he couldn’t learn in any other way; other than to go against the wishes of his father; no one can say for sure.

He was good at keeping secrets as well; something he had well learned at home; like the times at the Catholic school he previously attended; mostly in the library during study times; all the girls sitting at the same table as he; talking about this boy or that; usually boys he knew; some he didn’t; all the while; our young black man just sitting there; almost as if he were a priest hearing confession after confession after interminable confession; patiently enduring.

The first year at his new school; a public school; his mind and his perceptions; or we might say from our standpoint; his mis-perceptions, were working along the same lines as they were at his old school. There was a girl he sat next to in his first period English class; beautiful big brown bright eyes; slender yet supple framed; blessed with a voluptuousness rarely encountered in any fifteen year old girl; a young lady, our boy would pine after; over his next several years in public school; a statuesque girl he would all ways say hello to; and that was all he would ever let himself say; someone he told himself: all the boys were pining over; so why should he be any different?

Was he supposed to pine over her; was that his duty; his obligation, or did he really want to — do what; get to know her; get in her pants; bury his face in her ample bosom; nibble on her neck as if she were a piece of candy; and instead of this being school; it was somehow Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory; and he had just won a Golden Ticket?

This writer does not know why the abstinence in our young man of yesterday; there is no truly good or profound reason for it; nothing worthy of a Pulitzer Prize or an article in some professional journal somewhere; or some other “dream come true moment” on some sort of Flight Through Imagination; nothing he can put his finger on and say: Eureka: QED; I have found it; that which this narrative has demonstrated, is thus; at least — not yet.

What we have to keep in mind here is; that at this point, in our young black adolescent’s life, he took both himself as well as his self-declared crusade; not for the meaning of life; as his betrayed father scoffed and bewildered mother shook her head at the thought of; but to learn what real life indeed was; way too seriously; alluding to his perceived artificiality in his parochial background; one that he saw, ultimately, killing first his mother, then his father.

Yet, by it self; the actual reason stemmed from a deeper, more vague memory of sexual molestation, perpetrated by his grandfather and at least two other men; a stirring of a buried ghost; triggered by his witness to incidents of multiple counselor on camper molestation; at a Catholic run Summer camp for boys; his shame in himself for not doing or saying anything to anyone about what he saw; multiplied by the shock of seeing one of the older campers; directly involved; being rewarded with a trophy at the end of the camping cycle; all of which added up, in the mind our young black boy, way back then; that he was not learning about life; or at least, not about the kind of life, he wanted to live and perhaps one day share with someone in whom he could trust; and who in kind, believed him.

How much different would his life be today; if he could have only told someone; anyone he felt he could have had faith in; or at least the kind of faith that saw more than a little black boy; who if he was not careful; would find himself lost in a big cruel world of white men.

No. His life took the only course it could ever had taken. Indeed, the question, on its face, is far too obvious; given the times, the boy’s own family history and his un-diagnosed Developmental Spectrum of Autistically skewed perception. He couldn’t have told any one. He did not have the language or the means to so.

Moreover, the fact that his ASD went untreated for years; further complicated by the pervasive machinery of his family’s secrecy; meant; at least as far as the boy himself was concerned; that he would have to take a risk; gamble on all that knowledge; whether he understood it at the time or not; that he could drain from his father’s library; guess that there was some thing in the history of Western Thought; from Ancient to Modern to Post-Modern thinkers; some kind of way to reassemble a highly probable narrative of a life, nevertheless lived; a self manufactured mantle onto which; after no matter how many years it might take; he could finally come to rest; and take a much needed — vacation; hopefully with close family and friends.

It is along these lines then, we also have to keep in mind; in terms of understanding our young black adolescent, through his peer orientation is going; has been and continues to this day to be; reasonably difficult; but let’s start at East Hills Jr High; where his previous non secular, deeply structured mindset; regarding his sense of a social and psychological self; was sort of out of place; and go from there.

(to be continued)