I grew up with three overbearing women in my life.  I loved them, my mother and my sisters and floated behind them as a child.  Truth be told, I emulated them; watched them cry over nature documentaries where dolphins were slaughtered innocently with schools of tuna, listened to their phone conversations of riveting, jaw-dropping gossip that revolved around a Jesse, Vincent or an Anthony, how they carried a colorful friendship merely on their wrist and lastly, the rare gift of inspecting an emotion and deciding when it was ripe enough to be shared.  In their case, usually when it was too late.

As a boy, unexposed to the brutality of macho-inducted life, I tended to overdo my feminine side.  I was a hopeless romantic, light-years ahead of any limitation on male sensitivity, timid and unfortunately, soft.  Too damn soft.

 In fifth grade, I got laughed at for expressing my feelings about how much I despised water pollution and the destruction of our Eco-systems.  The teasing made me cry.  That invoked more teasing.  I got into a fight, no, I rebuke that last statement.  To actually get into a fight means I'd have to put up my dukes, be prepared to throw hands, rumble, brawl down, put up or shut up... I'd just get the shit beat the fuck out of me.  There's no other way to phrase it than that:  I got the shit beat the fuck out of me. 

In seventh grade, I secretly wrote a love poem for Adrianna Huxom.  She was half-Jamaican, half-Brazilian, cream-skinned with curly hair that resembled how the stairs to heaven would look.  She'd always use this peach body spray and every time she'd pass by, I'd tingle and shiver all over.  Later on, I would realize I was horribly allergic to it.  The love poem was found by my older brother during one of his nighttime raids of my belongings and by first period of the next day, Adrianna had read it and so had my entire seventh grade class.

She never looked my way again.  Except the day when I informed my class I was moving to Fresno, a crime-infested city nobody knew about, she told me then that my poem was alright and wished me luck.  Years later, I came to find that she gauged her love interests with my poem as the main criteria.  If they could outdo a wimpy kid who had never even kissed a girl before, then she'd give them a shot.  It took her until college till she found her King Arthur and the Excaliber poem.  Woot, I guess.

Living in Fresno took my emotional side and shot it in the face.  Let it bleed out and hoped for a painful death.  My sisters were all grown up and out, brutalizing the world one man at a time.  Or maybe two at a time, but I don't like to think of my sisters like that.  My mother was in a world of her own, dealing with my father and his stressors.  I was left to figure shit out on my own, the way a man is supposed to.  Problem was, nobody told me that.

I didn't cry when my mother cried anymore.  I didn't cry when people laughed at me anymore.  I didn't write love poetry anymore.  All of it was still there, waiting for that moment to come out, to overwhelm me possibly. 

I didn't cry when my daughter was born, yet I cried when she sang to me.  I didn't cry when my daughter's mother left me with a baby, yet I cried when she asked me back a year later.  I didn't cry in the hospital where my father lay in the ICU, dying in only his physical form, yet I cried ninety days later at his last burial rights. 

This boils down to a point, a convoluted point I'm slow to make.  I couldn't protect the women I loved then, but for damn sure I'll protect them now.  In Vietnam two months ago, someone asked my mother rudely for money, thinking that if he persisted she'd give in because women there are treated like rudimentary slaves.  I stood up, demanded an apology and if it wasn't in the way I wanted, I'd punch a hole through his chest.  A very sincere apology was given.

New Years Eve, I'm walking the wife down the hall out of the loft where we reside, and a group of drunk white college kids are behind us.  One of them chants, "Ching-chong, chong-ching."  It doesn't phase me, it doesn't bother me.  I'm the most diverse sonofabitch you'd ever meet.  The chanting continues, however, it escalates to - "Me so horny," followed by laughter.

As a man, I have to protect the women in my life.  What if my daughter were with me?  How could anyone disrespect women so easily? 

I turn around and walk towards the group.  They freeze in place, as if I were wielding a samurai sword.  There are four guys and three girls.  The guys are typical college scene kids, wearing lighter shades of gay polo shirts and the girls are pale and orange-toned.  I remember one of them having the worst acne I've ever seen this side of a Pro-Activ commercial, and I confront them.

Apologies resound across the hallway.  They blame it on their drinking.  They blame it on their ignorance.  They were so scared of me, just one man by himself, that when I saw them again later that evening, they continued apologizing.  Now every time I see them in the hall, they run back into their apartments.

Being a man doesn't mean having to fight.  It doesn't stipulate anger, doesn't give any justification nor cause.  I was willing to get a beatdown, and for what?  In the end, if things are bloody and broken, swollen and stinging, what was it all for?

I'd have to say that the women, the women that I love and emulate, will look at me and think to themselves, "I love him." 

Dat

Dear Emmalee,

It might come as quite a surprise to you, but when you were a baby, you used to bite your nails.  At the time, it was rare; you would bite them if bored with Blue's Clues or bothered by Ruby's bittersweet belligerence of Ruby and Max fame.  One kindergarten night after getting you out of the bath, I noticed your fingers bleeding.  You had begun biting your nails past the cuticle, causing them to wound.

I screamed.  I yelled.  I threatened to spank you within an inch of your life.  I slapped your hand every time I caught you doing it; I slapped your hand regardless even if I didn't see the act with my own eyes but my avid Father-spidey-sense knew you were doing it.  Nothing worked. 

Shortly after came the blowout: The utter blowout that changed the whole playing field of father-daughter relationships.  I was in my room on the computer, prepping for another tour out of the state, possibly FL or OR, I'm none too positive of which one, and you came into the room.  I kept you dressed in Old Navy an awful lot those days; they were cheap and I was tacky so it was a wonderful mix. 

You were wearing a yellow tank top and purple shorts.  You wore those shorts only because your mother's favorite color was purple.  You came in to hug me, to simply hug me and silently walk away as you normally did when I was busy on the computer.  However, this time I noticed that more of your fingers were bleeding and I went numb.

I had said, "If you continue to bite your nails, I won't talk to you ever again."

"No Daddy!  No!"  You had protested.  I was your world, and here I came to tear it down with a wrecking ball of blindsided impatience.  Daddy the demolitions.  Daddy with the demons.  Daddy, a title that perhaps should be earned as a privilege instead of passed out like fliers on the Vegas strip.

Despite your tears, despite your attempt to hug me again, I had pushed you away and said nothing else.  You walked out to your Dora the Explorer desk I had placed in the kitchen.  It was adjacent to your rabbit cage, the rabbit you named Sara.  Your mother loved that name, but for different reasons that I don't think you'll ever understand.  I hardly comprehend it.

You sat in your desk, placed one chubby arm down, laid your head sideways and cried.  From my room, I heard your sobs and something was off.  Your crying was different.  I peeked from a crack in the door and saw my beautiful little baby girl, pouring her heart out for her daddy.  Something she'd never done before at the time.  I had used my power, my ultimate standing with her to hurt her and I felt like I was choking on air I didn't deserve.

I let you cry.  I let you cry and cry while I watched, because I needed you to stop biting your nails.  Because getting my way was more important to me than keeping you safe.  Safe physically, of course, but my duty as a father is keep you safe emotionally as well.  I should have ran out there and picked you up and whispered, "I'm so sorry," into your little cotton ears over and over again until you'd push me away and forgive me.  My decision to stay in my room and let you feel as if your tiny world was shattering was not justified.

Emma, my little sunflower who speaks of full moons and distances between Earth and home, the girl who tells jokes to cheer me up.  Please don't ever stop talking to me.

Dat

I'm traveling again, touring the world one city at a time, one event at a time, one adventure to add to the collection of memories that trickle into my memory banks.  Every public park I pass sets the simple stage for the play about to be performed in my thoughts.  The people here, the everyday static people that reside while prospering and floundering make up the neighborhoods.  They are the actors, partly due to the fact that they'll never be real to me, and the stories I create for them essentially flesh them out.

Last week I stood in another new city, waiting for lunch before heading back for my performance.

Six men in their early twenties sold deli sandwiches out of a cart near a playground.  Why it took six of them to make a sandwich, I couldn't tell you, especially since they took fifteen minutes to get mine ready.  I never got upset because the delicate balance of good days and bad days shouldn't rest on the mere preparation of provolone and roast beef.  This gave me delightful insight, however, into the atmosphere.  The men were all best friends since elementary, had soldiered on through all the miseries of childhood together and most likely, could not bear to be apart.  They teased, poked and prodded while pulling my order at the register.  I laughed.

I took the sandwich and tipped not according to level of service.  Rather I tipped on the basis of how I envied their brotherhood, wishing I too could sit around and lounge.  Never the case, I'm on a deadline.  I need to eat, get the approriate calorie count and bounce back to the venue.

Eating near a playground isn't the safest place to be.  You've got play lot sand, kites, toy cars and dolls and the like littering the area.  No nannies here, the COL [cost-of-living] barely lingers over the poverty line, so all you get is pure and pretty mothers dressed to enjoy the sunny weather with their children.  A particular bunch caught my eye, setting a new scene for my play.

A redheaded toddler took a face-first dive into a sandpit, much to the surprising glee of her mother.  Her mother donned a purple dress that loosely flowed past her knees and had a purple headband that kept her blonde, shoulder-length hair out of her eyes.  She swooped her daughter up and in a one-two shake, dusted her off.  The redheaded toddler blew sand off of her face and they both giggled.

The mother took her headband and placed it on her daughter's head, a gesture of protection.  The daughter continued her playing and the mother sat adjacent at a bench, reading another Grisham novel.

I missed my daughter.  I'm sure she was at a beach with real deal sand and real deal worries.  Why isn't my daddy here to teach me to skimboard?  Why is he so tired from his trips?  Will he like the frog I made for him, if I even get to give it to him?

Sometimes I wonder if this is where I'm supposed to be.  Spending my Saturdays in different cities dancing to the beats of someone else's perspective, spinning to the sounds of surreal applause and approval, solely and sorely standing out in the crowd while wishing to be lost amongst them.  The pain sticks, it sure as hell sucks, the discomfort of fatherhood can be culminated into my Sundays when instead of sleeping, I'm skimming the beaches with my daughter.

I finished my sandwich and wondered if the redheaded girl's father felt the same way I did, since he wasn't there with her at the park.  Back to my play: The stage grows dark, the scene leaves you wanting more but it's time for the next act.

Curtain call, I'm up and ready to be at the venue.  My left shoulder strained from an injury occurring at an 80's birthday bash in San Diego I performed at, my right hip aching from a mishap flip at a performance at Balboa Park but it doesn't matter, it never matters.  I held onto my helmet and lightly touched the frog sticker my daughter placed on the front.  It said I was terrific.

Time to prove it, I thought, as the curtain went up.  The lights come on and the music is queued.  In ten minutes I'll be finished, in thirty I'll be back at the hotel to change to dance at the after party and in less than 12 hours I'll be back home and be playing center stage. 

Dat

These words dropped into my childish mind as if you should accidentally drop a ring into a deep well. I did not think of them much at the time, but there came a day in my life when the ring was fished up out of the well, good as new.  -John Steinbeck

This may sound absurd but on my journey of ascertaining the English language, I’ve come to relate words to memories.  People notoriously associate smells and even sights to past occasions, examples being peppermints and Christmas or cookies and grandma.  Certain words, however, bring about deeper remembrances within my own lifetime.  My limited vocabulary resembles a blockade of knowledge and wisdom.  Now, with dictionary in hand and stricter ears in use, I partake on a mission to relearn how to articulate.

Yesterday, a meeting bombarded my work schedule and while my co-workers droned out the speaker, I listened carefully to her word selections.  Conduit, a magnificent word, used in the reference of a person transmitting information from the computer and relaying it the audience.  “I’m just a lowly conduit,” the speaker said to very little laughter due to her power point file acting erratically.  I wondered why the speaker chose the word conduit, a choice that affected her joke, as no one quite understood it.  How would I incorporate it? 

During my lunch break, a newspaper article questioned the second amendment and used the word constitutionalthicket to describe his argument.  Where in the world did the author learn such an irregular word?  The word settled on its laurels, resting on the tip of my tongue for the remainder of the day. 

At school, Professor Jacoby talked of democracy and asked his sullen students in class the definition.  While skimming a dictionary, I found another word that caught my eye:  De novo.  Defined: to begin again and I stopped in mid-thought.  Where had I experienced that word before?  It hit me, a hammer to the sternum; I had read it in a love letter written from a girl who lived an entire ocean apart.  I felt myself wasting away in class.  My feet grew antsy, eyes drawn to the clock and exit; I needed to find that love letter. 

Once home, I sat in the eye of a storm as a whirlwind of paperwork and clutter encircled me.  After an hour of searching through unkempt boxes and smaller containers of non-word related mementos, I found a bundle of envelopes wrapped in a taut rubber band.   Amazingly, I had kept them intact and sorted by date. 

Reading the letters for the first time in years, I imagined myself creating and choosing the words on the paper.  Going through similar motions, would I use her same methods?  Could I change the course of time, loving and living happily ever after?  No, but the mere thought of altering the past by the variety of my vocabulary revealed that these love letters contained pieces of her soul.  It seemed impossible to pour your heart out and not expect spillover.  

Her name was Jackie and we had met at a concert in London.  I tried on numerous occasions to acquire her hand alongside her first true love, music.  Not a day would pass when the soft delicacies of symphonies filled her loft; music her father used to play when she was a child dancing halos in her living room.  She possessed a confidence unusual of people in their early twenties and behind her lightly jeweled eyes predicated a belief that she could change me.  De novo, she would say, you can always start again.  Unfortunately, for her I could not.  I don’t have the words or the ability to explain the dismemberment of our relationship. 

My quest of English enlightenment continues to open memories I figured closed.  What associations are possible for the words conduit or constitutionalthicket?  Will they be feelings of remorse and regret or understanding and pleasure?  De novo, maybe now I am starting anew.  The outlook is clear, the greater my terminologies within this language become, the higher probability that I will remember who said what and never forget why they said it. 

Written entirely in longhand on a flight from San Diego, CA to Vancouver, BC early 2005.  I found it amongst my things while cleaning my old travel bags.  I don't remember writing it or what preceded before and after but I believe love has a way of finding its way back in any form.

-

The California coastline at sunset, with a vast orange haze for its horizon is eerily similar to your strengths.  While not always visible, come night its presence resurfaces.  Even the roaring jet engines can't deafen the visual beauty as it extends for an eternity beyond ours. I want to be strong, strong like you.  To contain the orange glow in my soul, to never let the weight of my family burdens and stupidity cause another collapse.  Being next to you glorifies the bonds of our love and creates a peaceful lull. 

Tuesdays with Morrie, everyday with you. 

Your love has never run silent; I hear it loudest in only my times of need.  Selfish, yes, I have always been.  As night approaches, I can break from your orange blanket of protection.  I need to fulfill my life by being the greatest person ever to be associated in your life. 

Importance withstanding, I love you ever so dearly.  The city lights beneath me twinkle, stars on the wrong side of the sky.  You glow so fiercely, my angel on the wrong side of Heaven.  Show me the way, my dear, show me the way.  Lead, as you always have, here I refuse to lose you.  If such a possibility occurred, I would look upon the horizon for your direction, your strength.  The foregoing endless bounds of your soul stretch further than I could ever hope to see.