I Guess We Should Start from the Beginning

I am writing this knowing with good intention that no one will really ever read it, or if they do happen upon it by chance, they will not stick around for long. I secretly am hoping that they will do the first, but also, not do the second.

This is my story. I have publicized it in such a way, because for me, there is a liberated feeling when putting down words on a computer screen and out, into the world. It feels less "alone". It makes me feel connected to something much greater, much more alive, and far more expansive than the confines of my conscience and the dingy leather book I call a journal.

I also am writing because, in all honestly, it is much more efficient for me to do so this way. I spend most of my days behind a computer screen now. Either, looking on the internet, working on a spreadsheet, doing research or finagling with some budget. I have yet to decide if any of it is really worth the time, but I hope that it has to be. That I am on a better path.

The title of this blog is meant to be neither satirical, beautiful, exotic, nor passe. In fact, I know the outcome I want to get from starting it. That is, I want it to be some sort of a replenishment for my system, I want to feel saved, I want to feel pure, clean, like I had washed away some sort of sin. Especially, that which has seemingly plagued me the past year: a broken heart, painful reflections, poor performance, dishonesty, mistakes. Self criticism. Self loathing.

That and the only way I know how to do this is to start from the beginning. To dig as deep back as I can go. To dig it all up. To lay it all out...in order to figure it out. To make amends and peace with myself.

I speak, in essence, 4 languages, but when you break it down, it is more like this: English: native speaker; Spanish: I could travel around a Spanish speaking country on my own; Chinese: slightly better than Spanish, and I could travel around China on my own; French...minimal (though it happens to be my favorite "sounding" of the four). Add in Russian and Arabic...some Farsi and Kazakh, and Hindi and Punjab and you have all the languages I would really like to learn some day. But, that is off-track. The point is, that in language, I wanted to pick something that announced this exoneration but also celebrated it phonetically. So, quite stupidly, I typed in the translation for "rebirth" into Google translator, expecting to get a unique and quintessentially French term. I got the latter, in the form of Renaissance. So, feeling quite ignorant that I did not know the translation of perhaps one of the most quoted and noted French words, I (critically) blushed and then adopted it. Along with the Arcata part, which comes later in our story.

From the beginning: That is where it has to start. That is where it needs to start. That is how I am going to rid myself of whatever feelings or poisons I may have. The other reason I feel that this has to be done on a blog, is that I am an exceptionally fast typist. Not stenographer-quick, but my fingers were meant to type. Slender, nimble, they barely shake and I can move them around quite ferociously on the pad, though I tend to make mistakes. My typing, like everything else I do in my life, is like I am double-parked. I have lived my entire life that way...hurriedly.

My original birth was on June 29, 1980 at 12:49pm (or :41 or :42, I cannot quite remember what the birth certificate said, which is surprising considering my memory) at St. Peter's hospital in Aberdeen, Washington, Grays Harbor county, United States of America.

I was the third son of NAME DELETED and NAME DELETED (DELTED is her maiden name) of Aberdeen. My brother, DELETED was 19 when I was born, just about a month short of his 20th birthday. My sister was 15 1/2. Needless to say, I was neither planned nor prevented, and I have joked to the contrary that I was not a surprise, but a blessing.

My dad has filled me in on the details of my birthday. It was sunny....a gorgeous summer's day. I often picture that day in my head, because for the most part in Washington state during that time of year, you will find nothing but London-esque weather...cloudy, mild, or drizzly.

I was raised in a "suburb" of Aberdeen, though you could not really call it that at all. Aberdeen itself is only a shade under 17,000 people and it is the largest town on Washington's Olympic peninsula. Hoquiam to it's west is about another 10,000. Wishkah, unincorporated and uncharted on most maps, houses no more than two small country stores (one of which has a gas pump), a church, a "bark" shed, two firestations, a salmon restoration facility, a water reservoir that supplies water to Wishkah and Aberdeen, and a K-12 school. Not a single stop light. I would estimate that 800 people lived there growing up, though city-data.com now quotes it at 1,581 souls. This being the first "official" figure I have ever seen on the area. It is 2 1/2 hours southwest of Seattle (the closest major city) and three hours Northwest of Portland, Oregon. It lies at the base of the Olympic peninsula, showered for most months out of the year in rain (83 inches a year). Wishkah is 12 miles north, on a windy, old logging road that was paved over. The road out to Wishkah runs along the bank of the Wishkah river and on the edge of logging hills. Logging, along with fishing are the area's two main industries. Both are dead industries as far as I am concerned, and, judging by Grays Harbor's appearance, they have been dead since at least the year I was born.

Back in 1980, when I arrived, things were different for my parents. They were small business owners, they owned the Showboat Tavern in Hoquiam, and I believe the motel that ran alongside it. Sadly, I do not know all the details of this business venture, or my parent's stints at being entrepreneurs. Just that, I know some facts: They owned the business for about 15 years, selling it in 1982 when it began to falter, thanks to the tanking economy (which Grays Harbor has never recovered from). They employed other family members there (my aunt Helen must have been a cook). I vaguely remember being at the tavern when I was little. I was sitting on a pool table playing with the balls and I distinctly remember the 8 ball....its blackness different than all the rest.

But sell the tavern my parents did. My father brags that there was a time in his life when he has made more than a million dollars..."You're looking at a man that has made more than a million dollars in his lifetime", my dad will say. Whether that was gross profit or just revenue I am uncertain. Regardless, my parents have barely anything to show for it now.

My family's assets include a late 1960 style mobile home in which I was raised. My parents have lived in other houses, but it was this shack, with it's lean-to's and collapsing roof that I was reared in. It sits on 17 acres in Wishkah, the homestead passed down to my father after the death of my grandfather (my dad was his only son and my father maintains a strict adherence to royalty like patriarchy in family matters). This aluminum yellow and white "home" was my dungeon for 19 years. For 19 years, I never lived in another house, on another lot, or another piece of land, I never attended another school (Wishkah from Preschool to Senior Year-my dad also jokes about how he pulled me out of preschool after the first semester), and held the same address for those 19 first years of life. I wonder if this is what has caused my wanderlust and insatiable need to "get on the road" whenever I have the chance....I just want to go somewhere. Anywhere but where I am.

Something happened in those early years. Growing up where I did, you can imagine that there was not much around....a football field away was my grandmother's mobile home....a football field from that, my aunt and uncle (dad's sister and brother in-law). They all lived on the same piece of property. This iconic piece of property which I used to idealize as someday being my own, but now I secretly could care less whether it is. Across the way was a cow pasture.

In those first years of life, I cannot remember much, though I can tell you that life seemed pretty innocent. My sister was still living with us. Going to town, meant going into Aberdeen and it was literally like the big city to me back then. When my parents sold the tavern in 1982, apparently the bottom fell out...we went on welfare, though my mom claims we never used food stamps. I was too young to recall, but my sister would later tell me a disturbing tale from her senior year in high school. 1983.

So the Christmas of 1982, my family is on welfare, my sister is graduating from high school in 6 months. Since I am just 2 years old, I get doted on....god all I can see is that crude dark, forest green shag carpeting and small tv stand that supported a small 17 inch tv with bug antennae. My sister received nothing...and it was not until years later that she would tell me this story. I could tell it had a profound impact on her.

Growing up, I relied heavily on my Grandmother to raise me. Grandma was a smoker, avid-bingo player, and I always had to watch shows like Perry Mason and Quincy when she watched me. In fact, everyday, I would walk over to my grandma's to catch the bus, and I would get returned there at night after school. Grandma and I would play card games, while I ate my Lucky Charms or Apple Jacks. She made a profound impact on my life, teaching me these early study habits. She single handedly led me to the school Spelling Bee Championship in 5th grade. I spelled "freight" correctly and beat out my 4, 6, 7, and 8th grade class champion counterparts. Interesting thing the spelling bee. I won it in 2nd grade and at least one other time before 5th. Then, after I won the school championship and went on to compete at the state championship later that year, I self-sabotaged every one of my competitions. Intentionally spelling words wrong so I would be eliminated. In fact, even at the state competition I did this. I am in a room filled with about 200 other students and we take an oral listening exam..I spell several words wrong on purpose, including oyster (spelled it with an I) just to avoid going up to the final 50 on stage.

Why did I do that? Why did I not compete? Prior to 5th grade, I was an avid competitor. In first grade, second grade, I was easily the best athlete, then something changed. I got fat...husky as they called it back then....and timid, real timid. I withdrew from sports (I had loved tennis, track and basketball for the longest time) and would hit a tennis ball against a wall for hours. There was a summer bible school camp that other kids went to, I never went. There was Awanas that all the kids bragged about, I never went. There was an after school program that kids went to, I never went. There was a 3rd and 4th grade basketball camp. I went in the third grade and earned Most Improved, then in the 4th grade, stopped going. I got sick in the fourth grade too and missed 10 days of school....almost like it was alright for me to do that. I was sick, but not whooping cough or rubella sick. Something changed.

I even remember quitting swimming lessons at some point, around 1st grade. I merely didn't go on the swim bus to go to my lessons and just went home instead. I lied to the bus driver, went home, went back to my parent's room where dad was in bad and told him I wasn't going anymore. I remember feeling sad when this happened. Not like sad because I could not compete, but sad that I was lying and sad that I was not getting support from my parents. That kind of sad. I was sad that people were not pushing me to do harder in spelling and geography (won the school competition in 8th grade) or tennis, basketball, track or swimming. I was not being pushed. So I just gave up. I felt sad. Not guilty...but sad. The feeling still resonates to this day. I can feel it. I can feel that feeling and it is so bizarre. It isn't sadness like you have from losing someone or something, it's sadness because no one cares what you do.