The Disappeared Photograph

When I was five years old, my family went on welfare.

I have no real memory of this, and at five probably couldn't have told you what welfare was, but children have an innate ability to absorb their surroundings and internalize what they don't exactly understand. If you've ever volunteered at a soup kitchen or within the walls of some other place of need, there hangs in the air a feeling of nervous desperation; people are generally proud by nature, and being reduced to a state of charity weighs heavy on the ego. There becomes a shame in simple existence, with protective body posturing and lowered eyes worn by many of those using such services.

When my mother bundled up my newborn baby sister and ushered the two of us off with her to sign up for food stamps, though I wasn't acutely aware of what was occurring, the sense of anxiety surrounding my mother probably became ingrained in my psyche and shaped my adult life in ways I'm only now understanding. More often than not I live a life of needs over wants. While I do allow myself treats--skydiving, a Playstation 3--I tend to look at most extraneous purchases dismissively; advertising rarely makes me want to purchase a product, but often I find myself watching a commercial and thinking, "Wow, I will never buy that simply because the ad is so stupid."

Reaching this level of need took some time; my father had been earning his PhD until somewhere around my second year of life. In the 1960's and early 70's, if you were a male within a certain age range, you had two options for life: stay in school, or sign up for the draft and cross your fingers (fake joining the Alabama National Guard wasn't an option everyone had, only overly privileged fuckups). So dad got his degree, but wasn't alone in doing so; if you want to flood a field with qualified applicants, give the incentive of war to explode academic achievement.

(Considering the state of education today, bringing back the draft might be a good thing. Time was, a child wanted to grow up to be the President; now they want to be overpaid and undereducated entertainers or athletes. With nothing to fear, teens have become complacent and smug. As America is now losing its edge in both math and science, maybe using death as a motivation tool to raise those GPA's would keep kids from worshiping mouth breathers like Britney and Paris *shrug*)

Both my mother and father tell the same story of their nuptials: she was very young and as a woman from a small town thought being married was what you did in the female version of life. She pushed, he relented, and before either could see the error of their ways, I arrived and solidified the mistake of it all, a cherry sitting atop the sundae of failure. His life in confused flux, dad took one of the only jobs offered, overseeing a new teen "rehabilitation" center smack dab in the center of Wisconsin. The family bundled up and we moved from Madison to Amherst.

The facility was titled "Tomorrow's Youth" and is both long gone difficult to research. I couldn't find any real record of it among the wonders of Al Gore's invention (the Internet, not global warming. It's difficult to keep track of all he's creating, I know), but the name, naturally, was a misnomer. Teenage detention is not a pretty thing, and those too young to go to prison yet too much a detriment to society to remain in public end up in such places. The name was, as all such places are, designed to be both positive and upbeat. Hopeful, if you will, the better to mislead the surrounding neighbors and prevent protests.

This was not the life my young mother fantasized about; doubtful it would be any mother's idea of excitement. Already her plan to get married and live the American Dream was being challenged by what is commonly referred to as "reality." My father was having somewhat similar thoughts, and in essence says he chose the job of working with troubled teens to prevent them from making the same mistakes he made in life, possibly saving them where he had failed himself.

Our living quarters were within the walls of the main structure. A small apartment, we had a couple bedrooms and a common area; our three-squares a day were eaten in the mess hall, among what would be known as "general population" had any of the inhabitants been older than eighteen.

Like any new detention facility, once it opened, every other overcrowded center in the state used it as a dumping ground for the worst of their worst. We got the boy whose father burned his ear off by holding his head down on a hot stove, the violent offenders who were interested in things like breaking and entering, and those who had already graduated to assaulting others.

There was also one who remains a snapshot in my mind.

I don't remember the person, but the image of him in our living room is engrained in me. Any physical picture is long gone, as one day he up and disappeared from our photo album, but memory is a curious thing; I may not remember last month very well, but I can remember a young man with an emotionless face. He is wearing a thin, brown leather jacket. I cannot place his ethnic makeup; he is of dark complexion and is either Native American or Hispanic, with black hair eerily akin in style to that worn by Javier Bardem in "No Country For Old Men," which makes sense as the dead stare emitted from his eyes is just as cold as Javier's in the movie. I don't know how many of the children my parents bonded with or tried to help or save, but that the boy from the picture was in our living room and subsequently in our family album means he grew closer to us than most.

I do not know if he was friendly with my father or the family; however bonds are created between people is unknown, and while we possibly represented what he wanted--a mom, dad and as seen from the outside a normal life--my father looked upon him as someone to teach, someone to steer down the right path, that he not end up trapped in marriage with child.

(Irony always runs thicker than blood, doesn't it?)

As I grew older, that picture represented that time of my life; flipping through the photo album I would see it and think, "that's from Amherst." Then, one day it was gone. Erased as if never in existence in the first place, save for the continuity gap left. I don't know if I ever asked what happened or confusedly dismissed its departure as just one of the daily items we misplace in life--I lost my car keys the other day, and oh, a picture went missing from the photo album--it would be years before an odd synapse fire in my mind had me ask my mother if she remembered the picture and/or boy, and what happened to it. Mom confirmed the existence of both, and explained that indeed he had kept in touch with the family for a while. But somewhere in his mid-twenties, whatever childhood damage done to him re-surfaced. One day he up and broke into an elderly woman's house and assaulted her. Physically. Sexually. The young, confused teenager from our photo album had become an angry, violent, twenties-something rapist. I don't know if he wrote from jail looking for help, forgiveness or understanding, but after that action reached my mother's ears, his picture was quietly removed from within the pages of our photo album, never to be seen again.

Tomorrow's Youth eventually went under, but my father was long gone by then. Questionable motives by the founders eventually surfaced, with landowners having devaluing the area so they could develop it later at huge profit, all the while using local football celebrities from The Packers to raise money the shelter would never see.

Having made friends in the area and without work elsewhere, we remained in Amherst a while instead of moving on. We lived on a rented farm, and I would scurry among the chickens until it was time for dinner, when one of my feathered playmates would be beheaded and join us at the table. I would put on my red superman cape and run the length of the bull's field, taunting and getting him to chase me, the exhilaration of being chased by an animal that could kill me outweighing the consequences I didn't fully understand. And I would wear my Batman cape--which was nothing more than a towel with cut edges--and jump around the house, eventually leaping from the dresser to the bed one day and missing, tearing open my mouth at the cheek on the bedpost. I still have a stitches scar on the inside of my mouth, and my tongue was unconsciously rubbing it just now while I typed until awareness took over and I stopped.

I played all day, dawn to dusk. Built my first tree house, and had no idea what television was until my sister arrived. When she did, I was allowed PBS only, until Saturday Night Live came along a year later and my dad kept me awake late in order to see the silly people in their bee outfits. Though I wouldn't understand it at the time, something about the laughter was probably ingrained in me even then.

My grandfather eventually arrived with his mobile home, parking it off of the house and living there in order to help take care of my sister and I while my parents did their best to scrape by and provide.

I may not have known what "White Trash" was, but damn if I didn't live it when I was five.

a rose by any other name

on monday morning, i went to bed around 2am, then woke at 3:45am to catch a flight. i spent several hours in airports and airplanes, and returned home to do household chores and run errands. i went to bed roughly 11pm-ish on monday night, then woke at 4am to enter into my car and drive for 13 hours to western north dakota.

upon arrival, i was exhausted, and hungry.

the other comedian and i meandered over to burger king, where he could have a fast food feast and i could nibble away at their surprisingly tasty veggie burger.

an employee greeted us at the counter, and i inquired as to what exactly the apple fries were. said employee was not overly sure, and i made some sort of joke that already escapes my memory. hearing my comment, the other comedian, chad, gestured to the employee and said, also jokingly, "oh come on… it's not her fault."

to which i responded, gesturing to the employee: "hey, do you know who this is? this young woman is actually the owner of burger king. she's here checking on all her employees and satellite locations. she travels the country doing quality control for her fast food empire and will be down in rapid city south dakota tomorrow."

at this point, i am giving chad a mock dead stare, as if we are in debate and i have just made my argument.

from behind the counter, the same wispy voice that greeted us sounded: "she who?"

chad and did not break eye contact for a moment, as we were wondering what exactly we just heard.

i turned slowly to face the teenaged employee, with all its shaggy long hair.

"you," i said, a sound of genuine bewilderment living inside my voice.

slowly and awkwardly, a plump hand reached down to an even plumper breast and lifted the baggy shirt riding atop it.

a nametag became emphasized.

"jacob"

at this point in time, i could have said any number of things: "my god, i'm sorry," "oh wow… i'm an asshole," or "i was just kidding" among them.

instead, exhausted, hungry, and confused beyond words, i looked right at the figure holding forth the nametag which read "jacob" and said before thinking…

"you're a dude?"



the worst part is, i wasn't kidding.

.