Devoid of an essential ingredient

He's yelling at me with the simplest tears running down his face. Mouth agape - terribly. The passion of his voice could possibly shake the room. And yet I can not hear one sound.  I'm looking into his face, see his mouth moving, gather from his brightened red skin that he is over the edge with emotion. And yet I still can not relate. He's angry, bitter, sad and yet - hopeful? Somewhere in the dry space of time between his cries of despair and the stillness of my silence, I sense that he hasn't given up. If that were the case, he could simply walk away. That isn't the case. So, I begin to form the words to the phrase, "I'm sorry," but...

I wake up.

It wasn't until this morning that this dream's reflection in my mind's eye depicted me as a father being chastised by a son who's emotional stability was never satiated by the ripened fruit of a well-rounded, emotionally balanced paternal figure. Not too far fetched a reality. I, indeed, still cower at the thought of genuine hugs from others or kissing - the most immature of emotional expressions. My father never gave this to me, therefore, the receipt of such expression makes me infinitely uncomfortable - or at least it did. I've realized (held on to hope) that my socialization is always reversible, my synapses can always make new, more creative connections that allow me to grow, change, evolve.

Then it hit me: I was never the father in my dream.

I had been the son all along. Not as some excuse to lay back with some satisfaction because I was indeed the victim instead of the culprit now. But what was crucial to my understanding of the dream was that I realized my potential to stand on both sides of that emotional divide. I was the son looking at myself become a dispassionate father to myself. For so long, I've blamed my father's emotional absence for my current treatment of others. I have given him 100% of the responsibility in feeling that he could have stepped outside of himself and become vulnerable for me, his son, his pride. And yet, I type with tears in my eyes. I can't change him. The little boy whose hope I could sense in my dream was telling me that all along, as his soul bellowed out the softest songs of hope caught in the innocence of that glare. I was never hopeful for changing my father - but, it's not too late for me.

One of my fears has been my ability to destroy those things that I build up. Specifically, relationships. Because of my periodic emotional vacancy, I have sought fulfillment in temporary solutions like sex, drinking, riotous activity. But what happens in the long run? When I have to sustain emotional stability for the good of my own flesh, my offspring. I refuse to be a father like mine in this regard. I need that essential ingredient that will prove the masses wrong - "the sins of the father befall the son." I'm ready to break this curse. And I am not exactly worried about where to start or how to start it. I just know that I can't stare at myself in dreams any longer, playing both roles.

Victim and Culprit. I choose neither.

Chosen

A young girl, 22 years of age, sat nervously in an abortion clinic. The sockets of her almond shaped eyes had dried completely from her earlier down pour of emotion. She had finally decided that this was the right thing to do. She didn't want another child, the older would turn 8 later that fall. The pale blue seat cushion of her chair was an uncomfortable one, worn from just a few years of wear and tear. She had butterflies in her stomach. There was an air of insipidity that crawled up the wallpaper of the clinic and the cries of young children for food was good reinforcement for her decision. She was going through with it and there was nothing anyone could say to change her mind.

"Ms. Brimmer!" The nurse emphatically called. The young lady rose to a conservative height of just under 5 feet. She wiped her long, brown silky hair out her face, straightened her blouse and began her walk to the nurse's desk. 

"Okay, ma'am. All your paperwork is complete. We'll need your payment." The young lady opens her khaki colored wallet, a similar color to that of her pants, and begins to write a check. "Who do I make it out to?" she asks nervously. "Oh. ma'am I'm sorry, we don't take checks." The nurse points to a largely printed white sign with CASH ONLY written in bright red letters. "Oh Lord! Okay, well... I'll run to the bank and get cash. I'll be back." 

The young lady turns around, embarrassed, and walks out the building. 

Luckily, she realized that the bank was just a couple of blocks from the clinic. Convenient. She began to walk quickly and half way down her route, an older woman waited at a bus stop. "Oh look at you! What  you havin', a boy or girl?" The girl responded, "I'm not sure ma'am." "Well, whatever it is, its gon' be a blessing. If you keep it up like you do yaself, then that baby's in good hands," the woman proclaims. "Thank you ma'am," the young girl replies in surprise of the comment. 

She continued on her route to the bank, withdrew the exact amount of cash and started back on her journey to the clinic. But the journey back was a difficult one. The young girl started to think of names for the baby, what its eyes would look like, how it would smell. Her pace began to decrease. The walk became longer and longer. Inevitably, she reached the ramp of the clinic. She wasn't sure about her decision anymore. A sequence of thoughts ran through her mind. How will I afford this baby? I'm so young; I just don't need this. I wonder if it'll have my smile. How will the.... "Shelita!" She was interrupted. The young girl looked over into the street to see a familiar face leaning outside a cherry red Volvo sedan. 

The man exited the car fully. He stood 6 feet tall and was athletic build. He was adorned with a gold medallion chain having his initials incrusted in diamonds, reflecting the suns light on the red undertones of his caramel colored skin. "So you gon just kill my child, huh?" He continued, "You don't give a shit about what I think, do you? You were just gonna kill my child and not tell me." The young girl's face moved from a brown color to the apple red of embarrassment. "Shelita, get in this car..Now!" 

At the same time, ladies started to exit the clinic to see what the noise was. In order to end the embarrassment, the young lady quickly headed back down the ramp, walked briskly to the car, opened the car door and got in. She never thought to return to that clinic again. 

On November 29, 1983 at 7:36 am in Hotel Dieu Hospital in New Orleans, LA that baby was born, a healthy baby boy. His father would name him Johmyrin, after a godbrother he would never know. His mother tagged on Joshua to remind herself that this child was chosen by God, prevented from destruction of selfishness and gifted with God's unique purpose. On that very day, she gave me back to God. 

INTRO.