Spin

The early memories of a cheerleader..

[The scene is that of a bald, effeminate, middleaged man looking out the window. He begins to get dizzy and appears to fall... but does not.]  I used to walk around in circles and spin. At first like an amateur Sufi. Then as I grew; I would spin around to Lynda Carter's Wonder Woman. I suppose I have been spinning ever since. Now, I am just a old person where the room spins every time I bend down to tie my shoes. [The room is tastsefully decorated with antique brassy- gold mirrors. Highly laquered wood furniture painted silver. Metallic gold and black duvet. With silk sheets. A white sofa against a green floral wallpaper.] Time has caught up to me and what have I done. What do I have to show for all these years? Countless dreams and aspirations of stardom and far of locations.

Riches & diamonds. No. [Looking in the mirror.] Just a chronically fatigued person with a reasonably nice smile, And rich eating habits. A cigarette addiction. A caffeine dependency, and a penchant for organic lipbalm. What is my legacy? What do I leave the world when it is my time to bite the dust? What my legacy will be is mystery to me.

 

And here our story begins. There was notion in the air that I should ever live with my parents. Not that I am ashamed by that situation. I have never been amused by martyrdom. The cold, dark evening air was proceeded by a strawberry sunset. Then followed by this freckled and speckled starlit sky. As I stare- It seems almost like a Jackson Pollock painting. Such a masterpiece never revealed itself to me before, but tonight I am fortunate. The problem with me is I'd rather be with my head in the clouds than my feet on the ground. The problem with that kind of life are the looks you garner. Like you are peculiar,

Or weird or strange or somehow so different.

You are handicapped or disabled. So much for their unwanted attention. What else?  So there, my issue in a nutshell. I'm tired of this.

All the analysis. All the babysitting; like I must or should be on good behavior. My head is spinning. And my life is spinning out of control. First; are my attempts of suicide that I deemed cowardly. And now I don't view them that cowardly. They were cries for help. I suppose my cries were answered. I'm blessed I'm surrounded by family, but this isn't what my life is supposed to be. And you can be  poor baby. Here we go again playing the victim. But, I am growing weary and don't know what will become of me. I can make no plans for myself for the future. And if I can account for the present; the more hopelessness is felt. [Sheds a tear.]

All I know is life is hard to navigate with my issues. And I can't imagine how hard it must be for youth to navigate. Or how hard it is on our parents to deal with us when we are not our best selves. We always can't be full of cheer and joy. I try my best but things weigh heavy on me sometimes. My early adult life was filled with scandal. Promiscuity and no apologies. And fearlessness. After so many eventful nights my life is just stunted. I am trying to change my circumstances. But nothing recently has gone my way. 

My mother always tells me to be grateful for my blessings. But I have far less than the average person. In very few cases I have more. A two thousand dollar shirt. A three thousand dollar sneaker. Another thousand dollar loafer but no car or place to call my own. Does that make any sense? 

Of course not! But why talk to myself? Or ask myself a question. If I could only answer that, I'd win the grand prize. It would be like winning the lottery. My mind would finally be at peace. But that is neither here nor there at this point. One day at a time. And a little bit of serenity.

[The aforementioned bald man is on his hands and knees by the foot of their bed.

His fingers are wrapped by big rings, and he is repeatedly is doing his cross with three fingers on his right hand.]

"Jesus, may you have mercy upon me, a sinner!" "God bless me with patience, and piece of mind." "I hope that my heart is pure, and you protect my family that look over me." "And the world as we know it." "In Jesus's name, Amen!" I said.

"What are you doing?" My brother asked.

"Praying!" I responded.

"What for do you think there is someone out there?" He said, condescendingly. "Do you really believe in that type of stuff?" He asked as if I was the most foolish person on earth.

"Yes, I do!" I said, with all my heart.

His hands were spayed with ruby and pearl rings. His wrists were adorned with prayer bracelets, komboskinia as they are called in Greek. That is the heritage this family is.

[Overlooking the family dining table and kitchen and walls with a multitude of photographs.]

He and his brother, Ned, are first generation born here in the states. The bald effeminate man's name is Frances. "Frankie" for short.

Their mother's name is Olga. Their father's name is John. Or "Yianni" in Greek. 

The parents came from Greece; young, for a better life. And they (both) were also good dancers. In an interesting turn of events, Greek dancers hold hands in a circle and the leader of the dance spins, and contorts their own body to the beat of the music.

Ned likes Hip-Hop. And Frankie likes Electro- Synth Dance music. These two couldn't be more opposite, and would quarrel a lot. 

Like siblings do. And to many it would appear as jealousy. But I wouldn't see why. Ned never had anything Frances wanted.  Nothing Olga ever did would make these two get along.

Yianni was busy working all the time. Both parents worked. So you can say they were both exhausted all the time.

If I was to say being a human being is difficult; I would be lying to you. It is fairly easy to be interested in your interests or yourself and others. From a very young age; I would revel in classic film, poetry, foreign film, and music. I suppose you can say I did not feel typically American. But on the other hand that in itself is what means to be American.

I never felt a sense of nostalgia for history of puritanical Brits or early settlers. I felt more akin to the Native peoples, the Africans, the slaves, and the indentured servants. I identified with women; more submissive types, and one day hoped I would be liberated myself. For I am a Greek American. First generation. And a male. A gender confused homosexual male- that only desired men and acceptance. That would play in make-up and

jewelry. I would enunciate sweetly. I would pronounce softly. And swish and saunter.

Other people would be kind. I'm not quite sure if it was out of pity, or just sincere compassion. But as you know; nothing is as it seems.

The long, strung out curtain was neatly tucked and folded, and hanging on a hook. The Byzantine medallion sofa with an array of navy blue and white swan pillows. My mother was cooking a meal as she did every day. There were so many times I questioned her happiness; her contentment. But I digress there is only so much a child can possibly be aware of. Not to underestimate the intelligence of a child. But to nuture ideas rather than assume- it could be you that's unhappy rather than the person you insist yourself upon. My mother and father's relationship and marriage was an arranged one. They were married at young ages. They barely knew themselves let alone each other;

before they had kids. My mother only loved my father because he is the father of her kids.

And children can be a tricky thing. They are like a witness to glory and imperfection. They can use it against you at any given time. There is no longer patience when you make that decision to have a child. It is what it is.

"I want!"

"I want!"

They need. They need.

There is no time for you or me.

Just the kids. That's the way it goes.

And this overgrown child has Schitzoeffective

Disorder. To add insult to injury- coupled with high cholesterol and Diabetes (Type 2). And I have to live life by rules. This is the problem I have with such things like governments and institutions that you have to live life by their rules. If you have another perspective you will be punished. Fuck that. And fuck you. I'd rather be me. And we continue our tale about a boy; who is as vain as he was insecure. That would be somewhat of an influential character. That obeyed no rules or advice. That never listened to anyone. That had a memory like what. And was determined to change the world. Either through diplomacy. Or a loving or in your face attitude.

I refuse to bow to anyone. And the only people I would bow for are all the people; who inspired me. Or taught me. Tickled my senses;

who came before me. A curtsey or a bow; notheless a bow.

The family is out to eat at a restaurant.

"Fuck Off, Bitch!" I said; angrily, to Ned.

He laughed and said. "Is it me or you that's a bitch- you punk ass bitch!"

"Mom, your bitchy son is bothering me!"

I shouted. "What's going on here?" She said.

"I want a tattoo!" I said. 

"I don't like tattoos!" My brother said.

"He's afraid of needles like a pussy-cat!" 

I said.

"I'm gonna shoot up heroin and be covered in tattoos!" I said. " That's nice, Dear!" She said, smiling. I was happy for the support. But when did we enter the twilight zone. Heroin....Laughing out loud. I'm too scared. NEVER! I could almost get away with anything. 

Except for wearing makeup... ...... .................

"Yianni, John come here and see what your son is doing." She said. He came and said "Wash it off your face!" I fashioned myself more third gender. Or like Indian hijra.

That I was somehow more special. 

So I didn't wash it off. I instead walked away pretended that I did, and snuck out the window. I'm not one to be told what to do.

But with that said. I should listen to my parents. It costs nothing to be rebellious.

Just your reputation and safety.

I went into the night like a bright bushy tailed piece of fluff. And then after I got onto the the train; there was a familiar face waiting for me with a pistol. He asked for my jewelry. I gave it to him. And when I asked him for the jewelry back- He gave it to me. He ran off afterwards.

He looked so familiar. But nonetheless I was safe. And it doesn't matter if he was white or black. He was poor, hungry, and who knows what. Atleast he gave me my stuff back.  He could of fucked me first (then) I would have given my jewels; gladly.

Petrified he took the train back home; where his family was waiting for him. "Frankie, where were you?" "Did you wash your face?" 

They said. I climbed the stairs and went to my room. And I started to feel dizzy. I almost fell. 

But I did not. Then I had a odd dream that I was dancing in a K- Pop boy band. I was swerving about and booty popping and saying things like "baby girl" and "sweetness". You can say I was so confused. 

I woke up, and my parents drove me to rehab.

Where I vomited for hours and days of sweat tremors. The shakes and constant itching. And I kicked the habit. I have several other bad habits I need to work on. We shall see what will happen.

[Months later... upon waking from slumber.]

I was sleeping and after a constant dream.

I woke more confused than what I was before I went to bed. Then on a lark I streamed some music videos. A K- Pop one came on. So, I gave it a chance. And in a matter of no time.

I was singing "baby girl" and "sweetness" all over again. After dancing around a bit and a few cookies and cigarettes later. I was dizzy.

I spun around a few times and landed in bed.

I almost fell, but I did not.

Shortly thereafter; he realized that he needed to change his habits in order to live. But his habits got the best of him. They had taken their toll on Frankie. Now, Frankie wasn't in his right mind and decided to kill himself. He felt hopeless. That any effort to improve his life would go for not. And now this...." He is a coward, a pussy! I can't believe he did that to his family." One person said. As others were in tears. Another person said, " He was a good person." The same previously mentioned miserable person mentioned that he was a sinner. For suicide is against religion.

The only thing most would say he is a better place. Now, he is free from the dizziness. Now, he is free from the fatigue. Now, he is free from the gossip and rumors. Now I am at peace. 

[ The peace found in suicide maybe a comfort to those affected by trauma. The only thing I can say they leave a more traumatic, and wounded world for the living they leave behind.]

For we all suffer somehow. That is our cross to bear. No one knows the right or wrong way to cope and that is through healthy communication and dialogue. And realizations. And purpose fulfilling coping mechanisms. And challenging your self to be become pro reactive in a different way like painting or sculpting. Photography and writing. Becoming creative to heal your wounds. Maybe helping to soothe other wounds. Suicide is never the answer.

 The arts save lives. So became creative and save someone's life. Including mine and your own!