Thanks Again!

This Thanksgiving I am thinking about the people in my life.

It has been a challenging year for many of us. I know firsthand that sometimes things may seem bleak or even hopeless. Yet I find that what so very often helps us cope with adversity and gather the strength to carry on is our family, friends, the people that we love and who love us back. We are not alone in this world on some cold, dark journey. We move forward together, sometimes with a friendly nudge of encouragement, sometimes propelled with a much needed laugh. The words, gestures, hugs, kisses, these all make the path that much more bearable. While we are not always together in proximity, we travel together through life inextricably connected from the moment we first encounter one another and that we can not and should not ever change.

Yes, we will disappoint one another, cause anger at times, hurt others and be hurt. We are human and flawed and weak, with limitations and predispositions we cannot control. We know this. There are no surprises here.

What matters most is that we remember what brought us together not what conspires to break us apart. It is the memories we've shared, the light and lightness we have brought to one another's journeys through this life that has the most import in the end. I believe we are born to and/or meet the people in our lives for a reason and we have an obligation to ourselves, our health, our wellbeing, to nurture these relationships and share the burden of the path.

This Thanksgiving I am truly thankful for everyone in my life. Thanks for being there for me and helping to move me forward. I hope I have been able to do the same for all of you! You are deeply loved and rememeber that I am here for you always as you have been for me through the years of this journey.

© 2010 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

The Darkness Inside

A lone bare light bulb burns above our heads. The room is filled with old magazines, dirty mugs and dishes, forks caked with weeks-old food. Empty cans and take-out boxes are strewn about the table and countertops. The floor is littered with scraps of paper, crumbs, dust and debris. In one corner there is an old bandage with dried spots of blood and pus.

"So how have you been?," he asks in a guarded, distant voice. He looks much weaker and frailer than I can ever remember. As he rises from his seat, he glances at me sideways up to my neck but avoids my eyes as he always has.

"Fine, fine, " I utter knowing full well he isn't really interested. It nauseates me to think that this was our home once. My home! Growing up with little but the necessities of life and maybe the occasional splurge on a new Matchbox car or bag of plastic soldiers to amuse myself. Perhaps he wanted me to stay off the streets. "Keep your head in the game, kid," he'd say.

"Okay then," a barely imperceptible moving of his lips. He walks past me with a slight wave of the hand into the parlor then drops slowly into that worn, dusty old armchair he's had forever. It creaks like old bones being realigned by force of nature, gravity. The tv goes on and I disappear.

It's not like I didn't feel loved a few moments of my life there. There was the day he threw me down the stairs then raced after me, two steps at a time to make sure he didn't kill me. "Geez, I get so angry, I didn't mean to make you lose your balance. Is that blood on your head?" A trickle stings my eye. He brushes it away. "Go get a rag and soak it with warm water. It's not that bad. Man up!" A note of tenderness in his voice, maybe even a hint of admiration that I was strong enough to fall so far and yet be awake, breathing. "Now go out and play."

I suppose he was proud of me once or twice too. I did well in school, I studied, worked hard. He knew I had a brain, maybe he feared it to some extent. Perhaps he should.

It all started several years back. At first, it was just small animals, BB guns, torturing insects with matches. They seemed so helpless I just couldn't look away. The frequency increased and I began to prefer the company of my little suffering friends to others. My relationships beyond him vanished with each act. After a while it got so I couldn't speak out loud for fear of being ridiculed, my secrets branded on my forehead like the scrawlings of a madman in an asylum. Working was beyond difficult but my job proofreading allowed me the opportunity to be as anti-social as I pleased. I was left alone for the most part, maybe even avoided but I simply did not care.

I stand alone in my old room. I leave the light off. It's all stacks of old books and magazines, my old bed a repository for old clothes he will never wear. Mostly I see silhouettes illuminated only by the old streetlamp next to the alleyway where my head laid on the pillow when those first thoughts began to creep into my consciousness. It was the logical progression. I conceived of nothing specific but the dread emotional state and cold demeanor it would require.

The tv is so loud now it's rattling the window panes looser, a chill blowing through the gaps in the pin nails and putty he uses to keep the glass contained in the ever contracting wood. It's almost comical, his so-called ingenuity. As a child I would pacify him with gloating praise for the way his mind worked, his diligence. Jack of all trades, master of none. That was his true mantra. For me, I wanted to do just one thing better than anyone, especially him. My craft would be the envy of the diabolical. Even he would have to admire me. For I would be better, more proficient, more calculating than anyone else had ever been.

The first one wasn't easy. There was noise, struggle, a remarkably unhinged response that I hadn't anticipated but I struck and struck quickly and repeatedly with more strength and tenacity than I had ever imagined I could possess. I dug deep and grasped with an unrelenting sense of power and then it snapped. Release. I was a little worse for the wear but I was successful in my endeavor. My hands were filthy but that washes away.

"Are you alright in there? Hungry? Did you eat?" he bellows from the other room.

"Nah, I'm good."

He always used to call me fat as a kid. Our junk food diet didn't help but he always said he couldn't afford the healthier stuff. I was to eat what he bought and like it. I had no input. I suppose I preferred it that way. I was forever hungering for something more substantial, more nourishing. It fueled me onward.

Each successive one was performed with more ease and proficiency than the previous. It got so it was almost reflexive. A passing shadow would set me off into a series of actions I completed with a virtuosity and rapidity that would make the head spin. I was gifted and I knew it. And all I wanted was more.

But here I was stifled. Deep down inside I knew what I needed to do. Why was it so difficult now? Here we both were. I remembered the story from school, "In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day." My hands began to shake. This never happened! I seized my swirling head and looked into the old mirror on the wall across from my bed. I avoided it most of my young life. Now, in the darkness, all I could see were the contours of a face I hated even more than his. Trapped inside this body, a scared and lonely child. Where was the rage? I turned away from my reflection to gather myself.

This would be the last time, I promised myself. Everything up to now had been a morbid rehearsal for this moment, honing my skills, dulling my remorse. The time was now. But then one last memory seized my brain before I turned for the door. From outside the window where my childhood passed, I heard the horn of a distant train and it took me back to that night outside the hospital, waiting in the car while he visited his dying father. I remember hearing this very same sound that cool fall evening with all the car windows rolled down and it struck me. This man's life passes but the train keeps moving on, noting its defiance with each blow. The world ignores his death. It doesn't mourn for him.

A breath. I hear the metallic click of the switch but my body refuses to react, reflex. A slight prick and the flash of a hand beneath my eyes and across my neck, the blade catching a faint spark from the streetlight. For a split second I can see directly into his eyes. A single teardrop falls down my cheek and then silence, freedom, peace. It's dark.

© 2010 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Unacceptable! Anti-gay bullying and violence must be stopped!

There has been a lot of talk lately about anti-gay bullying and violence and its grim repercussions. Some high profile news stories have taken the issue to the forefront of the national dialogue and it is high time the general public is confronted with this issue. Unfortunately attention to this most serious issue comes far too late and at an unacceptable cost: human lives.

Growing up as a gay teenager at a time when most gay teenagers remained in the closet out of justifiable fear, I saw quite a bit of what gay bullying could do. I belonged to the BAGLY (the Boston Alliance of Gay and Lesbian Youth) and met a small group of young out kids like myself. Many were in foster homes or living on the streets, victims of abuse and neglect, or like my first boyfriend, disowned by their very own families. It was a motley crew of hard luck stories. Life was like that for many out gay youth back then. My friends from BAGLY were some extreme cases. I'll admit that. Some hustled to get by and some slept wherever they could find a place regardless of the intentions of the person giving them shelter. Some stole to get by, some drank too much and many did drugs. Most of them also had one thing in common: they were bullied.

I was a very lucky out gay youth. I considered myself fortunate to never be bullied in high school, on the streets, in college. However, I saw many people get bullied in each of those environments and while I felt a serious sense of relief for dodging the bullet of hatred myself, it came at the cost of shame and regret for not standing up for them. These brave souls, many good friends of mine, dared to be themselves, something we all take for granted and they got serious grief. Most of the grief came in the form of nasty hate-filled comments, the occasional push and shove. some even got beaten up and bashed.

I deeply loved my friends in BAGLY. We were kind of a messed up family but a family nonetheless and we knew that part of life in our world was the very real threat of bullying each and every day. We accepted it as the norm and though my bullied friends never outwardly expressed it to the others, it hurt them to the core. While none successfully ended their own lives, many of my buddies had contemplated it at times and a few even attempted it.

The sense of the fragility of life was something we experienced firsthand even beyond the daily threat of bullying. I lost a number of BAGLY friends to AIDS so I know that sense of loss and while we had this major threat of HIV to contend with and many did not make it, I think we held up one another's self-esteem and were there to provide some sort of a support system along with the mentors at BAGLY. We had each other too turn to. So many gay youth in so many places are not so lucky. They feel isolated, alone and are really hurting.

There are so many new ways to bully now. With each technological advance comes myriad ways to exploit these kids. Internet, camera phones, social networking sites, etc. It's bothersome that while there are so many ways to bully and reach countless others to participate in the bullying, there are so few ways to protect these kids and reach them. I think schools and parents need to take the initiative here and organizations like the Trevor Project (http://www.thetrevorproject.org/)and the Anti-Violence Project (http://www.avp.org/) are certainly a huge step in the right direction and deserve our support.

The bottom line here is one live lost to bullying is one life too many! Every human being deserves respect and dignity. Having been there myself struggling as a gay youth, I know how terrifying it can be in and of itself without the added pressures of being bullied. These kids deserve our attention and protection. They are our future leaders, artists, friends, families. They are our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, part of our one big community! They are us!

I am an out and proud gay man but my journey to this place of contentment was not easy. I think we all got some help along the way and we owe it to one another to provide care and comfort for everyone in our community. The tragedies that have occurred as a result of bullying should steel our resolve to reach out and be out. Be open and proud of who you are, let people in your life know it. Our visibility goes a long way in changing attitudes and behavior.

Encourage differences in people and be supportive. We are all in this together. And to my straight friends reading this, let your families and friends know that bullying is wrong and unacceptable. Join me in vowing to stand up to it and do anything we can to stop it.

Just as I was about to finish this blog entry I read of yet another instance of anti-gay violence in New York against two teenage boys and another gay man. Despicable acts of violence were committed against these three individuals over the course of several hours. This is infuriating! Our society is obviously fostering this environment of hatred. Religious leaders and politicians spout their anti-gay rhetoric and influence the masses with the impression that it is okay to hate. Well, guess what? It is not okay! It is beyond criminal! The blood of these innocent victims is on your hands and on the hands of mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and friends who teach each other that anti-gay hate is acceptable. Hateful thoughts lead to hateful words and acts. We have seen what happens when hatred goes unchecked and is allowed to breed throughout our world. People suffer, people die. It is unacceptable!

Be nurturing and protective of our youth, be proud of who you are and be outraged by hatred!

© 2010 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Blame

(This is a based upon a fragment of something I wrote many years ago. The majority was written today. I hope it provokes some thought. Thanks for reading.)

Blame. It's a shame that the man is the same as he was when the tragedy struck. But he smiles and he says, "What the fuck? 'Cause we're shit out of luck and this world sure does suck."

So there's more dreaded days in the haze as we laze in the praise of society's phase of descent. Is it permanent? Or a a dent in the armor, a stent in the heart of our living and breathing and forever seething, emotional teething, a bite on the dimple, a squeeze of the pimple of life.

Strife, chaos, at a loss for something deeper. Nothing's cheaper than being a keeper of the same old search for gold, bought and sold and truth be told it's all but dust, a simple lust forsaking trust in nature's good. Yet it's understood, perhaps we should ignite profounder light, that brings us sight and brightens up our souls.

Our goals should stoke the coals of fire, intense desire, inspire us to make this place a better space to trace our path, our destiny and set us free from wrath and see it's easier to be content, without lament, omnipotent not impotent and shine away the blame that came and set aflame our world when the tragedy struck.

© 2010 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

My Mother's Day

So first let me tell you my history with the holiday we call Mother's Day.

My mom died when I was four years old from an all-encompassing and quite virulent type of cancer that attacked most of her internal organs and left her body helpless against its advance. There is actually a medical journal that exists about her case since it apparently left the doctors baffled and rendered them as helpless as she was in fighting it. Needless to say, her health declined quite rapidly and she was gone before I really knew what Mother's Day was.

We certainly didn't celebrate the holiday much in my family. I can't quite remember if we sent the obligatory card to our one living grandmother but even if we did she was my grandmother and as wonderful as she was to us she was grandma, not mom. I honestly have no recollection of the day holding any special place in my home while I was growing up.

So year in and year out Mother's Day would pass with friends going off to see their moms and have their brunches or dinners, bring their flowers and cards and bestow their justifiable gratitude. Mother's Day, a lovely holiday no doubt and meaningful to so many, a holiday which I witnessed many years up close when I worked brunch shifts at various restuarant jobs but which I always encountered as a mere observer, an outsider. Frankly, it was a holiday for others, not for me.

If you were to ask me beforehand exactly what day Mother's Day falls upon in any given year I would have to go to a calendar and look it up. I know it's on a Sunday in May but I don't even know what weekend it usually falls upon and I would not even notice it at all if it weren't for the ads and stories in the media that preceed it every year or the signs in the windows of gift shops and card stores.

So to be completely honest Mother's Day has traditionally been a non-event for me. That is until one day, a few years back, we were gathered at my brother's house for a family event. I think it may have been my godchild's birthday which falls in May. The conversation came around to Mother's Day and I mentioned to one of my sister-in-laws how Mother's Day didn't really register on my radar in a personal way. It was something I never celebrated nor found any need to observe. She looked sincerely saddened by my utterance and told me how she felt. I shrugged it off but something struck me that day. It was indeed sad that I had no feelings about Mother's Day. In many ways it was a symbol not only of my distance from the celebration of mothers in general but also from the dynamic of motherhood in my own life and what the experience had done to me personally.

I essentially grew up without a mother and that has undoubtedly shaped the person I have become. I know that, accept it and always have. On the positive side, I was forced to grow up fast and became self-reliant and hard-working from early on. My dad gave me a great deal of freedom I would perhaps not have had otherwise but I avoided any serious trouble and learned from early on that I would need to stand on my own two feet. I suppose there are some negatives as well. I know that I over-analyze things and can obsessively worry about things I cannot change. I can be tough to get to know at first because I can be guarded about my true self since getting close to people is always a risk for hurt or loss. Yes, I know it all makes sense!

And some things are not always easy but I am grateful for them. I know the darker sides and sounds and images of life make many people uncomfortable but I have always found them to have a solemn beauty, a neccessity to ground me in reality and keep me in tune with the deep sense of loss that in some way, shape or form touches me every single day of my life. This does not ever overwhelm me and trust me when I say I am far from a depressed or unhappy person.

For in the darkness, I always see the light and that's what makes me smile throughout most of my waking hours and especially at the end of the day.

I suppose I realized a little late that my mother gave all of this to me and more but it is never too late to acknowledge and celebrate it. I need not avoid her, her memory, the loss, Mother's Day. What I should do is embrace her and all that she meant to me and still means to me as long as I live on this Earth! My mother is and always will be a massive influence upon my life and the person I've become and the person I aspire yet to be. I am thankful for her, for life, for love and for what she and all mothers bring to this world and the children they raise.

So this year, I celebrate Mother's Day with the countless others out there. From those whose mom's died in childbirth to those whose lived well into their 90's and 100's, I join with you and give thanks for all they've done for us. We are born from their wombs, raised in their care, influenced by their actions and their lives, and only become the people that we truly are as a result of their existence.

I love you Mom and I know you love me and look out after me from above!

© 2010 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.