My first-born child turned 24 today. They are a constant source of amusement and amazement to me. By leaps and bounds, they're braver than I've ever been socially and emotionally. They're fearless in their expression and the way they show up in the world.
Recently, they started a Substack where they share musings and ideas. It's generally very poetic, sometimes profane, often uncomfortable for a middle-aged cis person. And it's fascinating.
With their permission, here's the text of a recent post based on three decades-old photos of their father. That being me.
in this one he’s a floating white-shirted torso - the hazy grain of the flash, of the badly lit bar, of wherever he was, swallows his legs, and the ink of that creeping dark leeches onto his shirt, coating it with red shadow. he reaches up like a child, right palm flexed in a high-five, or telling god to STOP, or maybe he’s pulling a bow and arrow, left arm tensing the string back, fingers parted lazily. there’s these flecks of brightness dotting the space above his head, unintelligible radiances, probably the glow of yellow bulbs, not planets or stars or halos. it seems he’s been dancing, by the way the fabric of his shirt is wrinkled and pulled, by the way his sleeves are bunched and rolled up to his elbows. he’s got sweat on his brow, and that innocent wonder in the eyes reserved only for the very young and the very drunk. there is no tension in the face; his lips are parted, his mouth is soft, he is not smiling. i want to thank whoever took this photo profusely for saving this privacy. for showing me something i would have never known otherwise, would have never even thought of.
*.
in this one he’s with a friend. it must be new years, they’ve got party blowers in their mouths, making noise in each other’s direction. it’s a playful gesture, boyish. the man boy on the right has a kind of cowboy thing going on, and he’s pretty in the face, muscles of his jaw hard and frozen in motion. dad is on the left and i love him for it, love him for the fat under his chin, love him for the creases in his neck and the acne on his face, the party horn clenched tight between his lips. the plaid on his shirt is a weird pink and red. his face is pink and red, his eyes are drunk again. maybe somebody told them to pose. i’d like to think that it was just something that they did, mister cowboy unfurling his party blower like a paper tongue, dad’s green horn honking in the din of the bar, a silly, beer-bloated goose.
*
he’s alone again in this one. is it strange to keep these from him. is it strange to want to show him, beg for the stories without knowing which one’s to ask for. is it strange to project my new boyhood onto his old boyhood. he had something i can’t have and in breaking into these privacies even for a second i can get closer to him and closer to me. he’s decapitated - head bending down and over the fence he’s trying to conquer. or he could be vomiting, undoing the drinking. it’s unclear. he’s pressing himself up, lifting his weight off the ground, midmotion. red shorts, no shirt. march sixth nineteen ninety five. the flash lights up the leaves in the foreground, silvering them. there’s a road in front of those leaves, a curb, where is he, a flat plane of land and then the fence, and the night behind that fence, the night cutting his head off, looks almost like a man, like he’s leaning into the end of the world.
From this proud Dad's perspective, that kid can write. And think. Also, it's possible that I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol in my twenties.
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