Ash

I don’t think I’ve had a hard life, or a particularly easy one. It’s been a life, my life, and I’ve lived it the best I could. Not to say that it’s over – I’ve still got plenty of breath in me, and even when that’s gone my stubbornness’ll keep me kicking for a while longer. Sure, some folks’ll look at me with pity, contempt, maybe even a little compassion, but I don’t need any of it. The way I figure it is everyone’s got problems, and those problems’ll be as big or as small as they need to be in relation to the person.

I knew a girl, Mandy, killed herself because her man cheated on her. Old story, I know, but for Mandy it was new and devastating. For her, hell, her world fell apart with the news and she escaped the only way she could. Most folks can’t understand it. They’ve dealt with bigger pain and survived, what’s a little infidelity? But that’s just it, it wasn’t the infidelity, it was the problem itself. People go insane watching stocks, guys’ll kill themselves with drink ‘cause their dads never loved ‘em right. Kids twist themselves up inside from abuse, and all of it, everything, is subjectively as big an issue as another.

Yeah, my childhood was a mess, but I don’t consider it better or worse than anyone else’s. My mom was a corporate accountant, not a flashy career, but she was good at her job. Good enough to pull a six figure salary.

I start there, but that’s not who she was. That’s the adult in me talking, defining people by their professions.

Truth is, I never knew her from anything but a child’s perspective – she died when I was six. In my memory she’ll always be smiling lavender – bright as sunshine and soft as tiny petals. ‘Course you tell anyone I said that and you won’t be tellin’ anyone anything ever again, if you catch my meaning.

She died in a car wreck. It’s all a little hazy. I was with her, and I’m pretty sure I caused the accident – not intentionally. I never had my seatbelt on. I was pressed against my window and the door opened. She lost control trying to help me and slammed into an oncoming van. Docs said I’dve been killed too if it weren’t for the door being open. I was thrown clear… bruises and scrapes, a broken collar bone.

She died because of me, but it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t choose that time and place, it happened and there was nothing I could have done to stop or change it. My dad never saw it that way. He lost his wife and son that day, and was left with a hollow space.

He was an artist, a good one – some of his pieces are part of the permanent collection at the Seattle Art Museum – but after the accident he abandoned the canvas and crawled inside a bottle. I was seven then, and I took care of the both of us. He ignored me for the most part, unless he was drunk. On these occasions, which grew in frequency, he broke out his crusty oils and painted me with his hands. Globs of paint covered my skin, got into my eyes and my hair, my mouth and my ears. He was trying to capture the life that was. I never protested.

Alcohol gave way to harder and harder drugs, and the paints gave way to needles and ink. My flesh became a canvas for pain, his and my own. There’s no pattern behind the designs, just brief flashes of lucidity in an otherwise incongruous array of color and shape. He covered me with them, between my toes and fingers, my eyelids, my ears, my navel… I never flinched or cried. I never moved. If I had, he may have stopped. I didn’t want him to stop. This glassy eyed shell who was my father, I wanted him to let go of his pain, give it to me so he could see and breathe again. Through the pain he dealt, I let go of my own. As I said, I bear no burden or guilt for my mother’s death. I miss her, every day, but nothing more.

When I had no bare skin left – nothing left to offer – I was healed, but my father was far from whole. His pain and hatred for me had diminished, but we both knew he could never forgive me. I left that same night. He never looked for me.

Being a homeless, tattooed kid of thirteen, I did the only thing I could. I gravitated to the alleys and I fought. I fought for food, I fought for shelter, and I fought for security. I knew, and still know, that I’ll never have a life outside the streets. The general public isn’t interested in hiring a homeless tattooed man. They don’t even see me. It’s the price I’ve paid for release, and rather than resign myself to it, I embrace it. This is my life. This is my home. And no one will ever take either from me.

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