A friend and colleague once asked me a few times, why I care so much?
I was recently home to Tennessee and I was reminded of the mega-computer of DNA. That I am my father’s son. As much as I don’t want to admit it, my father taught me to care so much. My mother taught me how to love. Siblings can go either way as my brother proves. Now that his children are grown and growing up I think he may loosen up a bit. What a responsibility it must be to raise kids? I will make sure he knows that I feel that way someday and try to relate my respect for him.
I am bitter toward him sometimes for reasons that childhood together and drastically different life-roads portend. Oddly I find comfort in what I can see about our relationship. That I would gladly one day un-blame him for hiding my gay ‘lifestyle’ from his kids, from preventing them from knowing me. I would do that when I would take reprieve from the phalanx of neutral characters and go home. I would do that when I wanted to ask him to accept my help caring for our aging parents. I would do that because to not do so would mean no prospect of the chaos of family. But do I have the courage to do that?
I am my father’s son because I remember the phalanx of neutral characters that surrounded him, a real country badass. Religion was a part of the mix, but such a polluted syncretism of influences. Nothing pure about it. We make our own religions, and I don’t fall them that.