BALD HEADS AND COLORING BOOKS

"I'm hungry," I growl, as I usually do whenever my brain and stomach decide to be at odds with each other. A bear would beg to escape my mood without a morning dose of sustenance.

I decide at 10 o'clock (a disgustingly late time for me to eat breakfast, especially considering I arose at 6:30 in the a.m.) to go and get some food at the local Panera Bread (my personal hang-out and relaxing spot to get stuff done.)

I walk briskly in the front door (as I have a mission that must be accomplished to cure the monster growing in my stomach) passing a father and son on my right sitting at a table, clearly coloring or doing some other child-like activity. I approach the counter and order my not-so-surprising typical order of a regular sized drink and a Breakfast Power Sandwich. As a matter of fact, I don't have to order it. I walk up to the cashier and the order is basically recited to me before I even get to utter a word (a creature of habit, what can I say.)

I pass the father and son duo (still coloring) a second time as I go to the room I always go to in order to set up my laptop. I walk back by them as I go and fill up my drink (I was in a real true caffeine mode, and therefore I decide to get a real drink, a soda). I walk back by them as I go sit down. I continue my routine as my buzzer goes off to indicate that it is time to go and pick up my order. I rush by them again (are you seeing a pattern) as I head back to my table where my laptop is resting. I eat my sandwich, I drink my Diet Pepsi. I need a refill. I walk by them (are you getting dizzy?) as I go and refill my drink.

Something struck me - finally! - as I walked back to my laptop. I stopped, and I could see this father and son sitting by the door at the table, coloring. I noticed something I didn't notice before. The father was bald, which isn't what struck me, as I myself suffer from the tortures of male-pattern baldness. No, what struck me was the son, coloring - he was bald. This was not a bald that is buzzed. This is not a chosen baldness. This is a bald that indicates that no hair is able to grow in. The baldness of the boy's head glistens under the soft lighting in the restaurant. No this is a different kind of baldness, this is a baldness that you can just see comes with a story.

Your head has probably already completed the story that can be told just by a shiny bald head on a (possible) eight-year-old. This is clearly associated with cancer, and my heart suddenly goes out to the little child coloring.

However, I glance back over at the father for a second time and I notice his head. This man isn't balding, I know what it looks like when hair is falling out of your head because genetics have kicked in. There is a look to that kind of baldness, this man did not have it. This man clearly had a full head of hair just begging to grow into his scalp. That is when it hit me. I started putting the pieces of this puzzle together...

This man...no, this father, has shaved his head in honor of his son who is sitting like a child on the chair (propped up on his knees) coloring in the book. And a father, who is aping his son's fashion statement (well, at least making his son believe it is just a fashion statement) and coloring right along beside him.

My heart hurt for the boy sitting in the chair, but rejoiced for the moment that I almost walked past. I was so gung-ho on making sure that my needs were satisfied, that I almost skipped this picture. I almost trailblazed right past the visual beauty that was sitting right by the front door at Panera Bread.

My life has been enriched.

I think maybe from now on I should try to walk slower.

BAD POETRY

I have been spending several days doing something that I never thought I would actually sit down to do - printing out all of the works I have ever written, and p uttingthem in chronological order. I never thought I would do it, because some of that earlier poetry is just so bad (okay and occasionally some of the modern stuff.) I mean there are forced rhymes, and fake emotions, and you can actually feel all the cover-up of my feelings pouring off the page. I mean I didn't want to put that all together in a self-made notebook that my friends could flip through. Why would I do that? Insane!

Call me a glutton for punishment because some undefinable force came over me to actually try and achieve this goal, and I have found out something quite powerful. I have grown up! Who knew, right? This isn't a series of poems written by an 11 year-old boy and following him up to a 31 year-old man. No, this is so much more than that. This is my history. These are the stories of the childhood I had, and the life that I lived.

If you can get over the bad writing (okay some of it is downright god awful), you can see me growing up. You can see me developing a style. You can see the time when there were dark days, or when I was feeling disgusted by myself and how I looked.about myself. I have read these poems, and thought "oh that is when my mom and dad were going through that horrible patch in the marriage." (Don't worry they made it through.) I read another poem and I tear up (not because the words are touching, because honestly they are not). I tear up because I remember that part of my life when I was questioning myself and doubting exactly who I was, and if my family would love me. I remember someone in my congregation in the religion I was in treating me so badly, and spreading lies about me. I remember when that person cut at my feelings so deep I could do nothing else but bleed on page. I can look at a poem and think about exactly what emotion I was feeling, and how i was trying to cover it up, because there are some poems where I was scared of feeling that emotion.

These poems reveal so much about me. I decided that I didn't want to touch a word. So much would end on the cutting room floor if I decided to do that, and I can't get those feelings back (as I am not the same person.) So, I will gladly let them shine in all their horrible-ness. :) These are not just poems, this is a history of my teenage years.

I went to an open mic night here in St. Petersburg, Florida a couple years back, and there were a ton of poets there, and an emcee that at first I thought was quite charming. The emcee got up to the podium and announced the name of the next poet. This skinny, frail teenager gets up there with these "emo"-type clothes, with his wallet connected to a chain. He is very scared and shy. You could feel that. He opens his notebook and he just reads this poem that he wrote. He spouts off these forced rhymes, in a style that wasn't very strong, with words not combined well. I don't quite remember what the poem said, but I remember him talking about love. You could tell that the room was uncomfortable because this was not the strongest words ever to be heard coming from a teenagers mouth.

Half-way through his poem the emcee stands up and says, "Oh, I'm sorry to interrupt you but we have a special guest here today..." and pleasantly sends this kid off the stage, without him finishing the poem. At the time I remember feeling so much pain for him. I mean this kid got up there and spilled his guts, and maybe the rhymes were forced and maybe his emotions aren't fully understood yet, but he got up there.

You know I think about that day, and look at my poems that I wrote down on paper when i was a teenager. THEY ARE HORRIBLE! I needed that outlet. Bad poetry or not, I needed that release. Life is hard enough without being shut up by adults. The fact that this emcee did that to this teenager, bothered me in my heart. Here we are two years later and I still remember that. I recall not in that moment not fully understanding why this kid I don't know made an impression on me. I completely understand now! I was that kid! I had that inability to form words, and no style at all. There was just these emotions that needed to be let out. This anger, and love for the unknown, and frustration....

It got worse. I remember leaving early that night, and as I walked out of the theater there was that kid crossing the street of downtown St. Petersburg, with this heavy walk that forced his head forward and back. Beside him was his mother...his mother brought him to the poetry reading so that he could share his thoughts and feelings to a group of strangers. That is an image I am never going to forget. That kid may not have fully understood that moment in his life, but I know his mother did. I bet his mother knew that he just needed to say it (even if it wasn't the most eloquent), and she brought her son to the poetry reading so that he could allow himself to use his words.

I go back to these poems in front of me that I wrote when I was a teenager...I don't know if I could have taken being shut up like that. In fact, one of my biggest pet peeves is when I feel like my voice isn't being heard. I cannot allow that to happen to another teenager. They have voices, too. Teenagers may not be able to express them as well as adults (and by the way how many adults do you know that can express themselves...let alone even try) but they have things to say. And if you listen, really listen, not to the words themselves, but to the emotions in the words, you are going to see something very powerful.

That is right, that is what I am saying...everyone can see themselves in the bad poetry that a teenager composes, so don't shut yourself up.