Shit. Hello. Hello again. I have not written a journal or blogged for a very long times.
Father’s Day has been an odd day for me through the years as I’m sure that there are many others who could say the same. I was fortunate to have 2 fathers. I didn’t get to share this love until later in life but there were only a few brief years I didn’t have a “father” with me and even then I lived with my grandfather who played the father figure role.
When I was adopted at the age of 11 I had no contact with my biological father for around 5 years or so at this point but I wanted to keep my birth name for some reason. I was proud to be a Junior of a man I had yet to know. I heard good and bad stories from family and even fictional stories from my mentally ill biological mother through the years.
After a year or so of settling in with my new parents I celebrated Father’s Day with my new dad I called by his first name Bill. He raised me trying to be the best father he could and did a decent job despite my already wacky ways. He wasn’t the type to celebrate holidays much Father’s Day wasn’t a big deal. We’d have a more formal meal or go out to eat and I’d get him something but as I got older all it came and went.
In my 20s my biological father came back into my life. It took a couple years to drop our baggage and become friends and it was worth it. Then I had 2 dads. Some years I divided my time and other years I neglected my real father. I give him a lot of credit for hanging in there with me. I haven’t been the best son to him but he tried to be the best father. We’ve been building since. We started slowly but eventually started getting together once a week and did lunch and we kept with it until we both were broke and changed it to once a month and we still get together.
Meanwhile my adopted father was getting sick on and off from 2006 or 7 to 2009 when he finally died. I moved in with my adopted mother and him early 2009 and he died June 19th 2009. I became closer to him than ever before he died and take comfort knowing him better.
I still hung out with my biological father and every year I begin to appreciate him as a father. This past May he took me to Atlantic City for my birthday because it was the closest town with a Hooters. We used to go to Hooters every Monday for luck for over 2 years. Maybe 2. We walked the boardwalk and even the beach that day and I had a lot of fun. We were both relaxed and enjoyed ourselves. I realized later that I was subconsciously reliving my early childhood bonding with my dad at one of the beaches he actually took me too as a kid.
I realized I don’t give him enough credit as a father and all he has done for me through the years since reconnected.
We’re getting together on Tuesday June 19 for lunch to celebrate father’s Day. I realized later that it was the 3-year anniversary of my adopted dad Bill’s death. I think it’s appropriate. They were both great Fathers. Rich Hillen Sr is the underrated one and it’s time to give back whatever I can and be a son.
Happy Father’s Day.
When I came out it wasn’t a closet. It was a trashcan.
I’ve known for a long time what I am or I should say who I am.
I am an artist. The most precious blessing and the most horrific curse. Forsaken and trampled. Survival is rough. I must persist.
“Resistance is futile” as the Borg say on Star Trek. I cannot assimilate with this world. I am an artist. It’s not a choice. It’s not a lifestyle. It’s the way I was born. I nurture it when I’m not fighting it.
“Get a job” you say.
I have a job, thank you.
I have a job. I must create to live. To feel. Alive.
It’s my job.
I like my job but the pay sucks so far.
Writing and drawing is my life. Your career or your family is your life and art is mine. Why do you push your life on me? I never tell you to be an artist. Far from it. I say “stay away from it unless you are already wealthy.”
There were times I considered and even convinced myself I wanted to be like you. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to be liked, loved and accepted. The older I get and the less I want your life the harder it is to live mine. I have no choice really.
I can’t change my skin color, my sexuality or my need to create. I guess I have to change my acceptance of you.
“Get a job!” she yells out of love and condemnation.
“I have a job. It just doesn’t pay.” I say.
Critical condition. Creation. Destruction. Distraction. Turn around.
Green concrete backyard gives me a moment to relax.
The cat cries from across the alley. I look at her and stare.
Orange fur spreads on the dirt. I stare.
“Get a job!” she yells at me in sorrowful pity.
“I have a job. It just doesn’t pay.” I say.
Gray burnt moldy coffee passes as breakfast at your lunchtime. I reheat it and smile.
Tired from a night of sleep. Good sleep . Bad sleep. It’s all the same.
Blue telephone rings. I debate answering it. It goes to voicemail.
I check the voicemail.
“Get a job.” The message says.
“I have a job.” I say to the recording.