This one isn't for you.
I'm not posting this on Facebook, as I frequently do the others. If you're reading this, it's because you're snooping around on my blog, I suppose. That's okay, but know that this blog ultimately isn't for you, it's for me. I'm writing down all of this stuff because I think it's good for me. And maybe someday it'll be good for the boys to read it, too.
The reason I'm saying all of this is because this one isn't going to be easy for any of us and if you want to feel good and smile, go look at the other story I posted tonight Still I Fly. It's just as real and will almost certainly make you smile.
Really, if you aren't maybe a 30-year-old James, you probably want to skip this one. It's a time-capsule for him because I can't tell him now what I really think and by the time I can ... that's a lot of years down the road.
Go read Still I Fly.
Final warning. Profanity follows. Shameful behaviour, too.
This week I was at Bluesfest. It's my Father's Day / Birthday present from Christine and the boys and they honestly could not do better by me. I love live music. I love a lot of music live that I find spectacularly uninteresting when listening to the same songs by the same musicians recorded. (I nearly wrote "on CD" but seriously, media is dead, it's been dead for a decade now, I would say, and good riddance.) So sending me to a week+ long music festival is all I could ask for. I even enjoy rolling the dice on how much I'm going to get rained on. Or how messy it'll be. Or how bad the beer selection will be (getting progressively worse; in three years I expect there'll be nothing but Duff Lite). Or how crowded it'll be and whether I'll lose my shit and end up in the back of a squad car because I punched someone because I've always been mildly ochlophobic and while I seem to be totally cool at music festivals when nobody is trying to move anywhere, there've been some close calls.
This week, though, I got a text from Christine while I was at Bluesfest.
When I got home, though, I got more detail. He'd been crying and he told her that his heart was broken because he "wasn't perfect".
It still breaks my heart to even write that and it's been three days since then.
My first thought — and I voiced it, of course — was that he had heard that at school.
Aside: I've been talking to my friend, Seebs, about him lately, trying to figure out better ways to talk to him. Because of reasons. I think it's working, but it's kind of early to tell. Part of the discussion with Seebs had been about some of his behaviour at school and I'm sure this is part of the picture that we didn't have before. He's been hearing from some kids at school, I presume the new ones that started integration into CVAS this month, that he's "not perfect" and something's wrong with his "little hand".
Christine essentially confirmed my read of the situation by saying that when she asked him more about it he told her that some kids had been grabbing and pulling on his little hand and it made him feel really bad.
This is the part I can't tell James now, and by the time I can, I hope he'll have sorted it all out anyway, so it won't matter. But my first reaction to that, my instinctual, raw response, the first place my thoughts turned was this.
Fuck those kids, they're not perfect either and it wouldn't take long to show them where their blemishes are.
But that's not where we went. Instead I emailed Champ to see if they could get a junior councillor he could talk to. Christine told James to tell anyone who does that that it's very rude and very mean and they should stop. He asked her how to say that in French, too, so she gave him that phrase as well. I talked to the school and just quietly made them aware of what was happening and that we had told James he should tell any kids that were bothering him to leave him alone.
We'll see how this turns out.
But if twenty-some years after I'm writing this, you're reading this, James, I hope that in the intervening time I haven't made too much of a mess of things and that you can understand that when it comes right down to it, when I hear someone has hurt you or anyone in my family, the first place I find myself is stifling an urge to destroy them, no matter who they are.
I'm not proud of it, but it's who I am.
The reason I'm saying all of this is because this one isn't going to be easy for any of us and if you want to feel good and smile, go look at the other story I posted tonight Still I Fly. It's just as real and will almost certainly make you smile.
Really, if you aren't maybe a 30-year-old James, you probably want to skip this one. It's a time-capsule for him because I can't tell him now what I really think and by the time I can ... that's a lot of years down the road.
Go read Still I Fly.
Final warning. Profanity follows. Shameful behaviour, too.
This week I was at Bluesfest. It's my Father's Day / Birthday present from Christine and the boys and they honestly could not do better by me. I love live music. I love a lot of music live that I find spectacularly uninteresting when listening to the same songs by the same musicians recorded. (I nearly wrote "on CD" but seriously, media is dead, it's been dead for a decade now, I would say, and good riddance.) So sending me to a week+ long music festival is all I could ask for. I even enjoy rolling the dice on how much I'm going to get rained on. Or how messy it'll be. Or how bad the beer selection will be (getting progressively worse; in three years I expect there'll be nothing but Duff Lite). Or how crowded it'll be and whether I'll lose my shit and end up in the back of a squad car because I punched someone because I've always been mildly ochlophobic and while I seem to be totally cool at music festivals when nobody is trying to move anywhere, there've been some close calls.
This week, though, I got a text from Christine while I was at Bluesfest.
James was very upset about his little hand being little and needed some cuddles.This was actually the second time this week he'd been upset about his "little hand" and so I immediately concluded something was wrong. I responded that she should tell him that he could sleep in our bed with her or he could go back to his bed and I'd sleep with him when I got home if he liked, whatever would make him feel better. He opted to stay in bed with her.
When I got home, though, I got more detail. He'd been crying and he told her that his heart was broken because he "wasn't perfect".
It still breaks my heart to even write that and it's been three days since then.
My first thought — and I voiced it, of course — was that he had heard that at school.
Aside: I've been talking to my friend, Seebs, about him lately, trying to figure out better ways to talk to him. Because of reasons. I think it's working, but it's kind of early to tell. Part of the discussion with Seebs had been about some of his behaviour at school and I'm sure this is part of the picture that we didn't have before. He's been hearing from some kids at school, I presume the new ones that started integration into CVAS this month, that he's "not perfect" and something's wrong with his "little hand".
Christine essentially confirmed my read of the situation by saying that when she asked him more about it he told her that some kids had been grabbing and pulling on his little hand and it made him feel really bad.
This is the part I can't tell James now, and by the time I can, I hope he'll have sorted it all out anyway, so it won't matter. But my first reaction to that, my instinctual, raw response, the first place my thoughts turned was this.
Fuck those kids, they're not perfect either and it wouldn't take long to show them where their blemishes are.
But that's not where we went. Instead I emailed Champ to see if they could get a junior councillor he could talk to. Christine told James to tell anyone who does that that it's very rude and very mean and they should stop. He asked her how to say that in French, too, so she gave him that phrase as well. I talked to the school and just quietly made them aware of what was happening and that we had told James he should tell any kids that were bothering him to leave him alone.
We'll see how this turns out.
But if twenty-some years after I'm writing this, you're reading this, James, I hope that in the intervening time I haven't made too much of a mess of things and that you can understand that when it comes right down to it, when I hear someone has hurt you or anyone in my family, the first place I find myself is stifling an urge to destroy them, no matter who they are.
I'm not proud of it, but it's who I am.
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