Art Guilt, Part II: Crimes Against My Youth

The revelations have been coming at me like a freaking avalanche for about a week. I hardly know where to start, but last night’s surf band gig is probably as good a place as any.

The venue was a concert at the Taos Community Auditorium to benefit an after-school music program at the high school. Entitled “Guitar Spectacular,” the event featured half a dozen local guitar gods and the inimitable Los Changos del Mar, with yours truly on rhythm guitar. I may have more to say about the show itself later. All you really need to know now is that by some miracle, I not only played halfway decently but had a good time, and the band rocked. When the concert was over, one of the aforementioned guitar gods came up to us, face beaming, to declare, “Man, you guys were a MESS! I thought that was just great!” Our almost-19-year-old drummer found himself compared to Ginger Baker, drummer for Cream:

“Who’s Ginger Baker?” he said.

You may be sure we gave him hell, but you have to give the man credit for not being afraid to ask. And that, I suppose, is one of the clues. The valedictorian of Peñasco High School and scholarship winner is leaving for the University of California at Santa Cruz in a few days. He already plays drums, guitar, bass, bouzouki, and a bunch of things I don’t even know about. At the risk of damaging his cool, I’ll even say that in our relatively short acquaintance so far, I haven’t detected any vile anti-social habits, behavioral or otherwise. In short, if the guy was selling stock in himself, I’d say put me down for a thousand shares.

Obviously, I’m a fan, but what I realize now is that he’s not the only one. My attention has been zeroing in on other up-and-coming young guys over the last few years in what may be an age thing: if I’d been a father (in my 40s!), these kids could be my boys, perhaps, or maybe it’s an expression of male pride. “Hey, look at what we can do,” something like that. But after I got home last night, I took a look at the U.C. Santa Cruz website, thinking about the drummer. Lord, was I envious. I wished I could shoot myself so I could reincarnate sooner and do it all over again, only the right way, like he was getting to do. But why “right”? Hadn’t I had a full life? Out of the blue, it came crashing home: I could have been just like him, if anyone had ever helped me…

It’ll take the book I have to write to do justice to the subject, but I want to tell you, this was staggering.

I’ve known intellectually for a long time what my parents did or didn’t do, but until that moment, I’d never felt the full weight of what it meant. They never encouraged me, except to push me in directions they thought I should go, and even then it was more like training a dog. I must have scared them to death: if the kid was Michelangelo, they’d have to smother him, because he’d never have a JOB… My gifts, my talents, were never nurtured. Most of what I accomplished happened out out of thin air or on my own volition, to the extent that I could get away with it, followed by indifference or disapproval. No one ever told me, “You can do it!”

Here’s a good one for you:

When I was in 5th or 6th grade, my father announced that he’d be handing out 25 cents (a whole quarter!) for each “A” on our report cards. That was wonderful news, because A’s were all I ever got, andI immediately started dreaming of the model airplane or Jerry Lee Lewis 45 I’d be able to buy. When report cards came out, my sister, brother, and I stood in line to meet my father when he came home. Sure enough, he had a pocket full of quarters, and I can still see my younger siblings running down the hall with their winnings in hand. But when it came my turn to be rewarded, he said, “Sorry, not for you.”

“B-but why not?” I stammered, heartbroken and confused.

“Because we expect you to get A’s,” he said. In other words, my sister and brother had to work to earn their high marks, but for me, it just came naturally and didn’t count. “It wouldn’t be fair to them,” my mother added. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant: not only did I get kicked in the teeth, they made me feel guilty for being smart.

So I thought about the drummer and my own life, and how sure, I went to college and earned a couple of degrees in subjects I didn’t give a damn about. One way or the other, I had a crazy life and did a lot of things I wanted to, but essentially, I was crippled. Always doubting and beating up on myself. I could never make anything work for me for long. And I certainly didn’t start life away from home by winning a scholarship to a goddamn gorgeous campus on the California coast to study anything that I was passionate about!

When you’ve just turned 64 and this hits you like a locomotive in the guts, you might end up crying in the bathroom at 2:00 a.m. like I did. It isn’t pretty, but it happens. I cried some this morning and I’ll cry again until it’s all washed out of me. Those fucking bastards. It’s like waking up and realizing you’ve been gelded and didn’t know it. Well, great. The scales have fallen from mine eyes, and now I can be anything I want: I’M JUST FUCKING OLD, that’s all!!!

Angrier, stronger, and holier than ever, too.

Related posts:

1. Art Guilt, Part I
2. Art Guilt V: True Grit
3. Art Guilt III: Magic Bullet in the Neck
4. Yellow Varnish
5. Christmas Music, Part III