On the Tilt-A-Whirl, Revisited

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

He leaned against the rusted old orange tilt-a-whirl,
plucking tickets from tikes leaping like yapping dogs,
his cig’ offering a glimpse of the future fight
between gravity, hot pink skin, and salty sweat.

His left boot heel wedged into the rusted steel step
as he hunched his shoulders and girded all his strength,
thrusting the controller down with happy menace,
his smile just another deep crease on his face.

The children’s gay whoops and high delights marked the time,
as the brassy calliope trumpeted magic,
the bright eyes and ruddy cheeks swirled and twirled
for the commander of this jaunty, junky world.

The riders’ screams threw a bolt up from the steel plates,
into the ramshackle, shaking control panel,
through his greedy clutch, past his heart pulsing,
down to the crumpled nine dollars in his pocket.

He lifted the controller, like a jealous lover;
the barker behind him seduced his old riders;
he took a long drag on his stumpy cigarette,
ready to play god again for new believers.

On the Tilt-A-Whirl

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

He leaned against the rusted orange tilt-a-whirl,
plucking tickets from tikes leaping ’bout like yapping dogs,
his cigarette offering a glimpse of the future fight
between gravity, hot pink skin, and sweat.

His left boot heel wedged into the rusted steel step
as he rocketed the lever down with a hand chop
and a kick of his right boot to the sorry controls,
his smile just another deep crease on his face.

The children’s whoops and delights marked the time,
with the brassy calliope coughing in sync with him,
as the bright eyes and ruddy cheeks swirled and twirled
in front of the commander of this jaunty, junky world.

The riders’ screams powered the bolt from the steel plates
to the rivets and seams, up the sorry controls, and
through the red-knobbed control stick into his hand,
right along to the forty-two dollars in his dirty pocket.

Then he brought the power lever back, like a jealous lover,
as the grimy barker behind him seduced his old riders,
and he took a long drag on the cigarette still in his mouth,
ready to play god for another two minutes ten seconds, again.

 

 

On Trashing a Dream

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

I closed a chapter in my life today twenty years in the making, and, in the process, I trashed a dream.

I went to law school with the idea that my legal career would involve civil rights. I was fascinated by constitutional law, and, be it through the academy or a litigation practice, I envisioned myself fighting the good fight for gay rights. I could articulate the arguments that, to me, seemed so obvious, but, to others, were less so. I saw myself marching toward a meaningful career that fused personal and professional interests.

It never really happened.

I guess my first mistake was attending a law school known more for its focus on corporate law than civil rights law. I wrote a few law review articles on gay rights, and they got some attention. But central Kentucky was not a hotbed of civil rights jurisprudence, and I definitely was not linked in to the gay rights movement. In an odd (and dispiriting) twist, when I did travel to Washington, D.C., to interview for a legal job with the nation’s most prominent gay rights advocacy group, one interviewer told me that, in my subsequent interviews that day, I should lose the “aww-shucks” Kentucky accent. I came to interview to fight for equality, and was told I shouldn’t be myself.

I ended up taking a job clerking for a judge with a federal agency, never again to seriously flirt with a job in the academy or the civil rights movement. For the next fifteen years, though, tucked away in a trunk, I kept my law school text book for my civil rights litigation course, as well as my class notes and final exam outline. A few times a year, I would pull it out and thumb through the pages. I’d wonder about roads not taken. And I always returned it safely to the trunk, thinking to myself, “Who knows?”

Then, today, I found myself cleaning out the garage. As we prepare to move into our new home in nine months, I decided to rummage through some crates and trunks and make room for packing. When I did, I came across my course work again, but, this time, I made a different choice. For my psyche, it was a moment of reckoning. The materials represented a dream, my thrust to go to law school, my idealized version of the attorney I thought I would be. In the end, though, it wasn’t the attorney I turned out to be. And, in some ways, I was never fully accepting of the direction of my career, and, by keeping the materials in the trunk, I held out the possibility that the career I imagined might, one day, come to fruition.

But as I stood there in my garage, sweat dripping, and flipping through the course text book for the hundredth time since law school, I realized that, rather than holding out the promise of a dream I wanted to chase, the course materials were getting in the way, literally and figuratively, of me moving on with my life. When you think about what might have been, you stop yourself from accepting, embracing, and appreciating what is. In fifteen years I had not taken one step toward that old dream, and, if actions speak louder than words (or old text books), it was time to admit to myself that that dream was not alive. Moreover, I was okay with that.

So, today, the course materials didn’t go back in the trunk; they went in the trash and recycling. As I slid the trunk back into place, I felt fine. I’m happy, I’ve got an amazing husband, we are growing our family, and I’m making room for even more wonderful memories to come in our new home. It’s time to focus on the present and the future, not the past and what might have been. Time for some new dreams…

 

On Buying Flowers and Smiling

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I glimpsed her once, down the street.
She was buying flowers and smiling,
while I fumbled with my shoe laces
and decided her beauty beguiling.

Her hair was auburn and combed neat
but not too neat, not too much,
and it flowed over her soft skin
like a clear distant stream and such.

And she didn’t seem surprised with me,
or when I greeted with “hello there,”
but her gaze didn’t land on my stupid face
and she didn’t seem much to care.

I rooted around with my stupid mouth, and
asked her if she could recommend a flower,
and then she smiled the smile of a woman
now aware she was facing a terrible coward.

She pointed to the roses and looked at me,
it was a moment, eye to eye, for just us,
before she said to me, “With these pretty ones,
my husband makes such an awful fuss.”

On Minivan Coolers (not Cooler Minivans)

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My best friend and his lovely new bride just purchased a minivan.

I know, I shouldn’t deliver such disheartening news without asking if you’re reading this sitting down. My apologies.

At best, they’ve purchased a swagger wagon. At worst, they now own a loser cruiser. I upheld my obligation as a friend and reacted in mock horror. I highlighted the bevy of large SUV options in front of them. I questioned whether a post-wedding haze had temporarily compromised their judgment. I even asked how their new blended family could hold its collective six heads aloft while zooming around in a box with the personality of a used napkin.

Then, I learned it came with a cooler.

It turns out that this loser cruiser is one hell of a cruiser. Safety features galore, comfortable seats, DVD player, and, to cap it off, a built-in cooler. The line between fully-stocked minivan and mobile home has officially been blurred. This thing may even qualify for one of those tiny home shows.

A cooler?!

As I ruminated on their unfettered access to chilled refreshment and boredom-killing entertainment on long road trips, my mind wandered back thirty years, to a time my mother, grandmother, sister, and I crammed ourselves into a smallish sedan for the 16-hour odyssey down to Walt Disney World. I distinctly recall my sister and I wedged into a back seat between sacks of groceries for roadside lunches and maybe even a real cooler. For our entertainment, there was no DVD player, no iPods, no smart phones; rather, it was just a few books, ill will, and the faint hope that the evening motel would have a swimming pool. I’m sure the trip to Florida and back was uphill both ways, and we liked it!

To consider those trips down to Florida now is to ponder child endangerment. My sister and I were one quick jerk of the wheel from impalement on coloring books, Wonder bread, and bologna. My mom was basically driving blind, with no GPS for guidance, and no cell phone for emergencies. Our fates rested on the slender reed of a flip chart map from the local auto club with our route highlighted in yellow, courtesy of my uncle. No real-time directions, no traffic jam alerts, no estimated time of arrival. Had anyone in that car ever changed a tire? Would we depend on the kindness of truckers if need be? Better yet, had anyone in that car ever even been to Florida? We may as well have been navigating by the sun, an abacus, and some enchanted beans purchased from a one-eyed warlock.

Now, our cars are floating fortresses of technology and comfort: rearview cameras, lane sensors, heated seats, cooled seats, satellite radio, sunroofs, moon roofs, GPS navigation, zoned climate control, lumbar support, designer sound systems, advanced cruise control, nascent autopilot technology, and the list goes on. We’ve designed almost every headache out the driving experience, besides other drivers, and, eventually, once the robots take over, we won’t have to worry about that either. Then, we’ll have plenty of time to sip our chilled beverages from our built-in coolers.

Heck, we might even be bored again.

On A 27 Word Cancer

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

What would the old white men and such make
of a second promise that became twisted about
with oceans of blood pooled in its wake?

How can it be, other than a 27 word cancer,
snuffing out love and beauty and life,
with nothing in return but empty answers.

And we are not weak to wonder and wish
that we had the strength to stand and proclaim
that 20 little precious bodies did not deserve this.

Maybe we deserve the darkness and no more,
if we lack the wisdom and courage to see
we needn’t be strangled by old words written before.

When all it touches does nothing but shatter,
when your families, faith, and freedom crumble,
words on a parchment page don’t really matter.

On a Fifty Year Burden

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

The shrunken, wizened vessel in front of me resembled, more or less, my grandmother. But, as I walked across the Cracker Barrel parking lot on Highway 60 to meet her embrace, my smile obfuscated my dropping heart, as I noted her thinned hair, stooped posture, and stained slacks. This was not the prim and proper woman who made deviled eggs at every family meal, whose green shag carpet supported many a nap of mine, and who hosted me for my first thirty-three Christmases. It was a shadow in comfortable shoes that bore a very strong resemblance.

My 91-year-old grandmother is dying of old age and lung cancer.  Hospice has been contacted, and, after four years of wondering if this was the last time I’d ever see her, I’m resigned to the likelihood that our breakfast several weeks ago may, indeed, be the last time.

After our long embrace, I guided her into the restaurant, never letting her hand go. She was unsteady and weak, but she still had a light in her eye, and I could tell she was happy to see me. My uncle said she was up early that morning, dressed and ready for our breakfast. If I made her day, that makes me happy. She certainly made mine.

Our conversation was not deep and not particularly personal. We talked about family, of course, and our hometown and her memories of the past. I always enjoyed prompting her to talk about the past. She claimed to not remember much, but, in those moments around the dinner table and at that Cracker Barrel table, she was at her most powerful. It was the rare moment she felt like she had something to offer that no one else could. Typically content to sit and listen, in those moments, she opened up, if only a bit. And I loved to hear those stories, to connect with her in at least that way, seeing as though our typical interactions were not overly full of intimacy. Warmth, yes, but not intimacy.

Around the time my grandmother was my age, she lost her husband, my grandfather, in a work accident. She had two teenagers at home, and a small child too, and, in many ways, she never moved on from that day forward. I’m not sure she ever knew true happiness again, even when surrounded by an ever-growing family of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. “Joy” is not a word I associate with her, and the tragedy of the accident seems to have walled her off from much of what life had to offer. That said, she began to work outside the home, volunteered, and enjoyed church social clubs. She had a life, even if it was apparent it was not the one she really wanted.

When she dies, I’m not sure if I’ll mourn more my grandmother or the tragedy that appeared to dull her spirit. It seems a cruel fate to live half a century of regret and resentment over an accident, but, if that was her life the past fifty years, she wouldn’t be the first to find herself locked in a darkness from which she could never fully escape. In art, the lost love is presented as either endlessly romantic or unceasingly embittering. For my grandmother, neither applies, but it was plain to see the loss derailed her in profound, permanent ways. That she carried on as she did is a testament to her strength — a strength that now rapidly fades.

I don’t believe my grandfather is waiting on some ethereal plane to welcome my grandmother with open arms. But I hope she believes that. With all my heart, I hope she believes that. And I want her to go to that, to finally lay down the long burden. If the thought brings her a final, full moment of peace, then who am I to quibble?

I left our breakfast to attend a wedding. I was headed to celebrate the very love that my grandmother has been mourning, in one way or another, for fifty years. I gave her a big hug, helped her in her car, and told her I would see her again soon, but, truth be told, there’s someone else I’d rather her see.

On My 4th Grade Teacher’s Travels Across the Galaxy

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I’m looking for my 4th grade teacher, Ms. Bodkin. Thirty years ago, Ms. Bodkin introduced me to “A Wrinkle In Time,” encouraged my interest in robotics, and took the entire class to a Christmas tree festival in a neighboring town. I remember her as a slight, silver-haired, elegant lady. In the small town in which I grew up, news about most folks is not hard to come by, and I still delight on the rare occasions I run into my first grade teacher, Mrs. Jenkins. Still, Ms. Bodkin has eluded me, and I’m left to wonder if, like the characters in “A Wrinkle In Time,” she now travels the dimensions of the universe via a magical tesseract, lost to us mortals left behind.

I could launch an exhaustive online search. Past searches yielded my 6th grade teacher, enjoying retirement in a knitting club in a  lake-side community after all. With social media, it seems like you can find almost anyone, almost anytime. Or at least you can find the version of them they present to the world online. And I guess that’s the problem. I may be able to find where she lives, see a picture of her traveling the Grand Canyon with her family, and find out how frustrated she is with her seasonal allergies, but it wouldn’t be her, but, rather, a carefully curated version of her. A digital avatar, at best. It would lack the intimacy of those post-lunch reading sessions, gathered around her rocking chair. It wouldn’t be a reconnection, but,rather, just a voyeuristic look into a two-dimensional world instead of sharing the real one.

I recently came across a gay couple on social media that I’ve lost touch with and discovered they had adopted a child. My jaw dropped upon learning the news, as this couple was deeply closeted when I knew them years ago and never expressed any desire to have a child. Now, years after our orbits transited to other suns, I’m left with this interesting and wonderful news, but no context in which to place it. Of course, I could reach out, reconnect, and work hard to rebuild those bridges, but, then again, there’s a reason those bridges faded in the first place. And maybe it’s okay to honor that too.

Our past sets itself in amber as the years fly by. If we’re lucky, most of those frozen memories are happy ones, and it can be tempting to travel back in time — tesseract or no — and want to fill in the gaps, find out the next chapter, and revisit those wonderful people and places that populate our own story. Technology has made it easier than ever. But before we all go chasing ghosts, maybe we have to ask if the past is better left alone. Maybe there’s a reason time only marches in one direction. Maybe letting go of people, places, and things is the only way we have the capacity to learn and grow. Maybe a little mystery never hurt anyone.

Maybe, just maybe, Ms. Bodkin, in her chair reading me wonderful books, is right where she belongs.

 

On Derelict Dreams

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I stand against the tide’s advance, akimbo,
and I raise my arms, commanding the water
back into the clouds, a heavy rain drop
dropping scores of fish like derelict dreams.

Silver gray fish drop and flop among the detritus,
plop among the yellowed flipper and soda pop can,
they gasp and gape among the old boat ruins,
wriggling life among those things long dead.

I lower my arms and let the flying sea fall back,
back down to the seaweed and the sandbars,
back over the boats and beer bottles bygone,
interring again in a single, solemn rite by the shore.

And I walk away, my magic spent and wrenched,
the sea lapping at me like a metronome, and I dream
about wriggling life again among those things
cast away at the bottom of my soul.

On Mortgages and Sex

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 2 Comments

I wondered, as a child, where they all were,
my parents’ friends absent from our home.
Why did they not have friends like me,
why were they instead all oddly alone?

And now I sit and count the grand old days,
where this and that happened, and some more,
but I’m visited by pregnant silences often now,
no one knocking on my willing front door.

I hear from them, still, yes, at times —
jobs, kids, trips, all manner of fun.
Everyone spiraling away into darkness,
calling that phase over and done.

And we gather our grief, our youthful losses,
exchanging them for mortgages and sex,
becoming the quiet adults we all saw,
and wondering what life will bring to us next.