Don’t You Cry No More

But I’m not making any promises

Rut roh. I rarely turn on my car radio, preferring my Spotify playlist usually. And now tears threaten to trickle down my face. That’s what I get for going old school.

How the hell can I keep up my “I got my shit together” persona if my face is tear stained? Breathe, T, breathe. Instead, get annoyed over the goober in front of me with the license plate that reads, “Go Jesus” as though Jesus is next up to bat with bases loaded. And it’s Nationalist Jesus too-the background of the plate is an American flag. (Because, of course, we know America is Jesus’ favorite.)

Enough. My mind blatherings cannot distract me anymore. The song is playing.

Kansas is singing Carry on My Wayward Son. And the tears are now flowing. And just like that, I’m transported to my big brother’s bedroom listening to the latest album-Leftoverture- he had just purchased.

I’m sitting on the floor, checking out the album cover. Rush 2112 is in the lineup too.

I am 13, Dan is 15. His room is done up in true ADHD manner: aluminum foil adorning the slanted walls of his attic bedroom. Christmas lights circumnavigate where wall and ceiling meet. The pièce de résistance is the small disco ball in the middle of it.

Let’s partaaaaaay!

In those days, his room was seriously cool though my adult self would probably start seizing being there. And being an audiophile, Dan’s sound system was awesome. A Pioneer turntable, Kenwood speakers.

Add in a doobie, some stolen cigarette butts with a little left on them from Dad’s ashtray, and life was good.

There’ll be peace when you are done…

The song interrupts my reverie. More tears. Damn you, Kansas! I smack the steering wheel.

This simple mental tableau in my mind brings me back to simpler times.

Our top concern was getting the desired sweetened cereal before another piggy sibling. Yeah, it was a weird home. It was years later when I discovered other families didn’t hide Cap’t Crunch in mom’s underwear drawer. And people actually bought the cereal even when it wasn’t in the dented food bin at Farmer Jack.

When you’re raising seven kids on a small budget, these are the considerations that shape your shopping habits… and your worldview.

But I digress

And my ponderings ponder further.

What we didn’t do back in the days of youth was discuss our future much. Now was the only time. And given the chaos of our alcoholic home peppered with plenty of traumas, there wasn’t a lot, oh scratch that, ANY, vision casting beyond the present moment.

Oh sure, there was the “When I wanna grow up, I wanna be a….” For me, I wanted to be a nurse. (And hot damn if I didn’t become one only to find I didn’t like it!)

We learned to survive. Not exactly an upward path in the Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Actualization is SO overrated anyway.

If we discussed future dreams, it certainly didn’t sound like this:

I can hardly wait to grow up and be completely rudderless about how I want to live my life.

I look forward to dropping out of many universities because of undiagnosed ADHD.

Street living! Yay, baby! I want to live on the streets and struggle with addictions.

Carpe Life! I hope I die young of liver failure because of my addictions and untreated mental health issues.

Those first two statements would have been from me.

The second two, from Dan.

Perhaps it is good we couldn’t see the future coming. It would have stolen from this simple, happy moment that I am recalling.

The Awful Phone call came on December 10, 2009.

Dan was dying. There wasn’t much time. His systems are shutting down one by one.

Liver failure.

He passed the following day.

Lay your weary head to rest…

I see the homeless on the sides of the roads as I continue my trek. Some are dragging sorry-assed trailers behind their battered bikes. There’s another sitting under a makeshift shelter and I wonder how long they will have before they’re asked to move.

It’s been over 110 degrees most of July so the heat is especially cruel for those lacking shelter.

There’s another on a street corner holding a sign, “Smile! God Loves You!” The man is waving to the passersby.

I usually wave but this time, I avert my eyes. I feel guilty, but it’s just too fucking painful.

That is my brother.

I see him everywhere. On the bike. Under the tarp. He’s waving.

I see babies and children who have now grown up. Some have only known hardship and violence from birth. These humans have won the most unfortunate human lottery.

Perhaps at one time, they too were listening to their favorite album in a simpler time and pondering their future.

Others were loved-like we were- but lacked resources. Or had parents too tired just trying to survive. There’s hardly any room for effective parenting. Or even the most flawed parenting.

Or in Dan’s case, a dad whose alcoholism driven absence kept him from what he needed most: A dad.

I too have been impacted but I not as severely as Dan. By the time, he was in his late teens, his course was set. He lacked even a high school diploma because of his dyslexia, ADHD, and the cruelty of bullies.

Not to say that he wasn’t incredibly smart. He was. In spades.

But his intelligence wasn’t the kind that can be accommodated in a typical school. Especially back in the 70s.

Good on you for dropping out, Dan. He knew it was a shit show and took the course of action modeled for us:

He survived.

But living in survival mode is hardly the path to “Your Best Life!” Nor does it address other needs.

It was hard to keep track of him during most of his adult years. He lived on the streets…including the Phoenix air fryer.

His undiagnosed mental health issues were treated the only way Dan knew how to quell the voices and numb the years of accumulated trauma: He drank.

Don’t you cry no more…

Dan is singing to me now.

Don’t you cry no more…

I arrive at the coffee shop. I wipe the tears. Cry face be damned.

And I write this for you, dear brother.

Lay your weary head to rest, Dan. I’ll try to not cry anymore but I’m not making any promises.

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