We Are The Breakfast Club

6 Minute Read

Aren’t we more than one thing? The world today makes it hard to focus on the entirety of a human being. We categorize each other down to an ideal, an agenda, a quote, a zipcode, a state, a job. Media and Government are marketing firms puppeting us into a dystopian social existence. But our war is not nuclear. Our war is made up of millions of Tik Tok papercuts disintegrating our decency. Soundbites that reverberate fear like circles on a pond from a skipping rock. I remember walking along the banks of a lake or a pond as a child, searching for the flattest rock to skip knowing there may only be so many of these beautiful little toys hidden in the earth to occupy that moment. A moment where time did not exist because information wasn’t being manipulated and rocketed towards me at the speed of light. Information is controlled by the rich and powerful and has become a thief, stealing away my pride in almost anything we used to stand for. There was a time when concerned citizens, all around the nation, sat in front of a television collectively to watch real news people inform without name calling and screaming without anger. But, now, everyone has little digital rocks they get to throw and make waves and they are not taking the time to dig in the mud and find the ones that glide. The peace I felt as a boy has been muffled by the splashing of everyone throwing rocks that aren’t so flat as to skip. They just splash with a thud. Where is the art in that? I ask forgiveness for my traumas and show no understanding of yours. We have become the lunchroom of an 80’s Coming of Age movie. Where do you belong? Somewhere, nowhere, everywhere?

This new world is pushing our limits of acceptance. It is asking that you put away the box you think you are in. Now, you can see that box was made by someone telling you who you are and what you can be. The greed of consumerism and election perfectionism has made us believe that “they” have the product or the answers to all of our problems. But they don’t. I’m from “a chip and a chair” generation that believed that the path to a great life was up to me. I grew up on Rocky and Star Wars and The Karate Kid where the underdog was me. All the answers lied within me! They didn’t have to buy shit. They just put the work in. This digital age is taking away color and gender and forcing us to see the individual behind their perfect life glamorized by their social media page and for that, I am grateful. And now I find myself longing for conversations under the stars, drinking a beer, philosophizing about life where we all can achieve our dreams and we can all support each other. I miss the days of walking into a social engagement not knowing who might be there; that feeling of surprise and joy of seeing an old friend.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. It was my dream when I was in high school when I wrote about the adventures of a character I called Steve Sully. And so I’ve decided to write until my fingers bleed. I’m going to write about how we are more than one thing. I’m going to share all of my vulnerabilities and fears and truths about mistakes that I’ve made and things that I’ve learned and maybe nobody will read it, but I’m tired of waiting. I was told at a young age what it was to be a man, what it looked like. They were wrong. I wasn’t any of those things and I’ve spent a life trying to be something that I am not, a version of a man that never existed in me. As men, we are given these responsibilities that aren’t real. I don’t think we want them. And I don’t want my sons to believe them. I think this digital age is opening the door for us to share our truths. I’m not going to show you my smiles when I don’t have any smiles. I’m old and overweight and scared to die and I’m pretty sure my dick is shrinking. I grew up in a violent, manipulative household and I have trauma. There. I said it. I have a lot of fucking trauma. I grew up angry and I have fought and lied to everyone including myself.

The deep emotion that comes with memories of my childhood can, at times, drop me to my knees. The low vibrational strings of an orchestra always seem to accompany them, slow, repeating with a crescendo of words or a strong hand slapped across my face and I, throughout my life, have been slow to realize that those cellos and violins and brass were always there and maybe, they are what kept me alive as I sat in my room many nights crying and dreaming that I was in a movie. Anger is my well and it is a deep abyss that has guided my decisions more than I would have liked throughout my life. In order to silence the pulsing in my head, I have always just forged a path forward, often times mowing over loved ones and friends leaving their remains slightly charred from the scorched earth that singed their soft skin in my bloody wake and with a child’s smile and heart worn on my sleeve they would often forgive me because they felt that a good man was inside there. To show too much vulnerability feels like I’m bleeding out on the battlefield, like my heart is slowly dripping and though it feels warm and comforting, I can’t help but think that if the heart is a finite form, then I only have so many drips and I can’t afford to let them fall onto the ground splashed about like a Jackson Pollock painting. My heart is my life force and this drippy mess must be controlled and I always knew I had time.

But then I turned 50. A number wrapped in a cliche’ of a sports car and a 20 year old bombshell on my arm, wind in my hair on a sailboat set for the Alps where I would climb to the top and plant my flag and everyone would know that I was here and I was great. And then I walk by a window of a chic clothing store wondering how I’ll look in that sexy “I fuck like a rockstar” suit. The model wears that suit like he was born in it. It’s part of him with a face chiseled from a boulder found on Mount Olympus and his eyes sculpted from an icicle in Antartica. His lips are ripped from all those workouts of kissing beautiful women as he looks into the horizon wondering how he can cure cancer. And then my reflection startles me and I jump just a little, thinking I’m in a funhouse, knowing that something is terribly wrong. Is that me? I see my big fucking gut and my posture looks like I’ve been carrying this guy’s chariot around the world and my hairline is dissipating and I think I’ve still got a shot to get to where I want to go, right? Where did the time go?

I no longer have time to wait nor do I have the strength to carry on the way that I have. I have to let the anger go from the trauma of my childhood. I have to be able to listen to a podcast from Brene’ Brown and not feel like the world is collapsing around me. Fuck Brene’ Brown and her science of vulnerability. The only way I know to live and survive is through anger. If I don’t have that, what is left? What will fuel me? How will I protect my heart if I don’t surround my fear and sadness with a tower of spikes, me at the top with a flamethrower. Without anger, who am I? Can success live on a diet - an action without anger is like a Sausage McMuffin with no McMuffin? But if I share these stories, maybe my anger will be burned up by the earth’s atmosphere or the heat of the sun or maybe the words will drip from my heart instead because words are infinite. Maybe they will leave this page and float into the air, dancing on a beat poem that turns into a cloud above my head; a light rainstorm of peace that washes over me camouflaging my tears. I have to realize that I was just a boy. I have to realize that people aren’t born angry. They aren’t born my enemy. They aren’t out to get me. I have to realize that we are not one thing. I have to realize that we are all and/both and I am love in a volcano, but I am love first, not the volcano. I am the Breakfast Club. We all are.