PRIMITIVE

I was deliberate, planned, only turned the wrong way and brought my mother pain. He was breech born, she’d tell others, as if that’s how trouble begins; as if, later when I was in high school, this would explain why my father left my vehicle on our front lawn for everyone to see. He even broke the steering column, he’d tell visitors concerned for my well being.

I’ll admit, I lacked direction, one mistake away from ending up in prison myself. We all make mistakes; mine were often deliberate. Trust, they say, is very hard to regain. Imagine a convict, who did something so horrific, trying to convince the parole board to give him a second chance at life. I’m reminded of the time when I was a junior in college and I had the State Troopers over to my parents’ house at 3 a.m. so I could fill-out a property damage report on my car. My parents woke up and asked, What did he do now? I understood their logic.

But I’m surviving, just like I survived bad penmanship in grade school by switching hands (Don’t believe what they say about left-handers—they’re not all evil.). My wild days have since passed. I’m domesticated. I tackle "honey do" lists with renewed energy. I’ve learned that a happy home is a home where individual sacrifices are made, where commitment is key. I’m still trying to finish everything I set out to finish this Memorial Weekend. I’m still moving forward, in a direction that’s quite pleasing—to me—to my family.