Malala

If you didn’t already know, Malala Yousafzai is a Pakistani activist for female education and the youngest-ever Nobel Prize laureate. She is known mainly for human rights advocacy for education and for women in her native Swat Valley in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province of northwest Pakistan, where the local Taliban had at times banned girls from attending school. Yousafzai's advocacy has since grown into an international movement.

On October 9^th, 2012, while headed home from school on a bus to her home in Pakistan, her bus was overcome by members of the Taliban and she was shot point-blank in the head in an assasination attempt. It is incredible uncommon for anybody to survive a gunshot to the brain, but she did just that.

On July 27^th, 2016, I had the opportunity to go see her speak at the Target Center in Minneapolis. At least that’s what I thought I was going to see. I wanted to hear her story from her as I have not read her book, unfortunately she only spent about ten minutes on stage by herself. The rest of the time was consumed by a horrible news anchor type lady with a horrible plastic face, ill-timed expressions, and repetitive questions. I only say repetitive because after the first half-hour of questioning, Malala would begin each answer by saying, “Well, as I’ve mentioned before…” And the Questioner, as I will now call her because I can’t find any information on the internet about her, spoke to Malala as if she thought she were a retarded person. You know what it sounds like when somebody is being condescending when talking to a stupid person on a T.V. show? Well, that’s what she sounded like to me. My cousin Hannah and I agreed later that she sounded like Dianne Simmons from Family Guy, and I mentioned during the interview that I thought Molly Shannon could portray her on a Saturday Night Live skit.

So I had to glean the good from this performance, and listen to what Malala was saying, not what she was being asked. Malala was a blogger from the age of 11, writing her views from a Taliban occupied town. One thing in particular she said regarding this, really stuck with me. You see, I’ve been coming up with lint lately when it comes to blogging. Other than some positive feedback for my fictional short-story, I haven’t felt good about much that I’ve been laying down. Quite frankly, I kind of want to give it up, and I have for a few months now. She said that she never knew until much later in life-- after the shooting and her Peace Prize-- how much of an impact she had on other women and girls not just in Pakistan, but all over the world, that were living in territories that frowned upon females becoming educated. She said it was all worth it if it helped even just one girl find the courage to speak up, find her voice, and know that anything is possible for her.

Obviously our subjects are not even close in substance, but I do know that some of the things I have written have effected people in a positive way, and It’s not something I’m proud of, it’s something I’m grateful for. I have a unique ability to be able to share my life story through words, and people enjoy it, and possibly learn a life lesson or two that maybe they don’t have to learn for themselves. I speak for thousands like me that haven’t yet found their voice and someday I hope this blog gives somebody else the courage to face their fears and know they don’t have to be ashamed of what they’ve done anymore.

I’ll never win a Nobel Peace Prize, I mean, if I ever go back to drugs there’s a chance I might try to steal one. But from now on, whenever I’m clicking away at the keyboard, I’ll be thinking about how what I’m typing could affect the still suffering addict and alcoholic out there who may stumble their way across this blog.

In closing, I’m glad I had a chance to see a young woman with such a fascinating story and positive outlook, I believe she was an inspiration to many women and girls in the audience. She was also an inspiration to at least one 37-year old man.

Reminiscing

Today was the official memorial gathering for my old friend Mike Tambornino who died tragically two weeks ago today. I went to T.J. Maxx and picked out a vase, then to Cub for some nice flowers which I carefully arranged to look like I hadn’t purchased them from Cub, and I donned my Sunday best and headed to his house. I had envisioned a few people gathered together in his living room, reminiscing and making small sandwiches and eating them around a coffee table. What actually went on was something far more substantial, not just for him, but for me.

I opened up the door after knocking to see the house packed full of well-dressed people. It’s strange to walk into a room and instantly recognize people you haven’t seen for two decades, and that’s what happened. Of course I didn’t know everybody, but some faces certainly stuck out. I was greeted by his mother who graciously accepted the flowers and gave me a huge hug. She had tears in her eyes which I imagined had been there for two weeks. Then I turned to find his Dad, a man who had never been lost for words, silent. He just stood there and grasped my hand. We looked into each others eyes and I could see his pain. After all, this was the house where he had found his own son in a pool of his blood just out in the driveway.

I was given a tour of the house by a mutual friend who currently lives at the house which was under construction and had been for quite some time. This house had history. It had burned down a few years back and Mike narrowly escaped through a back window. He and his family and friends had now spent years building it back up, and the plan was for his parents to move into it when it was done, and he would move on to another house. He was building a fucking house for his parents.

The tour was over and I could feel the love for Mike everywhere I went. Every ten feet I would have to stop to hug somebody new, and to share comforts. Mike had such a warm, kind heart, and I saw its effect on over 100 people that came and went throughout the day. Most people did just that, stopped in, made the rounds, and left. I couldn’t do that. There were too many opportunities to talk to friends that I had left back in 2001. These people that I had grown up with, people I had used drugs for the first time with, people I had committed a plethora of crimes with over the years, now had grey hair, children, and great sorrow in their faces. It was true that they seemed happy to see me, and we talked for hours, but it was unfortunate that this is what it took to get us all together again.

We stood outside on the boulevard of his house and recounted our childhood malfeasance, almost all of which included Mike, because we were a close group of friends. There was laughter and crying, anger and love. At the end we parted ways knowing we would see each other again sometime in the near future.

I found out toward the end of the conversation that when Mike died, he had been completely sober for nine weeks. He was sick of the party lifestyle, and liked how his mind cleared up without weed and alcohol.

I hadn’t seen him in years, and I really miss him after today. Of six billion people in this world, there are maybe three that I’ve been as close to as I have with him and I will never have a chance to tell him in person what a great friend he was, and he will never know how much people loved him, and wished they could have the chance to say goodbye. But he will live on through our stories and our memories of him.

We love you Mike. May you rest in peace.

Quandary 12

The dream was vivid. It was a version of me I hadn’t seen in too many years. There was a genuine smile on my face because I was surrounded by family and friends. I don’t ever have conversations in my dreams that I can remember so all I can recall is sitting in a room greeting people, some of whom I didn’t remember, but whom I had known before the drugs. There was persistent babble all around and it sounded like we were under water, but nobody was talking. Then I pulled out a meth pipe and started smoking it and everybody started to dwindle away. They weren’t mad at me, I could see them smiling as they faded into the black, but very quickly I was alone. The last person to leave was my mom. She was walking away and she turned back to look at me. She was still smiling at me when she turned into nothing.

I lay in the bed for a few minutes trying to analyze what happened in my dream. My alarm had gone off and I was fortunate enough to have had enough sleep to wake in a state of awareness. The thing I really cared about in the dream was my pipe which I reached under the pillow for. The only time the drug really had any effect on me was after a decent slumber, and a few hits made me tingle. I sat up in the bed and judged my surroundings. I saw my giant bag of crystalized methamphetamine sitting out in the open at the foot of the bed which was cause for concern. I’m not positive the manager poked his head in at some point, but I decided it was time for an early check-out.

The only things I ever made sure I had when I performed the evacuation procedure at a hotel were felonies which included my phone, drugs, and all paraphernalia to include scales, pipes, and the glass turntable from the microwave. I didn’t actually take the turntable, I just washed it off because I didn’t want to be responsible for an accidental poisoning. I opened up the door to darkness. It would prove to be another clean getaway for Vinnie the meth dealer.

I hit the road, this time with a buzz that would keep me awake for a few hours. I grabbed my fully charged phone and dialed the only number I knew by heart. It rang only once and was answered by a cheerful voice, “What the fuck do you want?” I replied to Seth, “Your sweet arse.” Silence. I continued, “We need to meet up. I have some ideas on how to deal with my little problem.” He sounded excited, “I assume you mean we get to kill them?” I let out a sinister laugh, “You’re God damned right we do!”

About 45 minutes later I pulled into Seth’s driveway in Fountain. I had lived in this town many years before and I always enjoyed reminiscing as I drove through. There was the Broken Hammer Bar and Grill that I had worked at for a number of years, the place I had met Crystal. There was the grocery store where I would buy the only bacon that I ever became addicted to. And there was the apartment above the pizza place where my life as a criminal began again many years ago. As I drove by I saw a camera I had mounted to the roof in a state of paranoia years ago. That camera had night vision which is how I saw the camera the police had mounted and faced toward my apartment a block down, the reason I left the town for good.

Seth’s house looked like everybody else’s house in the neighborhood except for the lawn décor. He had a number of used vehicles for sale in his driveway and on his lawn. To my knowledge, he had never sold one, but he was always working on them. I got out of my car and found him under the hood of an old Corolla. “Let’s go inside, we’ve got work to do.” He closed the hood and we headed inside.

The inside of his house was immaculate, and you could probably eat off of the floor if you ever decided to eat. We sat on his couch and suddenly a dog was in my lap and licking my face. It was if she appeared from thin air. I tried speaking through the K-9 assault, “Setrh, I nbeed a pristol.” I succumbed to the affection of the dog and rolled her over on her belly and gave her a good scratching. I repeated, “Seth, I need a gun.” He pulled a large caliber revolver from his waistband and handed it to me.