There I am, hand on head. I’m angry. Or sad. I’m focusing my energy in the empty space between my sister and whoever belongs to that right hand.
Let’s look at my hand, clenched into a fist. There are creases in the skin, nails at the ends of my fingers, knuckles in the middle. It’s attached to my arm, which connects to my body.
Classical physics explains how my hand moves and how it reacts to force and momentum. Quantum mechanics explains what it’s made of: mostly empty space, bound together by imperceptible forces. Together, they tell us that my hand is solid matter, a structure that typically blocks both light and other matter.
From a certain point of view, George Lucas was right: the Force flows through all of us. In physics, it’s electromagnetism, one of the universe’s four fundamental forces. This is a gross oversimplification, but it’s basically an invisible sets of rules behind the illusion of solidity and the clever parlor tricks that hold us together.
In those moments, I sometimes stare at my hand. It’s the easiest part of the body to see, though it is not completely impermeable. Radiation can pass through it with relative ease. I wonder what else can. Can the cells align in such a way that a tunnel is created? Could something go right through that vacant spot?
More importantly, if physics explains the bonds that hold our atoms together, what explains the bonds that hold us together as people?
In an episode of Rick and Morty, Rick creates a “microverse” in his vehicle’s battery populated by beings unwittingly generating its energy. Kyle, a scientist within that microverse, has the same idea and builds a “teenyverse,” outsourcing the task to his own creation.
When Kyle realizes he was created for the exact reason as those he exploits, he falls apart. He now knows that he mis-prioritized his life by making decisions like missing his father’s funeral for his work. At this point, he decides to take his life and crashes his ship into a cliff.
That hits hard. All the times I put in 80-100 hour work weeks were for naught. The years I spent missing my children’s soccer games and karate classes because I was running my own businesses — on top of working a day job — resulted in regret. In essence, I lost years of my life by focusing my energies on the wrong things.
What drove me to make all of these decisions? Why did I think it was the right move to work those long hours and pursue personal ventures that meant nothing in the end? How did I not see what was right in front of my face? As a father, husband, relative, and friend, I might as well cease to be.
In the dusty and nearly empty Kodak carousel that houses youth’s memories, the slides go fast. They’re blurry and only hint at the past. I feel the sting of a parent’s brass belt buckle on my backside, the kiss of a classmate’s fist against the side of my head, the din of a Camaro’s subwoofer shaking my bedroom windows as it drove by my bedroom late at night.
These are random snippets of time that my brain banked for some reason. They don’t paint a picture, and they certainly don’t make sense on their own. The actual memories began when I was a gawky kid in an olive green suit at a prep school.
My scholastic pursuit was always simple at The Prep: power through the school day so I can go home and be alone. I didn’t have the energy, wherewithal, or even know-how to make friends. During breaks, I sat in the common area between Father Michini and Sister Woody’s offices. They had candy, which was nice, but I mostly liked being there because people left me alone. I appreciated that.
After the final bell rang, I sat outside. Kicking my legs in the air, I wondered if my parents were coming to pick me up. I probably miscommunicated with them, though. They thought I was taking the bus but I had Jug, which is what they called detention, or a meeting and I would miss it.
Sometimes, I’d go into the school’s front office and ask to call home. They’d come get me. Other times I’d embark on a 90-minute adventure through not-so-nice neighborhoods from North Philly to South Philly. I kept my head down, hoped people didn’t approach me, and tried to walk quickly without looking like it, but I didn’t fool anyone.
My other high school memories are numb, dulled by the self-destructive behavior I engaged in with my friends. We smoked pot out of an apple core in the back of a butcher shop while making chicken meatballs. The next day, shoppers would buy those meatballs for their dinner. I would wonder if anyone thought they had curious fruity or grassy aromas.
Whrrr. Click. Thunk.
The next slide in the carousel comes into focus. I’m at a used car dealership with my friends.
The dealership was clearly a front for some nefarious activity. The lot had no more than 15 old cars, all packed like sardines. They were never sold, test driven, or moved. It was damned near impossible to get any of the cars out anyway. The doors were always unlocked. We would sit in the cars eating cheese fries from Phil’s Steaks, smoking pot.
Pot helped me stop asking those questions. I could just forget everything for a while and enjoy some fries.
Whrrr. Click. Thunk.
I am making the rounds.
I’d swing by Lemon Hill where people drank and did whippets; I’d head to Medford, where people hung out in the woods smoking pot and drinking. I never drank. That’s a lie. I rarely drank. I did not like the way it made me feel or act.
Secretly, I think that anyone who says beer tastes great is lying.
Whrrr. Click. Thunk.
I am leaving a high school dance.
A group of us slept at a classmate’s house. I went to bed almost immediately, but was later startled back into the waking world by the kid’s mom. She kicked me out for breaking into their liquor cabinet. I don’t know how or why the mom believed I drank multiple bottles of booze. The fact that I wasn’t hungover and didn’t smell like alcohol — unlike her son — were details she chose to ignore.
Even parents find it easier to point the finger at the outsider than accept that their children are not perfect. I mean, most parents think that, right?
Unlike the feel of the belt buckle and sound of the Camaro, these are memories, stories. These are the proverbial threads used in the patchwork of me.
As a perennial wallflower, I had minimal interactions with people. I blended into the background. I witnessed conversations between others, but infrequently participated. Aloof and with minimal situational awareness, I was typically ignorant of my surroundings, though.
Although, memories alter and stray from the truth with time. Your reality skews. When you are barely noticed, you then wonder: if no one else remembers it, did it happen?
Questioning reality and its value is a breeding ground for suicidal ideation. If there is no perceived value to your reality, why keep up the charade?
Tech geeks joke that there are 10 types of people in this world: people who understand binary, and those who don’t. In binary, 0 means false, and you are that zero.
But, this is more of a metaphorical antimatter, and there could be no antimatter without matter. They’re codependent. Similarly, a crisis of self is rooted in the presupposition that you are. After all, if I were truly nothing, I wouldn’t be here to ask if I were.
Cogito, ergo sum.
This brings us to the question everyone asks at some point in time: what’s the meaning of life? Or, what purpose do I serve?
I enjoyed studying philosophy, as it poses questions I always had and continue to have. Existentialists like Kierkegaard and Nietzsche provided me with no satisfactory conclusions. Metaphysicians and Transcendentalists like Heidegger, Kant, and Emerson piqued my interest. On the linguistic and semiotic sides, I adored Saussure.
There is no need to go into great detail about linguistics and semiotics. That’s beyond the scope of this piece. In short, though, they are about how we create meaning, connect with others, and the construction of reality through symbols and signs.
These elements define the provenance of self. In my case, it’s as a writer. For others, it may be as an educator, leader, or artist. We all bring light, darkness, and everything in between to the world.
The beautiful part is that these concepts do not lock you into a predetermined set of definitions. It’s not necessarily that we all communicate the same message; it’s the meaning behind the messages we choose to share.
Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech conveyed his truth and helped shape the lives of others. The Beatles’ song, “Let It Be” did the same, but in a very different way. Unfortunately, people are also defined by the misguided hatred spewed by others.
Words help us make sense of the carousel slides that put our experiences on display. But linguistics and semiotics also bind us in both positive and negative ways. Bringing light to the world can sometimes be difficult, but it does not always have to be. Words are our friends, and the vessels we use to construe meaning for ourselves and others.