THE FORCE IS STRONG IN MY FAMILY
My biological father may as well have been a ghost, a phantom figure sired from the commingling of a dream and a folktale. I have never met him face to face, nor have I heard his voice or seen his handwriting. In fact, the only evidence I have of his existence is a simple photo, given to me when I was somewhere between the ages of eight and twelve. It was a Polaroid, featuring a profile shot of a tall man, hair jet-black, and all details grainy and faded with age. Unable to discern a likeness between the tattered image in my hand and what I understood to be my face, I took the photograph and stood sidelong before my bathroom mirror, the corners of my strained eyes attempting to catch a glimmer of a uniform shape. What I found instead was a naïve child hoping a washed-out image would somehow materialize into flesh and blood, a warm comforting hand resting on my weak shoulders, assuring me that finally– yes finally…I would be loved.
As I grew older, I came to realize that the chances of crossing paths with this historical figure were slim—a veritable pipe dream. I placed all hope of finding him (along with any rights he may have felt toward me as the man who gave me life) out of my mind as much as I could—he was never there, and somehow I felt he never would be. What was the point of seeking a shadow from the past when my own future had yet to play out?
Before I received that photograph, the meaning of what a father was escaped me. Born to a single mother, the first four years of my life in her sole care seemed to be normal—the status quo. However, once I was old enough to notice that there were these strange man that came around to pick up my pre-school peers from time-to-time, I naturally began to question things—especially this new phenomenon I had heard about in the sandbox, this mythological creature known only as “Dad.” From that point on, my toddling interest began to revolve around two things:
• If I, too, had a “Dad” somewhere, where exactly had he disappeared to, and had he ever been around to begin with;
• And, being four years old, how could I also incorporate all things Star Wars®* into my life?
For when you are a young boy in the early nineteen-eighties, the odds of not wanting to follow in the steps of Luke Skywalker or Han Solo seemed criminally insane, almost uncouth. And in a fashion too appropriate to my fatherless situation, I naturally took up an instant bond with Luke—sure, he was missing both parents, but hey…I could relate with the whiny bastard. His plight was, from a certain point of view, my own. After all, we both lived in desolate, horrid places (Tattooine for Luke, the wretched, polluted dustbowl of Bakersfield, California for me). And due to our situations in such arid and hopeless climes, we naturally yearned for adventure, excitement, and meaning in our lives (OK…well, Luke did. I just wanted to be him, eat Chicken Nuggets®**, and play on the Slip n’ Slide®***).
As my interest in Star Wars® intensified, my paternal fantasies in turn began to mirror the situation thrust upon Luke Skywalker, Last of the Jedi Knights. In fact, by the time I had seen the original trilogy of films (for all of you suckers born after 1990, the original Star Wars® trilogy consisted of A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and The Return of the Jedi. Those pieces of digital vomit known as Episodes I-III unfortunately came about in your generation—as did The Bush Era, September 11th, and The Economic Collapse of 2008. Thanks for ruining America and George Lucas, Generation Z!). Yet, due to those first three entries into the Saga, I knew that my life, my “story arc” as it were, would indeed turn out just as Luke’s: I would escape the confines of my bleak homeland, systematically being thrust into a heroic cause against an evil superpower that would change the shape of the universe. Through these new adventures, I would indeed learn in time that my father was once a great Jedi Knight who fell from grace, and that it would become my solemn duty to confront him in a swashbuckling moment of honesty and redeem him from the evils of the Dark Side. I would find personal closure through saving the galaxy from the clutches of the Evil Galactic Empire. Yes, Darth Vader may be my father, but I would find him and prove that there was still good within his heart.
Imagine my chagrin when this didn’t happen.
So we move on.
Once I realized that Star Wars® was this little thing called “make believe” (which was fine, because I could still grow up to be Indiana Jones™****…right?), all I had left to focus on was the enigma that was my father. All of my friends seemed to know their dads pretty well, and like most kids who want so desperately to possess what their friends had, I in turn simply had to find my father—or at least a suitable replacement. After all, I was turning five soon, and didn’t want to be left out of the loop any longer. That’s when the barrage of questions I propelled upon my mother started coming. And as we all know, a child who is on a question roll is indefatigable. And inevitably, no matter how many answers you give the little inquisitor, each question is always met with another mind-numbing query:
“Mommy, why is the sky blue?”
“Well, Justy (my nickname that only my mother, my gay college roommate, and select women I’ve slept with are allowed to utter without pain of death), because God made it blue.” (Nine times out of ten, “because God…” is the default adult response, not just by my mother, but by adults in general, regardless if they believe it or not—because it’s easy, and children should—in our minds—assume God to be unquestionable).
“Why?”
“Because God likes blue.”
“Why?”
“Because blue is the color of the ocean, and God made the ocean.”
“Why?”
“Because…fish live in the ocean…and God wanted us to eat fish… (Shit).”
“Why?”
Now, it’s about at this point that most adults (my mother included) realize that there will never be enough answers to satiate an inquisitive child’s mind. To a certain degree this is a quality that can be quite endearing, but usually after about the fourth or fifth “why,” you’ll actually find yourself starting to revert to childhood yourself in an attempt to get on with your stressful, agonizing, and pitiful adult life. You’ll begin to volley return questions to the child, only to find said child will then turn the tables on you and start to school your stunted and inadequate mind.
“Can you think of any other reason as to why the ocean and sky are blue, Justy?”
“Well yes I can, dear mother. Modern science teaches us that the sky is blue because of a process known as Rayleigh Scattering. As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through. Little of the red, orange and yellow light is affected by the air.”
“…”
“However, much of the shorter wavelength light (blue) is absorbed by gas molecules. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky. Whichever direction you look, some of this scattered blue light reaches you. Since you see the blue light from everywhere overhead, the sky looks blue. And because the water in the ocean reflects the light from the sky, it in turn also looks blue.”
“Umm…well, yes. I am sure you teacher would also tell you that’s how God wanted it…”
OKAY, OKAY…so maybe I wasn’t that smart as a kid…I had to go find an old science text book in my closet to even include my imaginary response to this imagined scenario. However, with the way most kids can go on questioning for hours on end, don’t you think it should be children who run congressional hearings for presidential appointments? They would truly leave no stone unturned—and when it came to questioning my mother, neither would I:
“Did God also not want me to have a Dad?”
Thus a child’s curiosity and thirst for answers began a line of questioning that launched my quest for a new father—and a real father, mind you…not one clad in black armor who would arbitrarily choke people with his mind. Then again, considering the man I eventually would come to call Father that may not have been so bad. At least I would have something to talk about at parties.
*Star Wars®, The Empire Strikes Back©, The Return of the Jedi© and all related properties pertaining to the mind of George Lucas are the property of Lucas Film, Ltd. Please don’t sue me, George. Your per diem for flannel shirts is more than I make in a day. Please, for the love of God, don’t wipe me out. And also, please don’t sue me for calling the prequels digital vomit. That’s my right under the First Amendment. So I’ll say it again: Digital. Vomit. Prequels. And don’t even get me started on Hayden “I’m a Plank of Wood” Christensen as Vader.
**Chicken McNuggets® are the Frankensteinian effort of McDonald’s®. I’ve seen how they are made, and I don’t care. When I’m drunk, high, or impoverished (funny, those seem to always go together…hmm…I think the Clown College is on to something…), they are all I want. And they make me think of my childhood…wait. They make me think of my childhood. Never mind. McNuggets fucking suck.
***Slip n’ Slide®. Seriously. How dumb were they? Running your ass off, then hurtling yourself at a piece of wet plastic inevitably placed on rocky or patchy ground? Can’t think of ANY situation that can go wrong there…. And as a kid? Totally the best thing ever. I’m going to put one in my living room and have a goddamn absinthe and Slip n’ Slide party, I am. Oh yeah: Property of Wham-O. (I mean come on: the damn company name was WHAM-O. “Here you go, Jimmy! Wham-O yourself to ER! Happy summer!”
****Indiana Jones®. Again. Lucasfilm. Again. Please don’t sue. Again: Shaped my childhood. I used to want to be an archaeologist. Then I started studying archaeology. Should have seen the problem with that plan, because I WAS ALSO MINORING IN THEATRE. What the hell was I thinking? “Let me dust off this pottery shard while I recite a Hamlet***** soliloquy. Maybe do a little soft shoe.” Anyway, Indy made my childhood awesome. So thanks for that. And also know a lot about the Egyptians. Really. All because of Indy. Just please, for the love of God, leave the franchise alone. Seriously? Shia LeBeouf****** as Indy’s kid? Crystal Skulls and Aliens? I’m sorry you have a relapsing remitting case of late-onset retardation and billions. It’s really not working out to be a winning combo for you. But yeah…Indy was cool. WAS. Let’s keep him that way.
*****Hamlet. Written between 1599 and 1601. By SHAKESPEARE. Because SHAKESPEARE wrote SHAKESPEARE. Why? Fuck you, that’s why. Oh yeah…and it’s not copy written. So no law suit danger here!
******LeBeouf autocorrects to “Labium” in MS Word. I found that apt.
