Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 2021-10-15 20:00:00 –
“The happiest adults are those who have never buried old toys or abandoned fictitious friends.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich
My brother and I were building a fort for military personnel. These plastic soldiers were sold by dozens of people in clear plastic bags at discount stores. We built towers and walls, bunkers and other fortresses, and carefully placed soldiers to protect unstable perches, behind walls and barricades, roads and buildings. A group of soldiers was placed in a bunker containing the headquarters. This is the most fortified structure you can create with building blocks, alphabet cubes, and Lincoln Logs.
The real fun began when I got a thick rubber band that looked like it was wrapped in a Sunday newspaper. Point the rubber band at various targets, defeat soldiers and destroy weak fortresses. There were “bombs” thrown at the fort, often some blocks of the alphabet, slowly dismantling the defenses along with rubber bands, spreading death and destruction across the floor. My brother and I were playing this version of the war for hours at a time. It was probably our most cohesive activity, otherwise a simple game to calm the fierce sibling competition.
A few months before the backyard boxing match, Dad said he equated him more than I did. I was a mystery to him. I was jealous and felt left behind between my dad’s taste for my brother and my mom’s taste for my sister. A kind of live dress-up doll that moms got attention, curled hair and dressed in frilled dresses, tights and Mary Jane.
I was jealous of my brother because he looked like a boy that my dad loved, and I was jealous of my sister who became a girl. The terrible irony of this was that my sister totally hated dressing up and exhibiting. She wanted to be like a brother, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, tennis shoes and a ball cap. I was indignant at her.
I don’t want to say that these grudges hurt the ability of close relationships in later life. Mom and dad even demanded loyalty to eliminate each other. After all, as expected, my brother was entwined with my dad and my sister was entwined with my mom, and that would never change even after we all grew up. I was not kind to my brother and suffered jealousy and hurt. I bullied them, insisted on control when possible, and dared not show them to moms and dads. Even though I understand that I am not mature enough to deal with this kind of competition, I regret such behavior to this day.
The boxing match encouraged my father to invest more effort in our relationship. It felt like a big boon to me. I appreciated his attention, as his efforts seemed to have an agenda with the desired results, but sometimes embarrassed. I was supposed to be his disciple. He groomed me with what I learned to be an activist approach. He produced conditions and expected reactions, often disappointed with the results.
The first test was done one afternoon when my brother and I were at war in the bedroom. He rushed into the room and pushed the door open, annihilating one-third of our battlefield. Debris on the floor annoyed him, and he shouted to my brother to clear the mess.
“As for you, we need to talk,” he said.
Dad pointed his finger at me and moved me out of the room. I thought I had a serious problem, probably set by my brother or sister. Perhaps I thought it was benign, but I did something that infuriated my dad.
Dad took me to the master bedroom, reached under the bed, and pulled out a pile of magazines surrounded by a large shoe box. “It’s time to put away the toys.”
I started leaving the room to help my brother, but he grabbed my arm.
“That is, you need to stop playing with toys. You are big enough for other things.”
He moved towards a pile of magazines. He grabbed it from above, turned it over, and handed it to me. Nearly naked, with incredibly large breasts, platinum blonde bouffant, and shiny red lipstick, flashy make-up with large O-shaped lips, with the words “Husler” on the cover. There was a picture of a woman. She had a dough eye, but is still vulnerable … at the time I couldn’t fully understand the discrepancy. But when I recall, I found that she wasn’t so innocent, somehow polluted, and not like the girl I admired at school or in the neighborhood. She was different. unrealistic.
Dad put the magazine in my hand. “please look.”
I opened the page and saw a cartoon featuring a man named “Chester the Molester”. He was chasing some naked women, and he had a string coming out of his mouth. I read the caption, but I didn’t understand the punch line.
Dad laughed and hit my arm on the shoulder. It’s playful, but it’s a little too hard. I tried not to flinch. “Don’t you understand?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I flipped through the magazine until I found the same woman folded in the middle on the cover, but this time it was completely naked, one hand “there” and the other. His hands were curled back on his head. , Ecstasy’s smile, half-closed eyes staring at her as if she were looking at the viewer.
My first reaction was a repulsion. She was cute and ugly, but at the same time unfriendly and shocking to my incomprehensible eyes. She was corrosive, bleach-like, and a toxin to avoid.
Dad moved me little by little. “What do you think?”
“She is cute,” I managed to answer.
“Cute? That’s all you can say? Son, there’s a lot to learn.”
Dad told me I could keep the magazine, I said I could take it out and play, but warned me not to do it in front of anyone but him. “I have to play for a while, but when I get a little older, I can play with others,” he laughed.
I couldn’t understand what he was talking about, nor could he understand his laughter. I made myself smile. “Okay, dad.”
The previous segments are:
Manhood — from the inside out — part 31 — too old for toys Source link Manhood — from the inside out — part 31 — too old for toys