We often find ourselves acting in the way others expect us to act. We even redefine our desires to match what we think others expect of us.
Take me, for example. I used to be a quiet, meek kid. I liked flowers, and poetry, and puppies. Heck, I think I might have asked Santa for a pony once, in one of those letters whose recipients are actually your parents. It was only much later that I understood wwhy, a few days later, my father took me aside and showed me alternately photos of male and female models in swimming trunks, while gazing at me intently. He seems to have been satisfied by what he saw, because he never again performed any such tests on me, nor asked me the question other teens did not hesitate to ask. Over and over.
You gay? You a faggot? A cissy? A pansy? A wimp?
And, well, figuratively, they weren't wrong, by their own standards. I hated violence, and I had trouble asserting myself. I didn't like getting dirty or sweaty, and I have always had a tendency to get dizzy at the sight of blood. This ruled me out of being a "normal kid". But then, what was I? One had to be labelled, belong to a tribe, know their place, and let their place be known. Given my traits, I was left to choose between "gay" and "nerd". It was an easy choice. So I did what the other kids expected. I hid behind books, and let the lack of sunlight and exercise do their job. I never managed to look actually skinny or fat like I was supposed to, but, since I let my mother dress me, I still looked the part. So I did what my parents expected. I focused on my studies, and got good grades. I was the sort who never hit back. The sort whose complaints teachers could reasonably ignore. "Kids will be kids," won't they? I was no trouble to anyone. I was a good boy. All work and no play (dad made sure I never even got to try videogames, other than edultainment). I was dull boy.
That, I had decided, was about to change.
And I had the perfect excuse.
"Son," mom said, not taking her eyes off the road, "are you sure you want to go to your father's?" Which was in Forks, Washington, rainiest town in the nation.
"Yes, mom, this is what I want." I had my eyes set on the sideways. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Phoenix, Arizona, looked like it had been subjected to a yellow filter. Rusty roadsigns and dusty sidewalks were bathed in a light that left no shadows. Every flaw in that wall was obvious. Every blade of grass in the yellowing lawns was accounted for. Every scratch, every scrape, every scruffmark on every car was inescapably obvious. The brightness left no room for doubt or shadow or mystery or excitement. It was like the entire world was overexposed.
"Anyway, mom, we're on our way to the airport. I think it's a bit too late for second guesses." Too late to go back tooo sleeep. I've got to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leaaaaaap.
"Son, it is never too late to go back on a bad decision!" You would know about that, wouldn't you? But she had a point. "The man can barely cook or even keep his own house clean! How ever will he take care of my beloved Benedict?" Mom and Dad and their accursed naming tastes. At least they didn't name me Elrond or Adrahil.
"That's great, because you know I'm a fantastic cook. I bet he just can't wait to take a bite off my hot juicy apple pies."
"I'll definitely miss those."
"Mom, you're a married woman now. Again. So you and your husband should have some time together, and it's only natural that I go give you some space. I can't stay in Phoenix with you right now, it just ain't right."
"Ah, but I'll miss you so much. At least make sure to call often!"
"Every day, mom, I swear." I lied.
She turned to look at me. With all the warmth and fuzziness in her expression, there wasn't much place for suspicion, yet she managed to cram some in anyway. Mom could send me on guilt trips without even trying. It was a knack.
"I said I swear," and I meant it, this time. "Eyes on the road, mom." How could I let her down? It would be like kicking the biggest puppy in the world.
"Anyway, did you make sure to have your dad find you a good gym up there at forks? All this time and money we spent over your training this summer, me and Phil," her new husband, who was a professional baseball player, and certainly had his uses, "it would be a shame if it was lost."
"Don't worry, Mom, I'll keep it up."
"And do make sure you keep your nutrition the way Phil taught you.
"Don't let that distract you from your studies."
"I wouldn't dream of it." As much as I was keen on getting rid of my weaknesses and starting a new life, good grades and academic achievement had perks that I wouldn't sacrifice just for the pleasures of the flesh, no matter how firm and well-defined it got. "A sexy mind in a sexy body", as the Greek may well have meant.
The cool thing about planes is... where to start, right? Anyway, highlights of the journey, thanks to my trusty mp3 reader, and some nutritious reading: a takeoff to the tune of Jurassic Park's Main Theme, by John Williams. Then I listened to some Journey ("Just a small-town kid, going on a lonely trip. He took the evening plane, on his way back home. A copper in a rainy town, him and his perpetual frown, he took the midnight road, waiting for his son." Yeah, the rhyming was terrible, but it's the feeling that conts).
And then I had some light reading: "When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible — such descent I call beauty. And there is nobody from whom I want beauty as much as from you who are powerful: let your kindness be your final self-conquest. Of all evil I deem you capable: therefore I want the good from you. Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws." Or fangs, as it were. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Whether you agreed with him or wanted to punch him, there's one thing that can be said for the Nietzsche man: he's sure to get your blood pumping.
After an uneventful landing, the meeting went something like:
"Hi, dad."
"Hi, son. You've grown."
"That I have."
"Kinda look like your mom."
"I kinda do."
"Any girlfriends?"
"A man's gotta have his secrets, dad."
"That he does." That's right. Only I can get dad to chuckle like that.
Man, I was so glad to see him, I could barely refrain from hugging him then and there. But he'd never been the type for public displays of affection, and I respected that.
After a while driving in silence, a thought occurred to me. Without a word, I plugged my casette adapter into his car's music player.
Soon thereafter, we were both singing like idiots.
"You're at your best when when the goin' gets ROUGH, you've been put to the test, but it's NEVER enough, YOU GOT THE TOUCH!
YOU GOT THE POWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
For a moment, I was six again, and he was ten years younger, and it was like we were back in the living room, watching those videotapes, which we'd watched together and bonded over. He'd thought the Transformers would distract me from puppies and flowers, and he was right. This soon extended into mechanics, and we developed a whole microculture around cars and other vehicles. He'd also thought they'd make me manlier: mixed results, there.
It was a bit manipulative of me, I'll admit that much. It was also, unnecessary: I'm sure I had Daddy in my pocket by default, given how protective and doting he was, in his own way. Still, no reason not to make sure the man under whose roof I'd live didn't like me as much as possible.
First, him. Then, the school. And, who knows, someday, maybe THE WORLD.
Time stopped, as I gazed, dumb struck, at the AMAZING 1950s or 60s Chevrolet truck he'd bought me. This. Beauty. It would be my. Very. First. Car.
Time flowed again, as tears went down from my eyes.
"So I guess you don't like it." my father surmised after a while, trying to hide his disappointment and failing, badly. "I should have known. I'll return it."
"DON'T YOU DARE!" I jumped. "THIS CAR IS MINE! MINE AND MINE ALONE! GEDDAWAY FRUM MAH PRUHPERTY!"
"So you do like it?" Aw, dad could be adorable sometimes.
"From now on, the only way YOU get to touch my Princess Muscle is with a WARRANT!"
"Princess Muscle?"
"That's her name from now on." I affirmed. Then, to the truck, in my best twirling mustache villain impression, "Come hither, my proud beauty, let us see what mysteries you hide underneath all this red." Then, to my dad again, "What time is it?"
"Iiiiiit's Ratchet time!" Like I said, microculture!
Ah, tonight was bright! But tomorrow would be even brighter! Forks, here I come!