Don't Cry Over Grilled Hot Dogs (exercise8)

Don’t Cry Over Grilled Hot Dogs

My paycheck was handed to me and I turned for the exit. None of my coworkers were going to see me cry. I was obviously upset that day and the quality of the hot dogs definitely suffered. I was angry towards those wieners and the people eating them. The customers did not know what I was going through and why I was even here making their heartburn dogs. Making their hot dogs was supporting me, basically, in running away from home. I had gotten the job at Dat Dog towards the end of my Freshman year at Loyola and fell in love with the people and their puns about hot dogs. Two of my coworkers offered me a place to stay over the summer and that was all I needed. I certainly was not planning on returning to Lake Charles. That place stinks, literally and figuratively. The atmosphere would be described just like any other small town christian colony. Unlike New Orleans where the air is freer and the people, to say the least, are accepting. But this day, I did not feel free. My insides were churning and I had thrown up that morning, which had become a natural morning remedy for me now that began when I was in high school. My explanation for this is nerves and an unhealthy diet of processed foods, alcohol, and cigarettes. I had an idea as to why I felt oppressed and I knew a change had to happen. I have a lot of growing up to do. I was only nineteen but this day I was going to make a decision that could age me with at least ten years.

As I walked into the summer rain, they came--tears, pouring out, mimicking the clouds of rain falling from above me. I unlocked my bike, stumbled onto it, and struggled to pedal while the rain slapped my face. My destination was to find somewhere for personal space. I needed to be alone. The river had been calling out to me, in my daydreams, when I was throwing outrageous amounts of condiments on sausages. I knew of the perfect spot, and there, my frustrations would be set free. I suppressed my immediate emotions in order to keep my motor abilities of riding a bike and the rain had me soaking it all up. My tears blended in with the rain pouring down over me as I was trying to focus on how to get to this spot. I had been here before but always had trouble finding it. Riding along the levee, I found the opening in the woods and got off my bike. Sloshing and slipping down through the woods, I threw my bike down. I stumbled towards the slow flowing water, and I let go, bellowing with frustrations. So many questions and a feeling of no true answers.

Why do I have to tell my mother who I am? Can't she just stop pretending that I am her “babygirl”? I was never like them, all the girls she would compare me to. She was going to believe as hard as she possibly could, though. Why does she have to be so devoted to the Catholic Church? These are a few of the thoughts that raced through me as I began to imagine myself drifting into the river, contemplating how long it would take for me to reach the gulf. Then, I would be away from civilization--with its pre-packaged bundles of unanswered questions. Engulfed in my thought-provoking emotions, I had numerous amounts of hazardous debris that needed to be handled and disposed of properly. My energy was exhausted and I had fallen to the muddy ground. My white shirt had been painted with the Mississippi River mud color, and my white skin dirtied with shame. I was finally here, alone. Allowing whatever repressed emotions to flood out. Hiding had become second nature to me. Forgetting who I was back home was more difficult than I had assumed it to be. There was still so much for me to do and I had to ignore the overwhelming feelings. Truth had become an important aspect in my life after years of dishonesty. Lies can do horrible things to the body. I can only assume that the stress of living under a lie had something to do with my acid reflux and morning hangouts with the toilet. I needed to put an end to my physical and emotional pain. This had to end. The last uproar from my vocal cords and a few poundings to the ground coincidentally put an end to the rain.

I looked up, easing out of my wallowing fit, and searched for the horizon. Who knows how long I was there but it was getting dark. The sky was clearing out and a monstrous cargo boat crept by, which helped with bringing in the calm after this storm. My eyes, mimicking the clouds, once again, ceased all tears. A wave of power built up inside of me, out of the muck, and my chin lifted, only slightly. I smelled the moist air and listened to the branches slapping their leaves about. The sound of water making it to the shore soothed any reckless thought.  I watched the sun disappear behind the industrial refineries that lined with the river, reflecting its rays upon the polluted clouds that had developed from the day. I retrieved my blue bike, which lay seemingly abandoned on the ground, by a fallen tree. My energy was drained and it was difficult walking slightly uphill on newly wetted terrain, so I took it slow. One final push back over the levee and I was elevated, looking back over the river. Knowing what my next step was, I took a simulated deep breath and began to search my old, green booksack for my cell phone. My mother and I proceeded to play phone tag until I arrived home. It was like she knew what was about to happen.

Who even knew how long she had been dreading this day, I thought to myself, approaching my house. I did not care though, because her feelings were not the ones of my concern. I wanted it out. The secret I had been keeping from my mother. The secret being that I am attracted to women, not men, I say with my quivering lips, waiting for the response on the other line.

I just wanted you to know that, followed quickly after. I received only a deafening silence from the other line. I begged for a response. I began to desperately state that I was clearly upset, that I needed some type of feedback—that had been all I wanted with that day. I gave her a moment to put together an answer.

Did you fix your bike?
I am sobbing on the phone to my mother telling her the biggest amount of information I have ever revealed to her and she asked me about my bike’s flat tire from two weeks ago?!

Following her “response,” She then suggested that I need psychological help because of me being upset, her solution for basically every seemingly troublesome issue. I do agree that I have developed issues but she does not realize to what extent she has been involved in those problems. She did not want to understand, and I do not think I had even expected her to comprehend what I had tried to tell her. I honestly do not know why I even expected a positive response. Lake Charles is a primitive land where the idea of social construction has not yet been brought up. Before hanging up, I stated “I love you, Mom, but I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you to know.” It was unnecessary for me to listen to anything she had to say. The deed was already done and this was just another chapter in a book of misunderstandings between my mother and I. As I begin to understand myself more clearly, the understandings from others become less important but yet they still creep by like a barge. What I do not understand is why my suffering is not seen while I am steeped in the mud. Is seeing this suffering not enough for my mother? How much more does she need? Time. These things take time. I am going to have to learn the virtue of patience. Something my mother always preached about. What else can I do but believe in change because if I did not what would I have to live for?

The weight of the unknown response was lifted and dropped on the bathroom floor, along with my dirty, wet clothes. I was now stripped bare, ready to rid myself of any dirt, and become clean. I worked the water and soap into my shedding skin until it breathed with color. Freshly hopping out of the shower and into my funkiest garbs, I prepared for the next step. I opened my Itunes and clicked for Johnny Cash. Music is always here for me, understanding and helping me dance through this fucked situation as it has manys of times before. “I Feel Better All Over” is the song by Johnny Cash that was playing as I stepped out of my house and into the New Orleans streets feeling better than ever before. I was inching closer to freedom. At the end of the day, all I have is myself and if I cannot love myself then who will. I go back to unbelieving that a place such as Lake Charles even exist and a smile creeps back on to my face.