Stand up guy

When I was fourteen, my first day of my second year at St. Peter’s, I felt proud of myself, ready to be ready, a man for others. 

I got home from school that day and decided I’d say something to my older sister. 

She had a huge array of heroine wrappers on the floor of the attic, a makeshift bedroom you got to through our nine year old sisters room. 

Her friends had come over the summer to take the silverware, and the camera, and the instruments for a party. 

I showed them where all of that was. 

I knew her friends, cool alternative older brothers and sisters. 

They didn’t have to go through my room to get to hers, though. 

I felt brave. The kind of brave where you know you’re doing the right thing. A kind of brave I only get now when I know deep down that the people I’m about to say something to support me. 

Mostly I am brought to that moment when I share my uncomfortable truth. 

In that moment I’m five foot tall and ninety pounds,

in a year I’ll grow a foot taller and 70 pounds heavier, in a year I’ll meditate on powerlessness by climbing buildings and jumping roofs, and racing trains. 

Right at that moment I’m big and.. 

then I’m not big.

Im being held up by my throat against the wall. I got nothing.

And in that moment I don’t know. 

I’ve gone back to that moment, asking it countless questions about love and family and anger and righteousness. 

I don’t have the answers yet