Declaration of Self

Here is my introduction. Are you hooked yet?

I have been told I don’t follow the format. I don’t resolve. I don’t brand.

And?

I don’t have a niche.

Correct. My siblings don’t have daughters.

Oh. Niece.

So, I’m supposed to “brand” and “curate” this “newsletter” to better fit the spoke on the wheel that will keep turning?

What?

It confuses me, too.

We get these emailed to us? I never check my spam. I check the app.

But the content creation. The brand. Let’s go. Pronto?

B. The Brand

Jugamos. Here’s my pitch. Show me your money. DM your Cash App. Venmo. PP if you’re old. Give me your date of birth, mother’s maiden name, and street where you grew up.

Also, your email and bank.

How’s that?

Do you want to follow, sub, restack, and comment yet?

You don’t know what I’m marketing?

Nothing. But buy my books.

What are you curating?

I’m the exhibit. But buy my books.

My museum is free. I take donations.

Evidently everything I write is centered around women.

Not everything, mind you, but enough.

Okay. Guilty. So?

I have more friends who are women than men. Have since high school.

Nearly all my followers are. Hey, ladies.

Always a cis straight male.

I don’t hate men. I don’t even dislike them. I can’t explain it. Unless you want to go in the locker room.

Evidently, I write indirectly about female students, too.

Cool.

Next time I’ll write about a debate a male student had with me about why he thought country hit more fire than hip hop. Then he turned on techno.

Wait. That’s the story. That’s it.

Today this other guy wanted to sleep, and this other guy wanted to play a game.

Cool. Three stories.

My caseloads have always been mostly female students.

One time the social workers said to put her with HVN so they see a healthy man. I asked if she met me. She said I do well with the female students, and so much better than the women teachers. I still don’t trust that social worker.

I guess that’s it?

6. Content Creator

You don’t like my content creation?

I don’t even know what that compound word means.

Content is the label.

Which subject am I writing about? Am I # Travel, Teaching, Fatherhood, Grief, Identity, Trauma, Sex, Relationships, Family, Loss, Anger, Sadness, Fiction, Nonfiction, Memoir, Confession, Surrealism, Nonlinear Memory, Self Help, Self Destruction, Consent, Fragmented Memory, Hate, Love, Forgiveness, Healing, Transcendentalism, Lyric... I even have pieces written as Broadway scripts and pro wrestling matches.

I’m E, all the above.

Is this trending now? No?

Which content is this? Which hashbrown do I use? Where’s my niece?

What’s my brand? Today, orange Saucony.

I do know I don’t like reading my writing, feel phony and dishonest the moment I follow a plot chart, and I refuse to let a piece land softly.

To express with such rigor, emotion, clarity, and precision is to mystify, justify, stupefy, and DILUTE the piece.

My thumb is a weapon, and it’s next to the button.

You don’t need me to tell you to fear the button.

My writing is a menace on the street.

But you’ll never feel safer on the wrong side of the tracks.

You might feel scared on the right side.

The real world didn’t follow a plot chart. If you want an easy resolution, read fiction and watch Disney. But avoid the Brothers Grimm. They don’t do castles.

III. More Content

Here’s my content: I’ve been on my move my whole life and have adopted aspects of the cultures around me since my own lied to and abandoned me.

No, I’m not black, but my black friends took me in. They gave me a place to stay without question. They let me belong.

No, I’m not Latino, but I learned more about being a human being from Latin culture than anywhere else. How to stay with my emotions. How to show dignity and respect.

I’m not European, but I think the French are polite, and I love to practice my Italian. They do more real there, and I’m never “too much.” I think my subs prove that.

I’m not Arab, but I’ve been an outsider in my own land. I feel the ache and don’t forget.

I’m not Asian, but I work hard and push through to make this thing work. I just don’t stop. My friends showed me that.

I don’t appropriate. I even try to bring down my language to a standard American dialect, so nobody feels minimized, even when certain words come naturally. Que pasa and single letter nicknames are my go-to. My slang is global. I’ve felt minimized my whole life.

Words like brotha and sista come out but with meaning. When my black friends call me a word in affection I won’t say, I say playa or brotha.

I won’t say that word.

I sometimes fall into some Spanish without meaning to. The English language is factual, but I don’t feel much.

I’m a third, fourth, or fifth culture guy.

I’m a high school teacher, but that’s not who I am.

Healing iv

Two months ago, I learned the depth of my grooming, abuse, and rape. I learned how badly I was gaslit, tricked, and manipulated. I learned how I took on survivor traits without knowing it.

This taught me the value of not dying and sticking to it when it hurts.

Now I keep that in mind with every toilet paper wipe, tissue blow, and flush of the commode.

What?????

No. It taught me nothing.

I saw tangible, physical evidence that I was asleep at the wheel for the last 16 to 23 years, and I needed more than a pinch.

It all started with my writing, and then with my remembering.

I was the strong, silent type. I made no waves. I fixed your problems.

Such a great guy.

I was just there so I wasn’t incurring a fine.

Then I spoke, named, and felt.

People don’t like when men speak, turns out.

F. Here’s the moral

They want me to talk and share my feelings... until I do.

Male survivor and male victim who was the strong and silent type and led classrooms for 15 years?

No, go back in your box.

Stay in the closet with the lies you delulu ed yourself with.

But now the basement door is open and it’s close to midnight.

The dogs are barking, and they’re not sweet puppies.

There is no resolution.

There is no arc.

There is no healing.

The damage is done.

Again.

Who taught you rising and falling action are real?

Who taught you a story or speech ends in a bow?

Who taught you there are no loose ends?

Don’t make it weird. Don’t get it twisted.

I’m not a sulky blues song. I’m not a lost cause. Take your time on me. There is room for repair.

But I won’t hide it.

My life name is stuck, but Hawtorn is free.

Here’s my “mirror.”

Do you like my “presence” now?

IX. Right, Too Much

Right right right, this is making you uncomfortable. Okay, you got it, let’s talk about the times my students brought weapons to school. Which time? The time they overdosed and went out in front of me? Their funerals?

I’m not right for students?

Cool.

How was I selected to be the emotional disabilities teacher? Why am I the one they want trained in crisis management?

Then I avoid their stupid training and handle crises my own way. I can’t teach it. I just do what was never done for me.

But there are resolutions in my classroom.

I don’t fix or sugarcoat it either.

That’s easier, right?

Are my words punching right yet -

or do they need more breath? (Thanks, GPT).

Welcome to my talking

I’m supposed to wrap up and end strong.

Go for the KO like a yellowjacket as I float like a moth.

So, thanks for coming to my Fake Talk. I tell the truth, but I present it the way of a liar.

Some people write about a hard, raw truth and pull it back the next line.

I knew my marriage was over, and all the years were wasted. At that moment, I learned to choose myself.

I think you skipped a few steps there.

Stay in that moment. Write about loneliness, exhaustion, and overwhelming sadness.

DON’T RUIN IT and clean it up.

Stay in it.

Some of you do stay in it for paragraphs, and then you slowly build back up.

I can respect that. I appreciate your staying as long as you did.

Maybe you see information in a linear way.

I don’t.

I’m still in those moments. I won’t clean it up. I won’t cheat you out of it.

I’ll stay “bleeding.” “Wounded.” “No stitching.”

I hate that kind of talk.

I’ll stay exposed, vulnerable, and uncomfortable for your reading pleasure. Frankly, I know I’m not a good enough writer to matter otherwise.

Also, there are readers out there who need to know it’s not just them.

Counterpoint: it’s not my real name. Nobody knows I’m here.

This is true. I don’t deny it.

I don’t mind taking the hits then.

By the time October ends, the reasons I can’t be out will be clear.

Legal and ethical reasons.

I remember so much.

I have

people

systems

churches

schools

to expose.

Also, I’m not always the good guy.

I’ll be the villain next week, and I’ll likely lose support.

I lived too long as a fake hero.

But I won’t live a lie.

Another story might have lessons learned. Maybe I start with a lesson.

But a fragmented memory doesn’t resolve.

My mind rambles and wanders, first here, then there. Oh, look over there.

I’m not trimming it. I’m not tightening it.

Then you don’t know how a rambling mind works, and that’s part of the point.

I hope you got something out of the way in which we learned to properly and intentionally manifest the missing

.