The Hernia (part three)

The Pain Isn't Over 'Til It's Over

I was very happy to be lazing around in bed, after my minor (major) surgery. The insidious bump had been cut away. All that was left was a one-inch scar which hopefully would not be visible, once my pubic hair grew back in.

The warm quilt gently grabbed my side and helped me to sleep through the afternoon. My wife took the evening shift, watching over my recovery and my dear mother-in-law made certain that I was comfortable through the daytime. But as the days of my one-week convalescence rolled by, there began to be a problem. I was feeling better and I wanted to get up and move around. Peeing sideways into a bowl was getting old and I was beginning to feel helpless. I craved for the adventure of fully using the bathroom on my own.

It was about the fourth day and my mother-in-law was away in the kitchen making me lunch. I had made the decision that I was going to take my first baby steps. I removed the blanket from my left side and slowly slid my leg towards the edge of the bed. Everything went well until my left leg was hovering off the side of the bed. The pain began at the point of the bandaged incision and then hit me like forked lightning, making a path throughout my torso. I used my left arm to push my leg back to the mattress and I finally had relief. It was now obvious. I could not do this by myself. I decided to wait for the evening shift so my wife could lift my leg, lower it to the floor and then assist me in hobbling to the warm, awaiting bowl, which actually, was only a few steps down the hall.

About two weeks later, I felt totally healed and things seemed to be returning to normal. I was finally able to get around the apartment on my own. I had learned to be cautious with my movements because slight pangs of pain would bring me back to reality. I had come to terms with not moving my mid-section more than I had to. The thought of going back to doing my regular exercise routine, which included sit-ups, made me nervous, so at this point, slow was good for now.

My brother was having a birthday party and we all piled into the car that glorious Sunday morning. Getting in and out of the passenger seat was still a chore for me but as long as I balanced my weight away from the delicate area, it seemed workable. Once we reached our destination, my wife got out and was unbuckling our one-year old from the car seat. I had just opened my door to get out, when the unspeakable happened.

The cool air that rushed in as the door opened had tickled the hairs of my nose. I gave a hard sneeze and suddenly my world felt like it was coming to an end. The only way I can describe it was that the doctor was again making the first cut and he was ripping his way up to my brain.  Another sneeze was coming which I was trying desperately to muffle. My feigned attempt to stop this action, only caused a second jolt of pain. As I sat there seeing stars, I cried out loud:

"I've done it now! I've busted the stitches wide open! I've got to go back to the hospital!"

My wife walked over to my side of the car with our sleeping daughter in hand and leaned into the open door. Strangely enough, she had more perspective in these matters than I did. She had spent the past few weeks listening to me trying not to complain about my condition.

"Want me to call your brother out here to give you a hand?" she patiently asked.

The thought of my brother and who knows how many curious onlookers coming to the car, helped to calm me a bit. I realized that I was sore but the pain was going away. I guess my post-hernial incision had reacted to the sneeze, the same as if I had tried to do a sit-up.  It was too soon for that type of pressure. Apparently, the muscles down there wanted to work together but they weren't finished healing yet.

It's been many years since that day and I've learned my lesson in terms of not straining myself. I love to exercise and I've know how to pace myself. Even Superman has his limits.

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The Hernia (part two)

October 1984 - Surviving Embarrassment

I arrived at the doctor's office in pain but with an ever-increasing hope that soon I'd be on the course to feeling better. Little did I know, I'd have to first face some primal embarrassments.

The nurse soon led me to Doctor Urologist's examination room and this is when I saw it. I truly believed that only the female gender used those spread-em-wide stirrups that were connected to the foot of the table. As I changed into a hospital gown, I slowly realized this not to be so. Dr. U instructed me to lie down and put my legs up in the holsters. I understood that this is necessary so that a thorough examination could be performed but I was also pretty sure it was also to convenience the doctor. As he worked, the Doc let me know that there were many different types of hernias and that they could also occur in newborns or the elderly, be they male or female. I zoned out on the details of other kinds of hernia. I just wanted to know what was next in store for me and not a baby (I wonder if the mention of baby hernia was some kind of snide joke on his part, ? Naa. Couldn't be).

After the doctor was finished (thank God), I finally sat in his other office. Dr. U confirmed that I had an inguinal hernia and that a simple surgery would be necessary in order to repair it. Then, with a smile, he said that the bowel that was pushing through the membrane was reducible (or could be pushed back in place). In any case, with surgery it would be required. But if the hernia had been irreducible and can't be pushed back in place, then say a prayer. This could have turned into a medical emergency since the blood supply would have been choked off to that area. The development of dead (gangrenous) bowel is possible in as little as six hours. In other words, there was the possibility that had I waited a much longer time, before getting it taken care of, it might have killed me. That would have made for a bad day, so I agreed to the procedure.

About two days later, I'm sitting in a hospital bed, waiting to see what happens next. I was told by a nurse that I would have to be shaved down there as a precaution against infection. That didn't bother me much until the male nurse entered the room with the foam and blade. Isn't there some kind of rule that a FEMALE nurse is supposed to be handling the equipment? I guess not. At least the guy was professional and after a few uncomfortable minutes, I was now as bald as the day I was born.

After being given some pre-op medication, I was placed on a gurney. Someone wheeled me out of my room and the lights overhead crawled along the ceiling. I was joking with the pretty nurse, hoping that I was making some kind of sense. I was told by Doc U that I would be given gas and to please count backwards from one-hundred. I think I got to ninety-eight. I soon wished that that was all I could remember. As the merry-go-round was spinning,with me on it, I felt what I could only describe as a dull tugging in the surgical area. I moaned a bit, hoping that the volunteer worker that administered the anesthesia understood that I was trying to say "Hey numb-nut, I'm awake. I can feel that!" It seemed that they understood because a needle was soon placed in my IV and suddenly my trip to the circus became happy again.

When I finally woke, I found myself bandaged up. I was curious about the incision but I was pretty sore so I decided not to move much. My hope was that after the surgery, I would be a much happier camper but I did not understand that a brand new pain was on the way.

To be continued.....

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The Hernia (part one)

October 1984 - The Price of Ego

Back at the turn of the century (the early 1980's), this young man was at the pinnacle of his physical condition. During that time, I had a job moving furniture. I looked like an ant moving five times my weight but I had a secret. I learned how to maneuver objects around (with a little help from my partner, of course) and I soon understood that even with the heaviest pieces, there was always a way to get it into the building without hurting myself

About a year later, I was asked by my supervisor if I could make certain that a container of laundry detergent was taken up to to the second floor. After all of my previous training, my ego quickly said yes and I rolled the cylindrical container to the edge of the stairway. Without assistance, the best way to get this thing upstairs would have been to flip it over from one end to the other. Not wanting to damage the cardboard container, I opted to pick the thing up and carry it up the fourteen steps. To this day, I can remember the stress and strain to my entire body, as I made the quest towards the far away landing at the top. Of all of the herculean stunts I had performed, none stands out more than the stupidity of that day. I mean, what was the problem? The container only weighed 100 lbs. It might have been the accumulation of all the past exertions but I truly feel that this was the antic that pushed me towards the dreaded consequence called the HERNIA.

By the middle of 1984, I began to feel a slight bump between the lower left side of my abdomen and my upper thigh. It would come and go and I tried to not give it much thought. Isn't it grand how the male ego works when you feel that you are indestructible? What could possibly go wrong?

What was going wrong was that the swelling became more regular and it seemed to occur mostly when I was standing. The blood would rush to that area and not recede unless I lied down or used my finger to push the little lump back into it's little home. Odd as it sounds, I became a master at doing this particular maneuver through my pants pocket. This seemed to be working fine until that dreaded day in October.

I had gotten a job as a manager of a group home and I was determined to make a good impression. I'd just gotten off the D train at 59th Street and was now standing on the subway platform to take the #7 train to Queens.  My left hand was in my pocket, pressing the little bump but it didn't seem to make a difference. There was no denying it. I was in a lot of pain. The train pulled into the station and I said a prayer. My prayers were answered and I was able to get a seat. I thought this would relieve some of the stress but as I sat there with my hand in pocket, I began to sweat. The pain was determined to follow me to my job. I now had no choice. I got off at the next stop and began the trek to take the two trains necessary to get me back home.

This was in the days before cell phones, so when my wife heard me come through the door and then I lied in a supine position on the bed, she was more than a little curious about what I was doing home. For the first time in a few hours, with my knees up, I finally felt some relief. Mr. Macho had no choice but to spill his guts about what I had been going through for the last few months. She called our family doctor and then she then got the number of a specialist.

The doc said what I described sounded like an  inguinal hernia. It was probably caused by strain on the groin. It seems that fat or a piece of small intestine pushes downward through a weakened space into the groin area. They are often painful and could become strangulated (this is when blood flow to the affected area is compromised). That could be life threatening, so whether I liked it or not, surgery was in order. So much for macho.

To be continued..........

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The Man with Two Eyes (part four)

Scream if you like, but that will only make it worse.

September, 2003, my sister-in-law, Lenore, was sitting with me in the waiting room of the eye doctor's office. I was told that it would be safer to have someone accompany me home after the procedure was completed. I soon found out why but I'll talk about that a little later. I had finally made the decision to get the Lasik laser treatment done. Hopefully, I would never again need lens of any kind in order to see the world. Mixed feelings of fear and anticipation moved me forward as the doctor's assistant called my name.

After I sat in the special reclining chair, the assistant attached the cold, metal contraption to my eyes. Okay, so I'm exaggerating about the cold part but my mind was beginning to make up things while I was waiting for the laser beams to start flying. This device (trying not to say a clamp) was holding my eyelids wide open  for safety purposes and this all seemed to make sense.

Even the slicing of front area of the eye (let's call it a flap) was not bad. I guess the best comparison is like peeling the skin back from a grape.This had to be done in order to gain access to the cornea. Now the world from this eye was a blur as I waited for Flash Gordon to begin. Joking aside, all of my questions about the procedure had previously been answered and most of what went on was a little frightening but calming at the same time.
 

There is was one minor detail which I found unnerving though. The patient (that would be me) had to be awake and alert throughout the operation. I had a slight problem with what the doctor next told me. She said that I should stare at the fixed point of light that was behind her while the laser was doing its work. If I were to look over to the right or left, I would do damage to my eye. Of course, I don't mean that my eyeball would get sliced in half but the level of eye correction might not be as accurate. As I lay as still as possible, there was the ominous click, click, clicking sound of the laser as the cornea of my left eye was being reshaped. The doctor moved the thin flap back in place and then the same procedure was done for my right eye. Amazingly enough, the flaps heals back on the the eye by themselves, sans stitches.

I was told that I could get up from the chair and the assistant then walked me to the nearby waiting room for a few moments. I was shocked to be able to see my sister-in-law but when I glanced out the picture window and clearly saw the lettering of the bill board across the street and the people passing by, tears were welling up in my eyes. I could see again! Lenore, whose vision was as bad as mine was, said she was happy for me and I knew she understood. Forty years of finding ways to adjust my sight and now at age fifty, I was able to view the world normally again, with my own eyes.

The assistant took me back to the sitting room where I had to have clear, concave cups taped to each eye. This was to prevent me from touching and damaging my surgery. On top of this went large, plastic shades for a more natural look. I looked as natural as a bug-eyed monster but it was better to wear the dark shades than to just walk around with the suction cups over my eyes.

I was discharged to Lenore's care and we found our way to the Metro North train station. Actually, I could see through the bubble lens and dark shades but it was safer to be with someone. As we brushed pass the curious masses, I looked like a blind person but I felt far from it. She deposited me home and I took the apparatus off my eyes. There was little discomfort and everything was crystal clear.While I slept, I wore the bubbles taped to my eyes for about two nights . Had to make certain that I didn't accidentally rub my eyes while they healed.

I know that there are others who have had problems with their surgery but it's been eight years since my mine and I've had no regrets. I'm glad that I live in an age where I can get my eyes back and the world looks beautiful. That's my story with a happy ending.

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The Man With Two Eyes (part three)

I can see clearly now but not forever

Previously, I spoke about the crush to this author's self-esteem to have to wear glasses and then how it hurt more than my ego to wear "hard " contact lenses. I'm not going to bore you with the exaltation of discovering soft, extended wear contact lenses but I will mention that I wore them daily, for about two decades and life was problem free. I would keep them on, day and night and then after a month, I discarded them and then put in a new pair. This arrangement was great as long as I didn't do anything stupid like go swimming without goggles. Of course, like everything else in life, the good times have to finally come to an end.

Let me first let you youngsters in a little secret. No matter how good your 20/20 vision is, by the time you are about 45 years old, the old headlights begin to weaken. This means that almost everyone will have to wear at least low power reading glasses when they get older. I mentioned this sad truth because it also occurs to those (like myself) who never had to wear glasses in order to read a book.

In terms of options, first I was faced with wearing bifocal glasses. You know, the ones invented by Benjamin Franklin around 1750. With these glasses, you can read through the bottom of the lens and also see at a distance through the upper portion. The old fashion ones just looked plain weird but that's hardly the case with the newer"seamless" ones. It's a lot harder to tell that the newer ones have two sets of glass melded together.

My biggest gripe with buying eyeglasses in general is that the more features you add (bifocal, scratch resistant, tinting, etc.), the more you have to pay. You could plan to spend about $100.00 but after all the lens  features and the designer frames have been added up, you're forking over more than $500.00 and I'm not exaggerating.

And did you know that the "bifocal correction" also comes in contact lenses? I did try these things for about one day. They have to give you a free test pair in order to see if you can bear keeping them in your head. I felt so dizzy and disoriented that the next day, I had no choice but to return to the doctor.  I opted to just fill a prescription for my regular distance contacts. Unfortunately, after speaking to the dear doc again, another crazy truth was apparent. I could wear my contacts but to read clearly, I would have to put on reading glasses. I fought wearing glasses for decades and now I'd have to put glasses on top of contact lenses! This seemed like some sort of cruel joke.

And why not throw another negative in for good measure. As one gets older, one's eyes tend to get a bit drier. I've had more than one occasion when I was driving, that my contact actually popped out and sat on my cheek. I had no choice but to pull over and find a way to cleanly place it back in. It had become sadly apparent that my eyes were rejecting this foreign body that they had clung to for decades. What would this eventually mean for the future of my vision? Was I forced to return to glasses? I had gotten so used to the freedom (not to mention the vanity) of contact lenses, so this did not seem fair. But there was another alternative, though it was scary at first. The answer came in the form of eye surgery.

To be continued.......

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The Man with Two Eyes (part two)

June 1974 - Hard Not To See the Vanity in This

After a conversation with a passing acquittance, I found out about the existence of hard contact lenses. This guy Robert was standing in front of me, talking about how blind he was without his glasses. The fact that I could not tell that he was wearing lenses, made me want to jump up from my chair and run (not walk) to the nearest eye doctor. I had to have this amazing innovation. Little did I know that this idea was not so new.

First, let's make certain that we are all looking at the same page. These are  the basic parts of the eye that we will be most concerned about. Next, let's leapfrog through a little history lesson.

The Man with Two Eyes (part one)

We all have our shortcomings. Mine used to be these two things sitting on either side of my nose. I like to call them, my eyes. Dec 1964 - Eleven years old.

I’m sitting at the breakfast table, eating my nicely saturated bowl of Frosted Flakes cereal. I can hear the clattering the dishes and utensils from behind me as my mother washes the dishes.

I find myself staring at Tony the Tiger, who’s sitting on the table about five feet away from me. He’s smiling at me a bit too happily, I thought. I watch him, and then I glance at the buffet cabinet, holding all its fine souvenir glassware, which is about fifteen feet away. Tony was looking okay but I couldn’t make out the lettering on some the glassware in the distance. All this reminded me of school and I finally had to mention it to my mother. “Hey, Ma” I said. “When I’m in school, it’s hard for me to see certain things on the blackboard.” My mother turned off the water and walked over to me. She still had a drippy plate in her hand and an already soaked dish towel. Stopping her from doing her work, suddenly made me feel like I had said something important. 

“Do you mean from where you sit in the back of the class” she said. 

“Yeah. I kind of have to squint to see the writing on the board” I responded.

Where she came to stand next to me, the overhead light was partially blocked by her head. As I looked up at her, there was a glow around her that seemed very saintly to me. I know I’m exaggerating but this particular day, she did have the answer that would save me. “This afternoon when you come home, we’re going to go get your eyes checked. You probably need glasses” she said. I didn’t like the sound of this. She and my father both wore glasses but my brother didn’t. He was older so why was I having problems and not him. Anyhow, I figured it was like going the doctor. If you’re sick, he’ll give you something to make you better. After school, she and I walked up to 116th Street where the Optician’s office was. After all the amazing gadgets and tests were done with, I was told that I had Myopia (what?). In other words, I was nearsighted. The further away objects were from me, the harder it was for me to focus on them. In a day or two, we returned to the shop to pick up my first pair of glasses.

As I sat in the shaky highchair and looked at myself in the undersized round mirror, I had only one thought. Could they have made these black plastic frames any uglier? I hated the way this thing on my nose looked and I felt immediately self conscious. Life was difficult enough on my poor ego but to have to now wear glasses made me depressed. That I would have to adapt while playing sports with them was bad enough but the feeling that it added nothing positive to my poor face was the real bummer. In my sadness, I glanced around the store to see if anyone was watching me.

To my shock, all the signs around me, the people in the waiting room and even the optician, were now all crystal clear. How could I not be happy? My love for TV, movies and the world around me had been brought back into focus. I finally rationalized that it wouldn't be so bad if I had to get around without this odd and remarkable appliance most of the time. Maybe I’d eventually become happier wearing the glasses, than not wearing them. It was going to be great to see the writing on the blackboard again. I really didn’t want to miss clearly seeing important events so maybe this thing being part of my face now was a good thing. At least some of the time, anyway. At the age of eleven, I was quickly learning what the word compromise truly meant.

Across the next decade, I went through what I call The Dork Ages. As the years rolled on, I was able to get fancier looking glasses, which made me feel better about my appearance. Unfortunately, there was now a sad new truth. With each yearly eye exam came the understanding that my vision was getting weaker. In the beginning, I could squeeze my eyelids together and hope to make a difference with how I viewed the world but by the time I was twenty-one, my need for optical assistance was constant. I could hold my hand straight out in front of me but then I’d have to bring it closer an inch or two, to bring it into focus.

The other truth was that the worst the vision, the thicker the lens. I would have pictures taken of me without my glasses and not know what the photographer looked like. There was no getting away from the truth. I could have the biggest ego in the world but my presentation would make me take a step back. That was, until my next discovery. A new product called hard contact lenses.

To be continued……. 

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Invaders from Mars

Look over your shoulder or don't, fear is coming 

As an old movie came on the local station, I thought back to the state of television, decades past, as compared to now. It’s hard to believe that there was such a thing as “pre-cable.” Back in the day, if you wanted to see a new, highly rated movie, you had to get dressed and travel to the neighborhood theater (or further away). If all that seemed like too much trouble, you could sit in front of the trusty black and white, 16 inch television, which usually was the only one in the house.

Movies were such a precious thing back in the day. Used to be, the only way that you could see a film that you really loved would be to return to the theater again and again. Popular ones could run for years and seem like they would never find their way to the small, home screen. I guess that after the money that theater owners could make had been exhausted, we couch potatoes could finally see our favorites. That is, after they had been cut to pieces with commercials, of course.

I remember a particular TV show which used to come on Channel 9, in the evening. It was called Million Dollar Movie. It would run only movies, some pretty old, others pretty bad. There was one that made me have nightmares and the fear stayed with me for years. By today’s standards, it would be considered pretty lame but it had enough of a strong theme to scare the crap off of a particular ten year old (That would be me. By the time the movie got to the small screen, in 1963, I was ten). 


The movie I’m talking about is called Invaders from Mars and it was made back in 1953.

Americans were beginning to heal from the open wounds of World War II. It had ended a few years prior and many were still dealing with the creeping fear that a powerful force might again attempt to overthrow our way of life. The not so unreal paranoia of take-over was the theme which caused many to relate to this film and many other similar ones of the era. I’ve read countless reviews about this movie and the common thread was always the same. The fact that the movie easily instilled fear in all of us of an impressionable age goes without saying. But the fear that a more ominous threat was on the way, helped the rest of the audience to identify on a level that they all knew very well. 

All these threats were seen through the eyes of a ten-year old actor who first discovered the Martians. He got the crap scared out of him but he finally helped the military to win the battle to defeat them.

All reviewers mentioned the creeping fear but none ever mentioned the look of the actor that played the “head Martian” (this is a play on words because he was basically a head in a glass bubble that the bigger Martians carried around). 

It’s difficult not to see that this guy seemed to be of African-American descent. The belief that the Black man of 1953 might be someone to be scared of was quietly being used in this film. After WWII, the Civil Rights movement was pushing forward and to some this person’s face in the film was probably a little more than disturbing. Especially since he was described as “mankind developed to its ultimate intelligence”. But actually this “guy” was an actress named Luz Potter born in Chihuahua, Mexico. Her name was never mentioned in the credits but neither were any of the other Martians in the movie. After recently seeing Invaders from Mars, it’s hard to remember what all the fuss was about. The visible zippers down the backs of the Martians made me laugh and the long lectures on space travel were boring. I guess the ten year old in all of us will always have a reason to fear the unknown. I guess it’s just a matter of perspective.

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Simplicity

Simplicity often goes unappreciated or is forgotten. 

March, 1987 - Water

I stand here, looking across the beach which was shaded by the few clouds in the 
sky. This is the whitest sand that I'd ever seen. In truth, the beaches that 
I'd been to before now were all kind of a brownish color. Hard to get away from 
that in New York. I guess this fact made what I was seeing even more 
surprising. An inner peacefulness was washing over me as I remembered that I was 
spending this vacation in Trinidad and Tobago. 

The warmth of the sun mildly bathed my face in a relaxing way and not a burning 
one which I had expected. Tobago feels like a paradise. It's hard to tell if 
the people that are shuffling pass are natives or tourists like myself but it 
doesn't matter. The few souls scattered around are all displaying the same 
relaxed demeanor.

As I walk through the warm grains towards the anxious waves, I'm happily 
reminded of my little partner by the tugging on my hand. My two-year old 
daughter, Danielle, is accompanying me on my journey. I hold Dani's hand a bit 
more tightly as she tries to quickly run forward in order to reach the watery 
playground.

Dani has always loved the water and she'd play in it all day if she were allowed 
to. This child truly has no fear of her surroundings and could not imagine that 
the same might be unkind and caution should be taken. Of course, why should she 
fear when her mother and father were always taking the extra care to ensure her safety. 

Dani shrieked in anticipation as she saw the approaching waves. As the water 
rose around her legs, I bent down and placed both my hands under her armpits. I 
proceeded to play the Lift Dani up to the sky and then gently drop you back 
into the water game. She knew that I did this quickly in order to save her from 
the watery force that would have pushed her away from her not so firm footing in 
the sand. She half glanced at me and then the wave as it came rolling towards us. 

As I picked her up, she giggled loudly as her heels reached the sky. 

We played this game for a while, then I heard the expected command. 

"Daddy, water," she said.

Dani stated this because she wanted to be put down. The water was now 

past her waist. She knew that I was not letting go of at least one of her hands. 

Suddenly, a small wave flipped it's hand up and water was thrown into Dani's face. 

She did not use her free hand to wipe her eyes but simply shook her head and 

laughed. 

"Lloyd, be careful," a distant voice called out.  

From a crumpled towel on the far away beach, my wife Wendy was keeping a 
watchful eye on the entire proceedings. The protective mother hen sounded 
concerned but never moved the eyepiece of the bulky camcorder away from her face

I picked Dani up one last time and used her tiny body in order to wave back at 
Wen.  

After placing her back in the water, we slowly gripped our toes into the 
shifting sand and we walked back in the direction of the beach. Dani began to 
complain but only just a little. She was having too much fun kicking the sand 
and water in front of her. Wen smiled as we approached, never lowering the 
camera.

We usually remember the huge, exciting events in our lives. The simple and 
peaceful ones need to be given a lot more credit.

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Saggy Pants Live On

Fads are born and then they fade.  The only constant is the inventive mind.  Dyllon's Law

The style of having pants fall below the waist lives on.

I understand that it might have begun in prison since inmates are not allowed to have belts since they might hurt themselves and others.  You put this fact along with prison clothes that do not fit properly and you naturally have pants that are hanging below the waistline.  Years ago there was talk that one inmate’s pants hanging low was also a way to show other inmates that they were sexually available but for the sake of over-complicating this narrative, I’ll let that rest.

 

Other clothing styles have been started in prison and then reflected on the city streets such as wearing no shoestrings and one pants leg folded up, to name a few.  In terms of fashion, what seemed to happen next is that Black men and others brought this “style” back to the community. Because they identify so much with prison life, they wear it like a badge of honor.

Let’s say for the sake of argument that the pants hanging low fad did have its start with the prison population and move on.

Some will want to sport this style because they believe it will make them look tough or “gangsta”.  Others will swear that if you want to be “cool”, this is the way to go. 

 

When you listen to the young, you’d swear that styles and trend setting are inspired by them in their outcry to become independent.  I’m constantly amused at how quickly youth will scream about this.  They will say, “Older people just don’t understand.”  These same kids will then scream to their parents that they REEEALLY need to have that new pair of sneakers or that they will die if they don’t get that brand named jacket.  The fact that individuals in their teens and twenties are all wearing many of the same styles is simply an example of how they fall for marketing ploys.  There will always be some adult who has drawn up (or slightly changed) a style, mass produced it and then is making a mint.  This does not say to me that someone is “learning who they are.” It simply means that they are being a follower.  I did the same style following number when I was young and many adults still fall in that trap but I digress.

Style being put aside, we must understand that the purpose of clothing is to cover ourselves.  During hot weather, it makes sense that we would want to shed some garments but during the winter, it’s difficult to understand why your pants are hanging down.  It is cold you know.  Regardless, the style has been prevalent for quite a few winters and many have frozen their butts off.  Sorry for that one.

I feel that another bit of logic is lost when situations arise that the individual has to run or react in life’s ever changing situations.  If you’re in the middle of the street and have to move quickly, the last thing you should be doing is grabbing at your pants to pull them up.  You should just be running.  I know that this is an extreme example but I’ve seen enough guys pulling them up when the need arises to know that this particular style is just not natural.

There is no need to bring up the business world where this style is normally not accepted.  What I think is strange is how some will try to legislate, pass laws and even outlaw the wearing of pants hanging low.  It’s one thing when you are in a school environment and you know that you might be breaking a rule but it’s another to be on a public street and be stopped by cop and given a summons for public lewdness or indecent exposure. As illogical as the style might be, coming close to being arrested for it seems ridiculous.

I guess a lot of people don’t remember what happens when you tell a young person repeatedly not to do something.

The best way to deal with this style is to let logic take its course.  When enough brothers (and many others), get tired of tripping and falling, this too shall pass.

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Take Some Responsibility

You never know when you’re going to experience something that makes sense to you on a thoroughly deep level and changes things forever.   Always be on the lookout for unexpected life-lessons. 

 

I was about fifteen and I was in the movie theater watching “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.”  The guy playing Sidney Poitier’s father was on a tirade about how as a mailman, he had carried this heavy bag for long hours and then years,  in order to help Sidney to be the man that he had become.  His father demanded that Sidney should be appreciative of his efforts. 

 

Sidney interrupted his father and pointedly said “You did, what you were supposed to do.  I did not ask to be here. From the time that I was born, you owed me.  All that time that you carried that bag and all of your hard work, you did for yourself.”

Prior to hearing this speech, I truly believed that as the child, I was obligated to ensure that I made my parents happy because I owed them (I still felt that that was the right way to feel but I guess that’s part of being a good kid).  I suddenly understood that when a person makes a decision that a child might be conceived, the obligation begins with them and not the child.  But actually, I said all this in order to tell the story of the birth of my first daughter.

Towards the end of the nine months, I was frequently speaking to my daughter and calling her by her name often.  After all, it wasn’t too soon for her to get to know her daddy.

As she was being born, I could first see her hair.  I was touched and amazed.  Regardless of all the conversations she and I had had (which were a bit one sided), I still could not believe that she was really going to be here.  After she had been cleaned and had this little pink wool cap placed her head, a strange event occurred. 

There had been many not so easy times for my wife, so I felt that the least I could do was to make certain that she was comfortable.  In addition, I found that because of these trials, my devotion and love had grown stronger towards her over the past year but that's a story for another time.

Unexpectedly, the nurse then stated that she had to take my daughter to another area for whatever tests.   I felt as if I was torn.  I didn’t know whether to stay with my wife, as she lay there; dealing with the aftermath of birth or to go with my helpless daughter, to make certain that she was all right.  I stayed put in the delivery room but this would become one of the many marvelous life changing events which I could only attempt to get used to.  In the long run, I found that I could only try to keep up with the ever changing events of this new life.

I have always found it difficult to understand how any guy can just walk away from the life that he has helped to create.  Whether by accident (yeah, right) or planned out to the last detail, once a child is conceived, it’s the responsibility of both parents (especially the father) to ensure that the kid has some chance for a happy life.  


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Did I hear someone say Stephen Foster Projects?

The fifties and sixties in the projects were wonderful.  I still have fond memories of hot summer days and in particular, of that huge rectangular wading pool that had four to six sprayers. It was placed behind the playground fence, between the buildings 70 Lenox Avenue and 70 West 115th Street.  All us crazy kids had a lot of fun running and playing wild, back then.

Unfortunately, by today's standards, that pool would have been closed. The

entire thing was made out of cement.  All you had to do was fall and you could not avoid getting a bad scrape or worst.  These types of injuries would happen often.  Adults would scream “Stop running, stop running” but how could they expect kids to be careful.  Hot weather and cold water had been mixed together. Half the fun was learning the hard way, why you should listen to your parents. 

Which reminds me.  Throughout the other playgrounds in the complex, there were these rectangular platforms that looked like three-step pyramids but were flat on the top.   Of course, all of these "objects" were also made of cement. 

Please explain to me the rationale behind using a building material like cement for kids to play on.  Wouldn't that be considered dangerous?  Oh yeah, cement blocks could last for a life-time. The playground apparatus were made to be durable so that they would endure long after the kids were gone.  In other words, children were considered secondary in this formula.

When I about eight years old, my older brother and I were having a great time, jumping around on this insanely durable pyramid.  Then while we were playing tag, he had to go and slip and then fall chin-first. At first, I couldn't understand why he stood up crying and screaming murder.  Then I noticed that he was bleeding like a pig and adding new color textures to the worn stone slab.  We had to go to the emergency room so he could get about ten stitches. Talk about a ten year old screaming his brains out, while others held him down so he could get this minor surgery. The big baby!   

 

My point is, a lot of that fun has been lost, just for a little thing like child safety.  Don’t today’s adults realize that all the rubber matting that's placed under every fun obstacle only protects children from getting hurt.  It does nothing to build character. The scars we used to get during childhood, helped us to grow up faster, a little crooked maybe, but we grew up, regardless.

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Also visit my website at:  EndlessPerceptions.com